Me and Mr Darcy (43 page)

‘Yes. I had a personal shopper,’ I inform him stiffly. Huh, that’ll show him.

‘Wow.’ He leans back in his chair and surveys me with amusement. ‘And what exactly does this personal shopper do?’

I bristle. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say breezily, trying to sound as if I’m used to having personal shoppers all the time. ‘Inform you about new trends, show you how to put together different looks, pick out clothes . . .’ My eyes wander across Spike’s outfit. He’s wearing ancient-looking cords, an unidentifiable pair of sneakers and an old Smiths’ T-shirt, which still has what looks like the remnants of this morning’s toothpaste down the front.

‘You know, maybe you should try one, one day,’ I can’t help adding. Well, I’m sorry, I know I’m supposed to be here declaring my undying love among other things, but still.

‘You don’t like the Smiths?’ he pleads, tugging at Morrissey’s face.

Instantly I feel myself melt. God, how does he do that? How does he manage to look so adorable with Oral B all down his front?

‘I love the Smiths,’ I admit, twisting my mouth up into a smile.

‘Good girl.’ He nods with satisfaction.

Disarmed again, I look tentatively at Spike, searching for the right way to start saying what I came here to say. But there’s no easy segue into ‘Sorry, I fucked up’, is there?

‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me about Mr Darcy?’ Spike asks.

Since yesterday my mind’s been full of so many things that I haven’t thought about Mr Darcy, but now, just the mention of him makes my chest tighten.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me questions?’ I reply.

Damn. I didn’t come here to talk about Mr Darcy.

‘Well, no, not really,’ frowns Spike, shaking his head. ‘It’s more of a freeform chat.’

Just the way he says ‘freeform chat’ sends a shiver down my spine. How come I never noticed how wonderful his accent is before? I could listen to it all day.

‘Just tell me anything you want to share with my readers,’ he continues, ‘about why he would be so many women’s ideal date.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ I retort.

Spike’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh? And why do you say that?’

‘Well, he’s very self-absorbed, and he can be really intense,’ I confide, leaning towards him.

Spike stares at me, and I suddenly realise what I’ve just said.

‘I mean, I can
imagine
he could be quite intense,’ I correct myself quickly.

‘But I thought that’s what you wanted,’ he says, leaning towards me and making those rhinos start charging around in my stomach again. ‘Didn’t you once say that to me when we were choosing postcards?’ he reminds me.

I feel my cheeks prickle. ‘Um . . . possibly,’ I nod. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’

‘You have?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I nod again. ‘I was wrong.’

Spike looks astounded. ‘
You?
Are admitting you’re
wrong
?’

God, I didn’t think I was
that
bad.

‘Yep,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, actually.’

Spike’s face is serious. ‘Such as?’

I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.

‘You.’

He looks at me and makes a sort of ‘mmm’ sound as if to say, ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’

‘Ernie.’

‘Mmm . . .’

I screw up my courage and lay my heart wide open.

‘
Us.
’

There. I’ve said it.

For a moment Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he just stares at me across the desk, his face expressionless, his eyes unblinking. Every millisecond feels like an hour. Just say something, I think urgently.
Anything.

‘I see,’ he says finally, and steeples his fingers.

My heart constricts. Oh, God. This is dreadful. When I said ‘anything’, I didn’t mean
anything.
It suddenly dawns on me that the big romantic moment that I’d hoped for, the one where Spike was going to grasp me in some big corny embrace and kiss the living daylights out of me, is not going to happen. I feel like a complete idiot.

‘You know, I should be going, perhaps we can do this interview on email,’ I gabble hastily, standing up, the humiliation pouring all over me. Clutching my coat to my chest as a sort of shield, I head for the door.

Spike stands up and follows me. ‘When’s your flight?’

‘Oh, erm . . .’ I glance at my watch gratefully. Anything not to have to look at him. ‘Not for a few hours, but you know, the traffic might be bad . . .’ I’m desperate to get out of the door, but now Spike’s standing in the way and blocking it with his huge frame.

‘Really?’ he’s saying. ‘You know, you can do a lot in a few hours . . .’

