Me and Mr Darcy Read online

  ‘Did Iris ever find out?’

  ‘No.’ Ernie shakes his head. ‘I didn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to think badly of her son, to be ashamed of him. I loved her too much for that.’

  God, Ernie is such a nice man. This is heartbreaking.

  ‘I just made up some excuse that I was moving away, that I had a new job as a coach driver. Well, I couldn’t stay there, could I?’ Wiping clean his plate with a slice of bread, he looks up at me and sighs. ‘In fact, I haven’t told anyone this story until now – I didn’t want anyone to ever find out, in case it got back to Iris. But then, when I saw Spike again, well . . .’ he breaks off and shakes his head, I thought I should warn you, in case you were thinking of getting involved . . .’

  ‘Oh, no. God, no,’ I protest, shuddering.

  ‘If you don’t mind, could you keep all this to yourself? I’d hate for it to get back to Iris – she’d be devastated. And I don’t want any trouble from her son . . .’ he finishes, looking worried.

  ‘Of course I won’t say anything,’ I promise. Reaching across the table, I squeeze his sandpapery hand. ‘I’m sorry, Ernie.’

  ‘I know.’

  I look at the little old man sitting opposite me. I’m shocked. Utterly shocked. I’ve never heard such a horrible story. I don’t know what to say. I’m dumbfounded.

  ‘Are you not eating that, dearie?’ All of a sudden the waitress makes a reappearance, her rosy-cheeked face looking at me inquisitively.

  I glance at my lunch. The plate of cod and chips lies cold and practically untouched on the table. The mushy peas congealed. With everything that’s just happened I’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘Um, no . . . thank you,’ I manage to stammer. ‘I seem to have lost my appetite.’

  Abruptly the café seems very stuffy and claustrophobic and I feel the urgent need to leave. My mind’s reeling. I don’t know what to think.

  Mumbling my excuses to Ernie, I leave some money on the table and stumble outside. It’s bitterly cold and I take some deep breaths, trying to clear my head. But all I can think about is Spike. About how much I hate him. And how, at this moment, I honestly don’t think I’ve ever hated a person more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After dinner our tour guide had planned an ‘evening of themed conversations on Jane Austen’, but I skipped it and went straight to bed. Partly due to the fact that I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to make the dessert, and partly because I am beginning to discover that whereas I might be a fan of Jane Austen – there are fans and then there are fans.

  Propped up against my pillows, I’m reading instead. Or rather, I’m supposed to be reading, but in truth I’m staring at the pages of my book, my mind churning over what transpired this afternoon. I can’t stop thinking about it. Ernie’s revelation knocked me for six and I’m still trying to get to grips with it.

  Spike, beating up Ernie?

  I mean, I know he can be an asshole, but to hit a sweet little old man who can’t defend himself?

  And yet, the more I think about it, the more it seems to make sense. The way Spike reacted to Ernie when he first saw him on the bus, Maeve’s odd behaviour after she’d spoken to Spike . . . and I know Spike’s got a temper because I saw him shouting at his girlfriend that first day in the parking lot. But to actually punch someone and break their nose? And just because they were in love with his mother?

  God, it’s so dastardly. He’s like the villain in some book. It’s like some great big Shakespearean tragedy. Just think, Iris will believe Ernie deserted her, and all along he left because he loved her and was protecting her from the truth about her son.

  My eyes prickle. Honestly, it’s just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. It makes me want to burst into tears.

  After I’ve punched Spike’s frigging lights out.

  Hit by a hot burst of anger, I take a few deep breaths. Calm down, Emily, just calm down. So far I’ve managed to control my temper. I promised Ernie I wouldn’t tell Spike I knew. So all the way through dinner I was polite and cordial, smiling at his jokes, passing the gravy boat. But, God, it was hard. Trust me. I was this close to tipping the scalding-hot gravy all down his T-shirt. I resisted. But for how long?

