Me and Mr Darcy Page 14

  ‘You? Have a girlfriend?’ I mock, pretending to be surprised.

  There’s a pause and I can tell he’s dying to retaliate, but instead he clenches his jaw and continues: ‘I was talking with a friend, just joking around, taking the piss. It’s an affectionate thing. It’s what we British do,’ he adds.

  He looks desperate.

  ‘I might be American, but I’m not stupid,’ I retort. ‘Just pretty dull and average-looking.’

  He winces.

  ‘Unlike your hot French girlfriend,’ I blurt, unable to stop myself.

  Oh, shit, where did that just spring from? Why did I just say that? It’s not as if she was that hot, anyway. So she wore red lipstick and had that chic turtle neck and scarf thing going on. So what?

  For a moment Spike looks shocked, then his face floods with realisation. ‘Oh, that’s what all this is about.’ Squaring his shoulders, he seems to reinflate.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Whoah . . .’ Stretching out my hand, I stop him right there. ‘You can’t pull the “nothing” trick on me. I’m a woman, remember. Nothing always means something.’

  ‘And I wonder why I’ve never understood women,’ he mutters, taking a gulp of brandy.

  I shoot him one of my scary looks.

  ‘Look, let’s drop it, shall we?’ he suggests.

  I think about it. For, like, a second.

  ‘No, I’m not going to drop it,’ I reply stubbornly. Even though while I’m saying it I know that I should. But that’s my biggest fault, I’m stubborn to the point of mulish.

  He hesitates, as if weighing me up to see if I’m serious enough. ‘OK, have it your way.’ He shrugs in surrender. ‘You’re jealous,’ he says simply.

  ‘Jealous?’ I gasp, feeling little hot knives of anger pricking me all over. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Emmanuelle,’ he says, as if it’s obvious.

  Simultaneously my brain registers two thoughts: (1) Not only does she look fabulous in bright-red lipstick, which makes my teeth look yellow; and look stylish in chic turtle-neck sweaters and knotted Hermès scarves, while I stumble around H&M like a drowning woman clinging to anything sparkly, but her name is really pretty and sexy and so much nicer than boring old Emily. (2) You arrogant fucking asshole.

  I go with thought number two.

  ‘You arrogant asshole,’ I curse.

  Spike’s head goes back, like a boxer who’s just taken a jab.

  ‘I am not remotely jealous of any woman that has to go out with a man who has zero personality, appalling manners and wears corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows.’

  We both glance down at his jacket.

  ‘You don’t like the patches?’

  His innocent question disarms me, pricking my anger as if it’s a balloon. I want to be angry. I’ve a right to be angry. But for some reason, I just can’t stay angry.

  Surveying his jacket, I wrinkle up my nose. ‘They’re a bit Simon and Garfunkel.’

  He absorbs this comment. ‘I like Simon and Garfunkel,’ he says simply.

  ‘I do too,’ I confess.

  He meets my eye and smiles. I smile back, albeit begrudgingly.

  There’s a pause.

  ‘So, when do I—’

  ‘Well, I guess—’

  We both start speaking at the same time and then stop.

  ‘You first,’ he gestures.

  ‘No, it’s OK, go ahead.’

  He shrugs. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to tell me about Mr Darcy.’

  His question completely blindsides me. I try not to let even a flicker cross my face, but it’s like someone just dropped a ten-ton weight on my chest.

  ‘Me and Mr Darcy?’ I squeak. Oh, shit. What does he know? What did he see?

  Spike gives me a curious look. ‘Yeah, I need to interview you, for the paper.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I nod, feeling both relieved and a bit ridiculous.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  I’m all jumpy, but I try to appear casual. ‘Sure, whenever.’ I shrug, acting like a pouty teenager instead.

  ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Um, excuse me?’

  ‘You were saying . . . ?’

  That I met Mr Darcy again today and I really like him and I can’t stop thinking about him and – oh – I think I’m going mad.

  ‘Um . . . nothing. Just that it was getting late.’

  I try to gather my thoughts. Easier said than done when your thoughts are whirling round all over the place like leaves in a storm. Spike. Emmanuelle. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy.