Something in his tone makes me look up. His eyes are flashing with amusement. Suddenly the penny drops. Of course. The British sense of humour. He was winding me up. How could he do that to me! I feel a white-hot flash of annoyance, followed by total and utter relief.

‘And my flat’s just round the corner,’ he’s saying.

Well, I guess I did deserve it, I muse, then ask, ‘What are you suggesting?’ pretending to be shocked, while feeling a thumping beat of excitement. I’d be fibbing if the thought hadn’t already crossed my mind. I didn’t come here hoping
just
to apologise. Well, I
am
human, and his chest did feel very firm that night at the ball when I squeezed his pec.

‘Oh, I dunno, we could watch a spaghetti Western, do a crossword . . .’ He moves closer.

‘You know, I’m pretty darned good at the cryptic ones. I get all the clues,’ I tease, leaning my body towards him.

‘You are?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Great,’ he whispers, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. ‘But before we go any further, I think I should tell you something.’

I look at him. A flutter of nerves.

‘Don’t look so worried.’ He smiles. ‘I’m not going to tell you I’m crazy about you, I’ve told you that already.’

And wrapping his arms round me, he pulls me to his chest and gives me a great big bear hug. I feel a whoosh of happiness. There’s nothing quite like being hugged by a big strong guy you’re crazy about.

‘No, there’s something else,’ he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.

‘What?’ I gasp, a quiver running all the way down to my toes.

‘My name’s not really Napoleon Caesar—’

‘Nelson Hargreaves,’ I finish off, smiling. ‘I kind of figured that. So tell me – what does the B stand for?’

He looks at me, surprised.

‘I saw your email address, remember?’

Now it’s his turn to smile. Scrunching up his nose, he winces with shame. ‘Bryan. With a Y.’

‘Bryan with a Y?’ I giggle. ‘Damn, and I thought the name Napoleon was really sexy.’

‘What? Are you telling me you don’t find me sexy any more?’ He pretends to look affronted.

‘Hmmm, I’m not sure,’ I murmur. ‘I think I might have to do a bit more investigative reporting . . .’ And slipping my hands up the back of his T-shirt and on to bare skin, I tilt my face up to his and he bends down and kisses me.

 

‘
H
ow’s that looking, miss?’

The two workmen standing on ladders shout down to me, their thick Queens’ accents resonating loudly through the city hum. Standing below them on the sidewalk, I crick my neck to look upwards, shading my eyes from the bright morning sunshine.

‘Um . . . it’s not quite straight . . . Left a bit.’ I yell back.

Cue lots of puffing and panting, their breath making white swirling clouds in the frosty air.

‘What about now?’

I squint, cocking my head from side to side and stepping back a little away from the store. ‘No . . . a little higher, I think . . .’

I can tell they want to murder me. Me, the girl in the yellow coat and woollen bobble hat, sipping her mug of coffee and giving orders to two burly guys in lumber jackets, beanies and fingerless gloves, like a couple of latter-day Rocky Balboas. But seeing as I’m the one paying them, they can’t. I’m the boss now.

They just grunt that bit louder to make sure of a bigger tip.

‘This OK?’ they holler in stereo.

I look up again. I want it to be perfect. It
has
to be perfect. I pause, my eyes sweeping over the varnished wood, the bold swirls of paint, the glint of gold against the black lettering:
Albriqht’s.
I feel a thrilling rush of exhilaration. My new sign. Hanging over my new store. The legal papers were signed two weeks ago, but
now
it feels official. A grin breaks over my face and I feel like punching the air.

Instead, I just make do with a simple, ‘Perfect!’

I’ve been back in New York for nearly three weeks now, and I feel as if so much has happened. Well, a lot can happen in three weeks, can’t it? Look how much happened during that week I spent in England.

Watching the workmen busily fixing the sign into place, I sip my coffee and smile absently to myself as my mind drifts back. I’ve thought a lot about that trip since I’ve been back, about the lessons I learned and the friends I made. And of course I’ve thought a lot about Mr Darcy. About what really happened back there in England over New Year.