  Fighting back the temptation to jump out of bed, march down the corridor, bust into Spike’s room and pin him against the wall in a good cop, bad villian-type scenario, I turn back to my copy of Pride and Prejudice in an attempt to calm down. Which reminds me, I really must email Mr McKenzie tomorrow and tell him that we’ve got a faulty batch. After I got back from Winchester Cathedral I double-checked to make sure I hadn’t imagined the blank pages, but nope, they still remain blank. Obviously it’s some kind of printing error. Good job I discovered it, though.

  Well, technically it was Mr Darcy, or rather the mystery man calling himself Mr Darcy – boom. There he is again. A snapshot of him in my head. Tall, dark and utterly gorgeous. Automatically my mind flicks back to yesterday afternoon, sitting on that bench outside the cathedral. I can hear his voice, smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body right up close to me. And yet looking back now with a clear head and no racing hormones, the whole thing feels surreal, even if at the same time I can’t remember anything feeling more real.

  But still, let’s be honest, it’s all a bit Kate and Leopold, isn’t it? Apart from the fact I look nothing like Meg Ryan and my guy looks way sexier in a tailcoat than Hugh Jackman ever did. However, while I might have a rational explanation for all the blank pages, I haven’t yet got one for my Mr Darcy . . .

  Snuggling down underneath the blankets, I turn back to my book. I’m still on volume one, at the part where Elizabeth has met Wickham, the cute blond guy in the military. The one whom everyone, her included, fancies the pants off. (God, isn’t ‘fancies’ just the coolest word? Cat taught me it and it’s heaps better than ‘got the hots for’.) Anyway, this is the conversation where Wickham is telling Elizabeth about what a bastard Darcy has been to him by cheating him out of his inheritance:

  ‘His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.’

  God, he’s such a great actor, isn’t he? I read on quickly to get Elizabeth’s reaction.

  ‘This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.’

  ‘Some time or other he will be – but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.’

  Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

  Shit, I love Elizabeth, but she’s a freakin’ idiot sometimes. She thinks she’s such a great judge of character and so right all the time and yet she gets it so wrong here. Wickham is a real cad, and yet she gets totally sucked in. Honestly, she’s so blind! How can she be taken in by him?

  ‘I had not thought Mr Darcy so bad as this – though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him – I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!’

  Indignation stabs. I always get so riled up at this part. Talk about misjudging Darcy. He’s so honourable. As if he’d ever stoop so low as to do something like that!

  A wave of tiredness washes over me and I glance at my alarm clock. Jeez, it’s past 2 a.m. I need to get some sleep, but I just know I’m going to wake up with jet lag at some weird hour like I have done the last couple of nights. Another yawn rips through me. Right, that’s it . . .

  Digging around in my bedside cabinet, I pull out a small bottle. I brought some sleeping pills with me that I had from when I had my wisdom teeth removed. I don’t really like taking them, but one’s not going to do any harm and it will definitely zonk me out. Climbing out of bed, I pad into the bathroom to fetch a glass of water, and on the way back I notice I haven’t drawn my curtains. Tugging
them closed, I climb into bed and take my pill. I wash it down with a few mouthfuls of water, then snuggle under the covers.

  Mmmmm. Night, night. Sweet dreams . . .

  I must have fallen asleep straight away, because the next thing I know I’m being woken by the sound of hailstones rattling against the windowpane.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  Wow. It’s so loud, you’d think it’s going to break the glass, I muse, snuggling gratefully back down under the heavy blankets. Thank God I’m not outside.

  Except now suddenly it’s all gone quiet again. Huh, how strange. I guess it must be one of those freak storms and now it’s passed over, I decide, curling up into the foetal position and hugging my lumpy feather pillow.

  Still, at least now I can go back to sleep.

  Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

  I sit bolt upright. Shit. There it goes again. Only now it seems even louder.

  Curious, I peel off the blankets and clamber out of bed. It’s freezing in my room, even in my fleecy pyjamas, and I pad, shivering, over to the window. Pressing my nose against the glass, I peer out into the darkness. It’s like one minute there’s hail and then the next minute—

  There’s Mr Darcy.