  Right at that moment the grandfather clock next door begins softly chiming.

  Saved by the bell.

  ‘Wow, midnight. I should go to bed.’ Quickly releasing my knees, I hoist myself up from the snug of the leather armchair. ‘Before I turn into a pumpkin,’ I quip, making a feeble attempt at humour.

  ‘And I turn into Prince Charming.’ Spike smiles ruefully.

  I look at him uncertainly.

  ‘That was a joke,’ he adds.

  ‘Obviously,’ I reply.

  There’s a pause and he regards me for a moment as if he’s thinking about something, but I can’t read his face.

  ‘Well, night, then.’

  ‘Yeah, night.’

  He sort of salutes me with his brandy and I give an awkward little wave. I came down here to clear my mind, but I’ve only made it worse.

  A yawn overwhelms me and I suddenly realise how tired I am. No wonder I’m all confused. I’m so jet-lagged I can barely remember my own name. And clutching my book to my chest, I turn and head out of the drawing room. Once I’ve had a good sleep I’ll feel loads better.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I wake up the next morning feeling like a different person. Invigorated, energised and completely clear-headed. Yesterday all seems like a dream. I’ve heard of jet lag doing funny things to you: I once read about an English woman who’d ripped off all her clothes on the Heathrow Express and straddled a businessman demanding sex because, according to her defence lawyer, she’d been travelling fifteen hours without any sleep on a flight from Singapore – and I thought that was outrageous. But meeting Mr Darcy? Honestly.

  We check out of the hotel after breakfast (after yesterday’s disaster I go for the safe option and order Continental) and set off on the journey to Bath. It’s a gorgeous day. Still, with a crisp frost, brilliant blue skies and bright sunshine. It’s the kind of day that almost makes you want to start humming about brown paper packages tied up with string. Well, almost.

  Leaning my face up against the window of the coach, I watch the matchstick trees whizzing by, the blur of hedgerows and the villages that seem to finish before they begin with funny names like Upper Dumpling – or something like that. I still can’t get over how different England is from America, with its vast sprawl, straight roads and huge horizons. Here, everything’s in miniature, with skinny winding roads, blind corners (I’m still trying to get used to driving on the left without my stomach leaping into my mouth), the patchwork of fields and church spires. It’s all so pretty.

  Pretty. That’s such a lame word. Only I honestly can’t think of a better way to describe it. After the chaos and concrete that is New York, everything here is so neat and tidy and, well, pretty. I mean, look at all those cute little sheep dotted about in that field. And that little bird over there with a red breast. In fact, is that a robin? I squint at it as we trundle past. Jesus. I’ve never seen a robin in real life, only on Christmas cards.

  Gosh, listen to me. You’d think I’ve never seen nature before, when in fact I’ve been to Hawaii, and Mexico, and camping in Montana. (OK, so it wasn’t strictly camping as I was in my friend’s log cabin, but there was no shower and I was in a sleeping bag.) But this is different. I’m only five thousand miles away from New York, but I feel about a million miles away from my life there. And with every mile the coach travels it�
��s as if I’m moving further and further away from it, as if I’m entering a whole new world.

  Gazing out of the window, a smile plasters itself dreamily across my face. Boy, did I need this vacation.

  Arriving in Bath some time later, I discover a scene that could have been torn straight from the pages of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. The blue skies have turned white and it’s started to snow faintly. In the large cobbled squares vendors are roasting chestnuts and selling hot mulled wine, garlands of tiny lights are strung between the old-fashioned lamp posts and rows of shops have decorated their bow-fronted windows with glittering strands of silver and gold tinsel.

  I swear, any minute now Tiny Tim’s going to hobble past on his crutches.

  Our coach is too wide for the narrow side streets, so we disembark and wheel our suitcases the last few hundred cobbly yards to our hotel, a Georgian townhouse with fake snow sprayed jauntily in the corners of each windowpane.

  ‘Ooh, isn’t this lovely,’ chorus Rupinda, Maeve and Hilary as we walk into the lobby, where we’re greeted by a Christmas tree so weighed down with baubles and tinsel it looks like it might collapse at any moment.

