Me and Mr Darcy (32 page)

‘No way.’

‘Yeah, I did. And it was a really huge one . . .’ My voice goes all wobbly and high-pitched, and I start furiously blinking back tears.

‘Aww, Em, what did you go and do that for?’ she reprimands me teasingly, trying to make me laugh. ‘My fling went and flung himself at about twenty other women, so I need to live vicariously through yours.’

I don’t laugh, and hearing nothing but a faint sniffling on the other end of the line, she gets serious. ‘Come on, tell Auntie Stella, what did you and this Fitzwilliam guy argue about?’

Suddenly I realise she thinks I’m talking about Mr Darcy.

‘Oh, it wasn’t with him.’

‘It wasn’t? Well, who was it with?’ she asks, surprised.

‘Spike.’

‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, Em. Who on earth’s Spike?’

‘The asshole.’ I sniff.

‘Ahhhh, the
cute
asshole,’ says Stella. And there’s something in the way she says it that makes me feel defensive.

‘I never said he was cute,’ I protest.

‘You didn’t have to,’ she replies knowingly.

‘What are you, some kind of psychic?’ I snap, annoyed.

‘Oh, so he
is
cute.’

‘OK, OK, so he’s cute,’ I admit under pressure. ‘Now will you stop going on about it?’ I’m starting to feel very frustrated that this phone conversation is not going the way I wanted. You know, lots of female support, the ‘Yes, he is a dickhead; no, of course none of it’s your fault’ kind of thing.

Instead, I’m being badgered and insinuated at.

There’s a triumphant silence on the other end of the line.

See what I mean?

‘So what did you guys argue about?’

‘It’s a long story,’ I sigh wearily.

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere,’ offers Stella kindly.

I hesitate, then before I can stop it, the floodgates open and it all comes pouring out.

‘Well, first I discovered he’d told lies about our driver, Ernie, to Maeve, this sweet Irish lady who I think really liked him, and then yesterday Ernie told me himself that Spike had punched him for going out with his mom . . .’

‘Jesus.’

‘. . . and then last night at the ball we were dancing and his girlfriend called him, and he just ignored me so I ended up smoking a joint . . .’

‘You smoked a joint?’

‘. . . and went horseriding . . .’

‘In a balldress?’

‘. . . but then I must have hit my head and blacked out because the next thing I know I’m waking up naked in bed and Spike’s there . . .’

‘No way!’

‘. . . and he tells me he’s crazy about me . . .’

‘Holy shit.’

‘. . . and then we have this huge argument and he storms off.’

There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line.

‘Stella?’

‘Fucking hell, Em, I’m supposed to be the one on the 18–30 holiday. Jeez, if I’d known a book tour could be that wild I’d have come with you!’

I smile. ‘I guess it does all sound a bit crazy.’

‘Crazy? It sounds fantastic!’ gushes Stella, enviously. ‘Trust me, Mexico is totally dull in comparison. All that’s happened here is a couple of pathetic wet T-shirt competitions and a few all-night margarita parties. I never thought I’d say it, but believe me, I don’t want to see another margarita again. In fact, to tell the truth, I’m really looking forward to going home . . . Talking of which, have you heard from Freddy? He hasn’t returned any of my texts.’

I think about my conversation with Freddy last night. Him telling me how much being in love sucked. All at once I feel very emotional again.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ asks Stella, suddenly aware of my silence.

‘Not really,’ I reply feebly.

‘Sorry, there’s me prattling away. So. How do you feel about him?’

‘Who? Spike?’

‘Well, you’ve barely mentioned the other guy,’ says Stella pointedly.

I bristle. ‘I still think he’s an asshole. Even more so now,’ I say defiantly. ‘In fact, now I also think he’s a liar and a bully.’

‘So what are you gonna do?’

‘I don’t know. What did you do about Scott?’ I ask, remembering our last conversation.

‘You mean after I threw a pitcher over him?’ laughs Stella. ‘Simple. I ignored him. If you do that he’ll soon get the message.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do,’ I decide firmly, pulling myself together. It’s the lack of sleep that’s making me emotional. Nothing more.

‘What? You’re going to take my advice?’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘Wow, that’s a first. What’s come over you?’