Now I’m back in New York, back to my real life, I have to be honest, it does all
seem
a bit unreal. I mean, I was so sure back then, there was no doubt in my mind, but it’s funny how things can seem different when a bit of time and space has passed. How uncertain you can become, how doubts can creep in that make you question yourself and your memories of the past. And now, looking back with hindsight, I can’t help wondering, Did it really happen? Did I really meet Mr Darcy? Does he
really
exist?

I haven’t seen him since he vanished that day in Lyme Park, and standing here, in the middle of SoHo, the mere thought of a fictional character somehow coming to life and turning up in a frock coat and breeches does seem pretty ridiculous. I’ve thought about the times we met and I guess you
can
explain them all away if you want to. Like I guess you can explain
everything
away if you try hard enough. Isn’t that what sceptics do all the time? Trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense by using common sense, rationality and that little big thing called coincidence . . .

In which case, maybe it
was
just a mixture of jet lag, desire and an overactive imagination that conjured up Mr Darcy at Chawton Manor. Perhaps I fainted at Winchester Cathedral and was so delirious I imagined him to be there. It could be that our moonlit boatride on the lake was simply a dream. Our New Year’s Eve horseride a hallucination, caused by too much champagne and the rest of that
incredibly
strong joint. And our picnic at Sham Castle was just a fantasy, the result of me falling asleep, tired and upset from my argument with Spike. And, yes, it’s possible that in the maze of gardens at Lyme Park, I was so lost and defeated and crying so hard that I envisaged Mr Darcy finding me. So that ultimately I was able to find
myself.

But. And this is a big but. I’m not so sure. Part of me actually wants to believe it’s true, that something magical really did happen on that trip to England and I really did get to date Mr Darcy. But I don’t think I’ll ever know. And I don’t think it matters, does it?

Because one thing’s for sure: Mr Darcy does exist. In as much as he exists in the imaginations of millions of women everywhere. Remember June, the immigration officer at Heathrow? He was real to her. And what about Rupinda, Rose, Maeve, Hilary . . . The list is endless. Right now, all over the world, someone, somewhere, is dreaming about Mr Darcy. So what if it’s a fantasy. Aren’t fantasies real?

‘Hey, is that the new sign?’

I whirl round to see Freddy from the bakery next door loping across the cobbles towards me. He’s wearing an apron and his arms are covered in a white coating of flour, all the way up to his elbows.

‘It looks amazing.’

I feel a huge beat of pride. ‘Thanks.’ I smile appreciatively.

‘Your folks must be really proud of you.’

‘Yeah, they are.’ I nod. ‘They’re coming down tonight with my brother. We’re all going to celebrate.’ Happiness glows inside me. Since getting back from our respective trips, my parents and I have been making a lot more effort. OK, we’ll never be best friends, but I’ve got plenty of friends. I don’t need any more friends, I need a mom and a dad. I think admitting that to myself, and to them, was the first step for all of us.

‘Wow, that’s just great, Emily, really great.’ Freddy gives me a big, floury, aftershaved hug and then grins ruefully. ‘She in there?’ He gestures to the store.

‘You mean Stella?’ I ask. ‘Yeah, why?’ I narrow my eyes. Since getting back from England, my radar’s been picking up a lot of phone calls, visits and whispered conversations between Stella and Freddy. ‘What’s going on with you two?’ I ask smiling.

‘Nuthin’.’ He shrugs innocently, and bounds off back across the cobbles.

Nuthin’?
Hmm. Now I’m
really
suspicious.

Watching him disappear back into the bakery, I make up my mind to quiz Stella when I go back inside. At the moment I don’t want to interrupt her as she’s busy in the stockroom sorting out the new orders. Which reminds me. When I got back from my trip one of the first things I did was check the new batch of
Pride and Prejudice
for blank pages, but they were perfect, every last one of them, and I know, as I personally went through them all. Plus I checked our database and there was no record of any returns. Weird, huh? I must have got the one faulty copy.

And do you want to know something else that’s weird? I always kept that copy in the side pocket of my bag, but when I got home and came to unpack, I found a
different
copy. One with all the pages intact. I guess I must have lost mine, or mistakenly given it to the hotel in Bath and accidentally picked up one belonging to someone else on the tour.