  My stomach lurches as I spot his figure in the bushes beneath my window. I catch a flash of his white shirt, then he disappears again into the shadows. I rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things, then I open them again – just in time to see him grabbing a handful of gravel from the path and preparing to chuck it up at my window. Suddenly he sees me and freezes.

  ‘Hang on,’ I gesture, tugging at the catch on the sash window. Only it’s jammed with thick layers of paint and won’t budge. Shit. My heart thumping, I signal to him that I’m coming down, then dash from the window, tug on my jeans and sweater – the pink glittery one that always looks nice against my complexion – and hurry downstairs. He’s here, Mr Darcy’s here, I can’t believe it.

  OK, that’s a fib. Ever since yesterday at the cathedral I didn’t know how, or where, or when, but I knew I’d see him again. I just knew.

  As I slip out of the front door he emerges from the shadows. He’s taller than I remember, but just as cute. My chest tightens and I feel a thrill of excitement.

  ‘We’ve got to stop bumping into each other like this,’ I quip, trying to be all nonchalant.

  Mr Darcy looks at me blankly.

  ‘It’s a saying,’ I explain, smiling tentatively. Standing opposite him on the gravel drive, I suddenly feel shy.

  ‘Ah, I see.’ He nods, obviously not seeing at all.

  There’s a pause and we both stand facing each other, neither of us speaking.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Curiosity gets the better of any attempt to be cool.

  Taking off his top hat, he rakes his fingers through his shock of black hair. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he admits. ‘I was taking a walk by your hotel and I happened to see you in the window. I wanted to catch your attention . . .’ He pauses and bows his head. ‘Please forgive the impropriety.’

  He’s so courteous I feel myself melting. ‘You’re forgiven,’ I reply, with mock formality.

  Looking down at me, his brooding eyes meet mine. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me?’

  Gosh, could he get any more adorable? ‘That sounds great.’ I smile.

  As I slip my arm through his I feel a delicious tingle all the way down to my groin. I don’t know if it’s chemistry, pheromones or good old-fashioned lust, but, God, he is hot.

  ‘So, where are we going?’

  ‘Down to the lake,’ he says assuredly.

  The lake? I get a buzz of anticipation. I’ve got a feeling that this is going to be so much better than any of the other first dates I’ve ever been on.

  We set off at a leisurely walk. Everything is so peaceful. It’s like the whole world is asleep but me and Mr Darcy. It’s a full moon tonight and the glow is shedding a milky whiteness on everything. It almost has a dreamlike quality to it, I think, casting a sideways glance at him from underneath my eyelashes just to check he’s still there and hasn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke, or turned into a pumpkin or something.

  Oh, he’s still there all right.

  I slide my eyes across his firm-set jaw, his Roman nose, his dark eyes staring directly ahead, the gleam of his white shirt in the moonlight. I feel the warmth of his body against my arm. It still doesn’t make sense. Mr Darcy isn’t supposed to be real. And yet . . .

  Without even glancing down at me, he seems to sense me looking at him and wordlessly places his free hand reassuringly across mine. And yet, the funny thing is, Mr Darcy feels more real to me than any of the men I’ve been on first dates with.

  I’m not sure how long it takes for us to reach the lake. Time seems to blur, until I’m no longer aware of it passing and I see the lake, stretching out before us like a pale, silvery ink blot. Picking up a stone, Mr Darcy skims it across the water and I watch it bounce, one, two, three, four, five times, the moonlit ripples spreading ever outwards.

  ‘Here, let’s see how many you can get,’ he says, handing me a stone.

  I laugh and protest that I’m useless. ‘Look, not even one,’ I groan, as my stone plops into the water and disappears.

  ‘Try again.’ Handing me another stone, he stands behind me and curls his fingers round mine. ‘Like this.’

  I get a sudden shortness of breath. ‘Oh, I see,’ I murmur, feeling the warmth of his breath on my neck and the solidity of his body behind me. Gosh, I hadn’t realised skimming stones could be so much fun.