Leaning back against the wall, I think about this last week, about everything that’s happened. I’m still struggling to get my head round it all. ‘I’m not sure exactly,’ I say finally. ‘I’m really not sure. ‘

We say our goodbyes, and of course as soon as we hang up I remember the dress. Damn, I meant to mention it again. Though I wonder why she didn’t. I guess it must have slipped her mind, I decide, descending the staircase; after all, Stella’s not exactly
renowned
for having the best memory.

Entering the dining room, I try to appear as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to be wearing ten-dollar fake Gucci sunglasses at 9 a.m., on New Year’s Day. Hopefully no one will pay any attention and I can just slip in and out.

‘So you’re alive!’

On second thoughts, perhaps not.

I glance over to see Rose, Maeve, Hilary and Rupinda. Sitting round a table, they’ve all stopped what they’re doing to stare at me. Now I know how it must feel to be famous.

And not in a good way.

‘Well, good morning, Emily,’ Rose is barking. ‘And a Happy New Year.’

Her voice slices right through me and I smile weakly.

‘Got a little bit of a hangover, have we?’ she chortles loudly, waving a thickly buttered English muffin at me.

‘A little bit.’ I nod, sitting down at the empty chair they’ve pulled up for me. Smiling gratefully, I reach for the coffeepot. My hand trembles. This morning I think I’m allowed to dispense with the English traditions and forgo the Earl Grey.

‘We were all very worried about you,’ whispers Maeve, leaning close and placing her hand reassuringly upon mine.

‘What happened exactly?’ demands Hilary, reaching for a slice of toast.

Oh, God, questions, questions. I feel a flurry of panic. This is what I was dreading.

‘I’m not sure . . .’ I reply, feeling my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘I hit my head.’

‘You were gabbling all kinds of nonsense,’ chimes in Rose.

‘I was?’ I feel a beat of alarm. Hurriedly I take a sip of coffee. I need the caffeine urgently.

‘Romantic horserides, moonlit castles, poetry . . .’

‘Mr Darcy,’ adds Hilary, raising an eyebrow.

I freeze, my mouth filled with coffee. It’s lukewarm and slightly bitter. Hilary looks at me suspiciously. Or maybe that’s just me being paranoid. I try thinking of an excuse.

‘Well . . . er . . . you see . . .’ I start my sentence not having a clue where it’s going.

Fortunately, I’m rescued by Rupinda. ‘No need to explain, we all have our fantasies about Mr Darcy.’ She winks, taking a sip of her usual hot water and lemon. ‘Though I must say, yours are a lot more inventive than mine.’

‘Oh, I’ve always had an overactive imagination,’ I joke. ‘Ever since I was a little girl.’ I smile gratefully at Rupinda, relieved to have escaped what was no doubt going to be a very awkward conversation.

‘Thank goodness Spike found you, hey?’ says Hilary.

Only to find myself slap bang in the middle of another.

‘Um . . . yeah . . .’ I murmur vaguely. I really don’t want to talk about Spike.

The ladies, however, obviously have other ideas.

‘Ah, yes, the wonderful Mr Hargreaves,’ smiles Rupinda dreamily.

‘Well, I have to say, I think it’s very romantic,’ comments Hilary, who has changed her mind about the toast and is now chewing a mouthful of All Bran.

‘Romantic?’ I repeat dismissively, before I can help it. ‘Hardly.’

‘But he came to your rescue,’ whispers Maeve, her eyes shining behind her glasses. ‘He saved you.’

The ladies have been hell-bent on setting up us ‘two young ones’ since the beginning of this tour, and now they’re obviously using this turn of events to back up their theory. God, if only they knew what really happened in the early hours of this morning. It was anything
but
romantic.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that—’ I begin, but I’m cut off by Miss Steane, who suddenly swoops upon the table with a clipboard.

‘Yes, indeed, Miss Albright. You were very fortunate to be found by Mr Hargreaves. If it wasn’t for him, you could have caught your death of cold out there—’

‘We wanted to take you to the hospital, but with it being New Year’s Eve accident and emergency would have been packed—’

‘But luckily Spike had done a first-aid course so he checked you over—’

‘And he even offered to stay with you in your room, just to make sure—’

‘Concussion can be a funny thing, you know.’

