Me and Mr Darcy (18 page)

‘The wrong foot?’ I repeat coolly.

‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ he explains.

‘I know what it is,’ I say crossly.

Watching me, he breaks into an amused smile, revealing a surprisingly neat row of white teeth.

For an English man, that is.

‘Apparently, it originates from the old days when people believed it was unlucky to put your left foot on the floor when you got out of bed. Incredible, huh? How all these phrases and words we use today have all this history attached.’

I look at him blankly. Is he being
nice
? I mean, he
seems
genuine, but I can’t be sure.

‘How interesting,’ I say tightly.

‘Isn’t it?’ agrees Spike, seeming not to notice my sarcasm. ‘I think that’s partly why I became a journalist—’ He breaks off, and smiles self-consciously. ‘Sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I? I can see the glazed look in your eyes and you’re thinking, What is this bloke going on about? But once I get started I just can’t help it. I find the English language fascinating. Don’t you?’

Staying mad at him is proving harder than I thought. I’m beginning to realise that Spike and I are much more similar than I would like. Feeling my defences rapidly melting, I fleetingly consider diving into a discussion about literature and authors and writing. Then I remember, ‘
pretty dull . . . average-looking . . . and she’s American
.’

Immediately, my defences go back up again.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I reply tartly. ‘After all,
I’m an American.
’

If he’s got any idea what I’m referring to he doesn’t show it. ‘You don’t think we speak the same language?’ he asks with interest.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Really? Why?’

OK, now would be a good time to change the subject, advises the little voice inside my head. Except the thing is, I’ve never really been one to listen to advice, not even my own.

‘I don’t say mean things about people,’ I blurt.

Spike flinches and a deep crevice splits his brow. I brace myself for an angry, defensive outburst. Well, he started it, I think to myself, somewhat childishly.

But it never happens. Instead, the storm passes and his offence dissolves into an astonishingly wide smile. The kind of smile I had no idea he had in him. It hugs the corners of his eyes, flares his nostrils and stretches out his mouth to show off those straight white teeth of his.

Aha, but it’s as I thought, I note with a sense of satisfaction. Now I can see his bottom ones I notice they’re all crooked. Not too bad, but definitely orthodontically challenged, I decide, trying to find some small reason not to find him attractive and realising that it’s not working. He’s annoyingly attractive. Even with those insanely crooked bottom teeth.

‘Crikey, you don’t mince words, do you?’ he’s saying, shaking his head and scratching the patch of bristles on his chin.

‘Neither do you,’ I reply.

He looks at me, not understanding.

‘Yesterday. We were on the coach, you were on the phone,’ I begin, feeling self-righteous. ‘I was in the bathroom.’

He crinkles up his forehead, trying to think back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’ he begins, then suddenly trails off. All at once his smile crumples and he inhales loudly through his teeth. ‘
Oh, fuck.
’

He looks so mortified I feel an intense sense of satisfaction. And then – I get a niggle. I thought I’d feel really triumphant, but actually, his discomfort isn’t making me feel that great. And as for all the anger I felt towards him, it appears to have disappeared and instead I’m . . . I flail around, trying to grab the tail of my thoughts. To tell the truth, I’m not sure what I am.

‘I thought you were referring to the article in the
Daily Times.
I saw you reading it when I came in.’

I feel my cheeks tinge as he gestures towards the newspaper I’ve tried and failed to hide down the side of the armchair.

‘Listen, I know you must think I’m a complete bastard—’

‘
Now
we’re talking the same language,’ I cut in belligerently.

He ignores my sarcasm. ‘Look, I can explain. You’ve got me all wrong. You’re taking it all out of context. I didn’t mean it like that, I was in a shitty mood, I’d had a huge row with my girlfriend . . .’

‘
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.

 

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?