  We stay like this for a while before Mr Darcy finds an old row boat hidden under a weeping willow and rows me out into the middle of the lake. I can’t quite believe what’s happening. I feel as if I’m in one of those romantic movie sequences – you know the ones, a montage of cheesy moments over which plays a Coldplay song – only in my case the soundtrack is just the lapping of the water against the boat and the gentle sound of the oars.

  And then Mr Darcy stops rowing and, tilting his head, declares, ‘Look, there’s Orion.’

  Gazing upwards into the velvet darkness, I trace the glittering pinpricks of light. Like millions of tiny diamonds. In the past I’ve never been able to make out any star formations, but sure enough, there it is, clearly visible, the hunter and his belt. I feel a burst of joy and suddenly it hits me: I don’t know exactly what’s happening, and I can’t explain it, but honestly, right now this feels so wonderful, I don’t care.

  ‘You know, I’ve dreamed of a moment like this,’ I whisper. ‘Of meeting you.’

  There’s no reply, and as I turn my gaze away from the sky I look across at Mr Darcy. He’s staring at me intently, and even when I catch his eye, he still doesn’t feel the need to say anything. Wow. I feel a shiver all the way up my spine. Mr Darcy is so completely different from all the other guys I’ve been out with – I’m so used to the crappy jokes and easy small talk that are usual in these kind of scenarios, but he’s just so intense.

  In fact, if I were to have one teensy-weensy criticism about Mr Darcy, it would be that he can be a little too intense, I decide, feeling a little self-conscious and looking away again. I mean, all this brooding is lovely in theory and he looks very handsome with his brow all crinkled up like that, but in reality it’s all a bit – well – heavy.

  Not that I don’t like heavy. I’m not saying that. Heavy is good. Especially after some of the idiots I’ve been out with who laugh at their own farts and can’t be serious for a minute. Only sometimes it’s nice to have a little light relief. A bit of chit-chat about the usual stuff: you know, current events, the latest celebrity gossip, what’s on TV. Maybe even have a bitch about the contestants on American Idol.

  But of course I’m being ridiculous. This is Mr Darcy. He doesn’t do chit-chat; he broods and smoulders and strides around setting pulses racing. And that’s why I love him, right?

  Afterwards he rows back to the side, chivalrously helps me
out of the boat, and we walk back into town. And then, before I know it, I’m back outside my hotel again, and Mr Darcy is saying, ‘Well, I shouldn’t keep you out all night.’

  No, keep me out, keep me out, pipes up a little voice in my head, but instead I just nod and smile. To tell the truth, this evening has left me in something of a trance.

  ‘Goodnight, Emily.’ He bows politely.

  Of course. No goodnight kiss. I feel a stab of disappointment. Oh, well. What can I expect? He’s a gentleman, remember?

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Darcy,’ I add with emphasis.

  He waits dutifully as I climb the step and dig my night key out of my pocket. Sliding it into the lock, I turn the key and open the door. Then falter. I can’t just walk into the hotel and close the door behind me, allow him to disappear into the dead of night without knowing what happens now. I just can’t.

  ‘When am I going to see you again?’ I ask, twirling round.

  My voice is urgent and high. I am so not cool. But I have to ask.

  Having begun to walk away, he stops under a street lamp and turns, and with his trademark composure, replies enigmatically, ‘Soon.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  I wake up early the next morning.

  Soon.

  What exactly does that mean?

  Trying to figure it out, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s such a frustrating word. So vague. So ambiguous. So open to misinterpretation. It could mean ten minutes, as in ‘I’ll be ready soon.’ Or anything from a few weeks to a few days, as in ‘See you soon.’ In fact, I told my Auntie Jean I’d see her soon, and that was last Christmas.

  Great.

  Plunged into gloom, I roll over on to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow.

  Honestly, couldn’t he have been a bit more specific? I mean, what’s wrong with tonight, for Godsakes?

  The way I see it, words like ‘soon’ shouldn’t be allowed when it comes to love and romance and affairs of the heart. They should be outlawed. Otherwise you’re just hanging around waiting for ‘soon’ to happen.