Me and Mr Darcy (19 page)

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.’

I glance at it. It’s a picture of Matthew Macfadyen playing Mr Darcy. He’s gorgeous, but even so, he’s not a patch on
my
Mr Darcy.

‘You know, I have to say, I just don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ tuts Spike, wrinkling up his brow and peering at the postcard.

I smile. Is that a twinge of jealousy I can detect in his voice? ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you. You’re a guy.’ I shrug.

‘What? You mean you
agree
with all those women in the poll? He’s your ideal date too?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod. I feel as if I’m bursting with this great big secret that I can’t tell anyone. ‘I’ve had a crush on him since I can remember.’

‘A tough act to follow, huh?’

‘Meaning?’

‘For us regular blokes,’ he says, sucking on his liquorice. ‘We’re never going to be able to live up to him, are we? It’s like everything. The reality is always more disappointing than the fantasy.’

I look at Spike’s shambolic figure. In his case it’s most definitely true.

‘I’m the same. My first love was Betty Blue. I adored her. Passionate, sexy,
French.
Normal girls didn’t match up. But in reality, do I really want to go out with a nutcase who stabs her own eye out?’

I smile, despite myself.

‘Trust me,’ he continues, ‘a passionate affair with a sexy French woman might look great in the movies, but in reality there’s
nothing
sexy about constant rows and broken crockery.’

‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience,’ I say, getting a flashback of him arguing with his girlfriend in the parking lot.

‘Emmanuelle has broken every plate in my flat. Now I have to eat off paper ones.’ He smiles ruefully, but I get the feeling he’s not joking. She did have a pretty mean temper on her. ‘No, what I
really
want is someone I can have a proper conversation with, who’s going to help me get the clues in the
Daily Times
crossword that I can’t, who’ll laugh at my shitty jokes and share my passion for spaghetti Westerns.’

‘So why don’t you go out with a girl like that?’

‘Now there’s a thought,’ he says, cocking his head on one side as if he’s only just considering the idea. ‘I dunno. Maybe because a girl like that is real. And that would mean being in a
real relationship
,’ he says, emphasising the words and rolling his eyes in mock horror. ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. To be honest, I think it scares me.’ He smiles sheepishly.

‘What? More than having plates thrown at you?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘I can always try to duck the plates. Emmanuelle’s a pretty crap aim.’

He smiles and looks at me in a way that makes me feel I should say something, but his honesty about his relationship has thrown me. I wasn’t expecting it.

A pause opens up, and feeling awkward, I turn back to the rack of postcards and resume choosing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Spike studying me thoughtfully.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he asks after a moment.

I glance up at him warily. ‘Is this for your article?’

‘No, I’m just curious.’ Having difficulty biting off a piece of twirl, he clamps it between his back molars and tugs hard.

‘About what?’

‘About why a girl like you is spending New Year by herself on a book tour.’ He begins gnashing the red liquorice between his teeth.

‘Who’s a girl like me?’

OK, so I’m being defensive, but do you blame me? So far I’ve already had ‘pretty dull’ and ‘average-looking’.

‘No, I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . .’ He gives up and sighs. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re a reporter and you’re writing an article too.’

I eye him warily, then decide to let him off the hook. ‘I manage a bookstore in New York,’ I say, trying to keep the pride out of my voice.

‘Crikey, that’s great,’ says Spike in admiration.

I feel a beat of pleasure, but don’t let him see. ‘And I saw an ad and . . .’ I trail off. Actually, now I come to think of it, I don’t really want to admit how this trip came about. How I’d sworn off men after my last disastrous date and booked this tour on an impulsive whim to avoid being coerced on to an 18–30 holiday where I’d no doubt have to meet lots of men
and
enter a wet T-shirt competition. ‘I thought it sounded interesting,’ I say simply.

He gives me the same look that Stella gave me.

‘Blame my parents. They’re total bookworms. Hence my name: Emily Brontë Hemingway Albright.’

‘Blimey,’ he says aghast.

‘I know. It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s not as bad as mine.’

I look at him curiously.

‘Napoleon Caesar Nelson Hargreaves,’ he rattles off, his face serious. ‘My father was in the navy. He’s obsessed by military leaders.’ He rips off another chunk of liquorice.

‘Naturally.’ I nod, trying to stop my mouth from twisting into a smile. ‘He’d have to be, with a name like that.’

‘Uh-huh,’ chews Spike.

‘So tell me. How did you get the nickname Spike?’ I ask, busting him.

‘Actually, it’s funny you should ask that,’ he replies unfazed.