  ‘If you like that kind of thing,’ says Rose querulously.

  Rose, I’m fast learning, is a bit of a snob and never seems to have a good word to say about anything. OK, so I agree, that tree is not going to win any style awards, but she is being a bit bah-humbug. What happened to getting into the festive spirit?

  Instead, with a disapproving expression on her face, she turns her attention to the far wall, which is strewn with signed photographs of stars who have stayed here. Suddenly she perks up. ‘Oh, look, there’s my dear friend Dame Judi,’ she says loudly, pointing to a headshot of Judi Dench.

  But no one’s listening. They’re still busy cooing over the Christmas tree, with Hilary enlightening everyone on how to stop the pine needles dropping with the clever use of hairspray.

  ‘Just give it a couple of liberal squirts when you first buy it – not the firm hold, but the flexible. Make sure you get the flexible.’

  ‘She was my understudy, you know,’ tries Rose again, only this time louder.

  Plopping myself down on the small flowery sofa by the front desk, I look across at her. Standing apart from the rest of the other ladies in her full-length fur, which looks like something befitting an Eskimo, and too much rouge, she cuts a rather sad figure. I feel a bit sorry for her.

  ‘Wow, really? That’s pretty cool, Miss Bierman,’ says Spike, coming to her rescue.

  It’s like someone just flicked the spotlight on her. Rose transforms with his attention, smiling vibrantly and pretending to look surprised that someone’s heard her.

  ‘Not that I’m boasting of course,’ she adds coyly.

  ‘Of course,’ nods Spike evenly. Walking over to her, he sticks his hands in his pockets, scrunches up his forehead and surveys the wall. ‘They need to get a photo of you up there,’ he says after a moment.

  A look of delight floods Rose’s powdered face, but she quickly tries to hide it. ‘Oh, you’re a darling.’ She laughs girlishly and throws her diamond-encrusted hand against her chest. ‘But it’s been a while since I trod the boards . . .’

  Watching Spike chatting to Rose, I feel myself soften towards him. That was kind of him. He didn’t have to do that.

  ‘Rubbish,’ he’s saying now dismissively. ‘I reckon they’d love to have you up there.’

  Maybe I’ve judged him too harshly. First impressions and all that. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought. Though, saying that, he really shouldn’t tease Rose about hanging her photo on the wall.

  ‘Oh . . . mais non . . . mais non . . .’ Rose is protesting. Dipping her head in an affectation of modesty, she hides behind her curtain of hair – for, like, a second – then looks back up again. ‘Do you really think so?’ Her eyes are flashing with excitement.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Definitely.’

  ‘Well, I do think I might have a black-and-white headshot somewhere,’ she acquiesces, trying to sound casual, while at the same time unzipping her Louis Vuitton hand luggage and, without any rummaging necessary, pulling out a crocodile-skin folder.

  She feigns astonishment. ‘Well, I never. I just so happen to have some here with me!’

  ‘Wow, what a coincidence,’ says Spike humouring her. He glances across at me and catches me watching. Despite myself I have to smile.

  ‘Though they’re really just snapshots,’ she’s saying self-deprecatingly as she tugs out several large, glossy, black-and-white prints. ‘They’re not very flattering . . .’

  ‘Oh, I doubt you can take a bad picture, Miss Bierman,’ says Spike.

  Rose blushes.

  ‘Now, come on, let’s have a look.’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ she sighs, handing them over without any insistence necessary.

  ‘Everyone, if I could have your attention, please . . .’

  Engrossed in watching Spike and Rose, I’d almost forgotten about everyone else, but now I turn to see Miss Steane, our tour guide. Circling the lobby energetically, she’s trying to round everyone up like a sheepdog.

  ‘Leave your luggage here, it will be taken care of,’ she’s instructing. ‘And now if you’d all like to follow me, we shall begin our short walk to 4 Sydney Place, Jane Austen’s former home.’

  Dragging myself off the sofa, I glance over at Spike. But he’s not there any more. Just Rose, regaling her Judi Dench story to no one in particular.