As all the women speak at once, chiming in over one another, my feelings towards Spike wobble. Gosh, I had no idea he did all that. I never even said thank you. In fact, I said all those mean, horrible things instead –
rude, selfish, self-obsessed, arrogant, liar –
I wince as I remember a few. God, I really went for it, didn’t I? That’s not like me at all, I sound like such a nasty bitch.

Probably because you were such a nasty bitch, Emily.

Guilt punches me in the stomach with a mean left hook and winds me, but I’m not going to take it lying down. Yes, but what about Ernie? I hear myself cry in justification. What about the abominable way he behaved towards him? Spike deserves everything he gets. Why should you have been nice to him? He wasn’t nice to Ernie, was he? I think indignantly.

‘Speaking of which, where is our wonderful Mr Hargreaves?’ booms Rose. ‘I haven’t seem him at breakfast this morning.’

My stomach lurches with dread. Oh, Jeez. Justified or not, I can’t face him now. I just can’t. Bracing myself for him to walk in at any moment, I bury my face in my coffee cup. Talk about awkward.

‘He’s gone back to London,’ says Miss Steane matter-of-factly.

What? My head flicks up. ‘Gone back?’ I gasp in astonishment, and then, even more astonishing, feel a stab of disappointment.

‘Yes, he had to leave early. Urgent business to attend to.’

There’s murmuring at the table – they are evidently as surprised as I am.

‘But what about the article?’ Hilary is asking, folding her arms in readiness to cross-examine Miss Steane. It’s not hard to imagine her as a partner in a top legal firm and a local magistrate.

‘It’s as good as finished. He’s done all his interviews,’ she replies simply.

‘But he never interviewed me,’ I suddenly hear myself protest.

My outburst catches me by surprise, and I see Miss Steane glance over at me.

‘Perhaps you gave him the impression that you didn’t want to be interviewed,’ she opines.

‘Yeah, perhaps.’ I nod, although I know there’s no perhaps about it.

‘In my experience, Emily, when anything concerns a man, you have to make things very clear. Women love figuring a man out, and we’re very good at it. But men have no interest in figuring us out, isn’t that right, ladies?’ Miss Steane looks around the table for approval and is met with chuckles of concurrence. ‘And this is never more true than when it applies to affairs of the heart. As Charlotte Lucas said in
Pride and Prejudice
, “It is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels.”’

As Miss Steane finishes speaking I catch her looking right at me and I get the same feeling I had last night at the ball. As our tour guide I know she’s simply quoting Jane Austen, but you’d almost think the words of advice are her own, as if she knows a lot more than she’s letting on.

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ booms Rose. ‘Nice chap. I would have liked to say goodbye.’

There are nods of agreement, and as everyone begins murmuring their regret at not having wished him a Happy New Year, invited him to drop in anytime he was passing, or attempted to fix him up with their ‘single but adorable’ niece, I make my excuses and leave the table.

So that’s it, then. Spike’s gone back to London. And I catch a late flight to New York the day after tomorrow. Which means we’ll never have to see each other again. No more arguments. No more anything. It’s over. The end. Boy, what a relief.

But even as I’m telling myself that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m trying to convince myself. That somewhere, deep inside of me, is a nagging doubt that I might have made a really big mistake. And that this isn’t relief I’m feeling, it’s regret.

 

B
eing New Year’s Day, we’re given a break from our busy itinerary. Instead, a whole day of screen adaptations of Jane Austen books are going to be shown in the drawing room, followed by a series of discussions. First up on the list, and scheduled for right after breakfast, is the movie adaptation of
Pride and Prejudice
, starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. I decide to pass. It’s a great movie, and Matthew Macfadyen is a babe, but I’ve seen it on DVD twice already. And anyway, I don’t feel in the mood for watching a movie.

To be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on anything for thinking about last night. But not the parts I
want
to think about. Like, for example, my moonlight ride with Darcy, how he recited poetry to me, that delicious moment when everything sort of stopped and he was about to kiss me,
Spike calling me a bitch
—

See! It’s done it again. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. As soon as I try to think about my evening with Mr Darcy my mind veers off course and snaps back to what happened with Spike.