  ‘. . . and so I said to her, “Judi, darling, don’t you worry about fluffing your lines. It happens to even the best of us,” and, oh, my goodness, she was so very grateful, because of course, as you know, I was a very famous theatre actress in those days . . . in fact, the hotel is going to hang a signed photograph of myself on the wall . . .’

  Damn. This is what I was afraid of. Now Rose has gone and got her hopes up.

  Spike is nowhere to be seen. Obviously he got bored of humouring her and now he’s disappeared to do his interviews. I feel a snap of anger. Everything’s always a joke to him, and always at someone else’s expense.

  Poor Rose is going to be so disappointed, I think, turning back to her and throwing her an enthusiastic smile. ‘What an amazing story! Tell me some more.’ And linking arms with her, I listen as she launches into another anecdote – this one being about Tallulah Bankhead and the time they got drunk together – as we make our way across the lobby and step outside on to the street.

  A couple of hours later and I’m all tourist-ed out.

  Bath is just oozing with incredible history and architecture and there’s tons to see. First off is Jane Austen’s home and a lecture by its owner, then it’s the famous pump rooms, the Regency tea rooms and finally the Jane Austen Centre. Which is all very interesting and fascinating at first, but then I get a bit, well – overwhelmed would be one way of putting it.

  Bored would be another.

  ‘And here we have a rare collection of original cross-stitch samplers, as made at the end of the 1700s . . .’

  Don’t get me wrong. I like architecture and history to a point, but there’s only so much a girl can take before lunchtime. Plus, I’m dying to see if I can find an old traditional English bookshop, as well as exploring some of the really cool-looking boutiquey-type shops I spied earlier. Tucked away down tiny cobbled streets, they appeared to sell all kinds of stuff like vintage furniture, handmade stationery and cards, and these amazing lights shaped like teapots that you can hang in your garden.

  Not that I have a garden, and they’re probably crazily overpriced like designer-type shops always are. But still, they are really cute . . .

  That’s the thing about me. I might not shop for clothes, but I sure well make up for it by shopping for other things.

  Wandering aimlessly around the gift shop, I feel an itch to spend some money. This is my third day on vacation and I still haven’t bought anything and my credit card is burning a hole in my pocket. I flick through a couple of
guidebooks and cast my eye wide across the various shelves and compartments. Needlepoint cushions, cross-stitch sampler sets, ostrich-feather quills, Mr Darcy soaps (can you believe it?), cameo brooches . . . I toy vaguely with the idea of buying a cameo brooch for Stella as I’m sure I read somewhere that Victoriana is the new boho. Or was that boho is the new Victoriana? Oh, God, I can’t remember.

  I spot a carousel of postcards. Ah, that’s a much safer option. I start turning it slowly around, looking at all the different cards. Oh, look, there’s a good one. I think about sending it to my parents, then catch myself. They won’t be there, will they? I feel a twinge of something that feels like disappointment, but I quickly dismiss it. Mom’s never been the kind of mom to stick postcards on the fridge, anyway, or even our drawings when we were kids. No doubt it would just get lost under the pile of mail they’ll have to open when they get back from their trip. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’ll send it to Mr McKenzie instead – I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. And I’ll get one for Auntie Jean, too, I muse, turning the rack of postcards.

  It turns right back.

  What?

  I turn it again. It stays like that for a few seconds, but then revolves slowly to the right. Huh. There must be someone on the other side. Gently, but firmly, I move it back to where it was and continue looking at the postcards. Hmm, this one is quite nice . . . It twirls round again.

  This time I feel a pinch of annoyance. I push it back, only harder this time. Right, that should do it, I think, feeling triumphant. Immediately it swings back. I glare at it, infuriated. Honestly, sometimes people are so rude. I grab hold of it, but now it won’t move. There’s sort of a tussle. ‘Excuse me . . .’ I gasp, giving it a sharp tug ‘. . . but I happened to be looking at these first . . . Yeowwwikes.’

  Suddenly it’s released and it twirls round furiously, nearly rattling off its pedestal.

  I jump back as a face appears. It’s Spike.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ I scowl.

  He’s wearing a woolly beanie hat and chewing on a red liquorice twirl. He looks at me for a moment, then holds up a postcard and waves it like a little white flag. ‘This is a good one.’