Me and Mr Darcy (23 page)

I think about it for a moment. I hadn’t thought of it like that until now, but—

‘Yeah . . . I guess so.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she says again.

Neither do I, I think, brushing out my hair and staring at my reflection. Memories of last night come wafting back to me: walking arm in arm, skimming stones, rowing on the lake, looking at the stars . . . At the time it was amazing, but I guess it does all seem a bit cheesy now I’m thinking about it.

‘I can’t believe you’ve waited until now to tell me!’

I wouldn’t call being pinned to the earpiece listening to her ranting ‘waiting’, but I’m not going to split hairs.

‘Tell me all about him,’ Stella’s demanding.

Oh, hell, of course. She’s going to want details. I hadn’t thought of that. Suddenly I’m fast regretting telling her.

‘Well, um, it’s a bit complicated—’

‘Don’t tell me. He’s married,’ she cuts in.

‘No, of course not,’ I snap crossly.

‘Oh, silly me, it’s
me
that’s married,’ she laughs self-deprecatingly. ‘So what’s the problem?’

Shit. Where do I start? He’s a fictional character and yet he’s also real. We’ve met a couple of times, but he has this habit of vanishing into thin air and I never know when or
if
he’s going to show up again. Oh, and he’s also incredibly famous and every woman wants to date him. And let’s not forget, whereas I live in New York, he lives in England – but probably about two hundred years ago.

Confused?

So am I.

‘Well, it’s kind of a long-distance relationship,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

‘A
relationship
? Wow, that sounds serious,’ says Stella, impressed. ‘How long have you known this guy?’

‘He was my first love.’

Well, if I’m being honest.

‘Whoah, you’re kidding me!’ she exclaims, then laughs. ‘Wait a minute. Not Arnold Bateman. The guy you used to tell me about who would pull your pigtails?’

‘No, not him!’ I gasp, then hesitate. Shall I tell her? Part of me wants to, but the other part of me is remembering our conversation back in New York. The bit where she insisted Mr Darcy didn’t exist. But maybe if I explain, about the quill, the mysterious blank pages in the book, the newspaper, Mr Darcy himself . . .

Oh, come on, Emily. Listen to yourself. She’s never going to believe you. And do you blame her?
You
still can’t quite believe it and you’ve seen it all with your own eyes.

‘So, who is it?’ Stella is persisting, somewhat suspiciously. ‘What’s his name?’

But if I don’t tell her the truth, what do I say? My mind draws a blank. I don’t want to lie to her, but—

‘Um . . .’ Walking back into the bedroom, I notice the postcard Spike chose for me resting on top of my dresser. I haven’t written that one yet. Absently I pick it up and turn it over. On the back is written ‘Matthew Macfadyen as Fitzwil-liam Darcy.’

‘Fitzwilliam,’ I blurt.

‘No, what’s his
first
name?’ she asks.

‘That
is
his first name.’

‘Wow, what a crazy name,’ she replies. ‘But cool, I like it,’ she adds decisively.

I feel oddly relieved. He’s been given the Stella seal of approval.

‘Well, look, hon, I’m dying to hear more, but I should go to bed. It’s nearly 3 a.m. here and I need to get some beauty sleep. Plus, T-mobile is gonna bankrupt me. Do you know what they charge per minute international?’

‘A lot,’ I say, feeling a wave of relief. Thank God, no more awkward questions.

‘I swear, this is costing me the equivalent of a pair of Prada shoes.’

Perching myself on the edge of my bed, I tug on my socks and boots. ‘OK, go. I’ll call you next time. It’s my turn.’

‘OK. Night. Big kiss.’

‘Actually, it’s morning here.’ I stand up.

‘Whatever.’ She laughs sleepily. But then just as I think I’ve got away with it scot-free she asks, ‘Hang on a minute. How can it be long distance if you were with him last night? I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.’

I allow myself a small smile. ‘Like I said. It’s complicated.’

 

A
nd things only get more complicated as the day goes on.

Fast-forward to later that afternoon and after having spent most of the day on a sightseeing tour, which included a quill-writing workshop (mockery aside, it actually turned out to be pretty good, but inky, fun), I’m walking back to the hotel with Maeve and nibbling on hot, roasted chestnuts that I’ve just bought from a fingerless-gloved teenager on the corner.

It’s grown even colder. The tip of my nose is almost frozen and I can barely feel my toes, despite two layers of woolly socks. The air is so glacial it almost hurts to breathe, and it smells of winter and woodsmoke and pubs. We pass one now, its door flung open as a group of office workers spill on to the sidewalk, intoxicated by laughter and high spirits.

And about half a dozen pints no doubt, I think, watching them stumble round, arms round shoulders, tinsel draped round their necks like silver and gold ties.

‘Don’t you just love this time of year?’ whispers Maeve. ‘New Year’s Eve always feels so magical, don’t you think?’

I feel a jolt as I remember. ‘New Year’s Eve,’ I murmur. ‘Wow, I totally forgot.’

‘You forgot,’ repeats Maeve in disbelief. She looks at me aghast. ‘But it’s the big ball tonight.’

‘God, yeah, of course,’ I gasp, suddenly thinking about it. ‘I lost track of time, what with the time difference and travelling . . .’

And meeting Mr Darcy, I think, my mind flashing back to last night. Just a few hours ago I was walking with him across this very square, which had been deserted but for the two of us. It had been magical. Thinking about it now, my stomach flutters with excitement and I bury my nose in his white silk scarf, which I’ve taken to wearing, and inhale its delicious scent.

‘I understand,’ nods Maeve, not understanding at all. ‘It can be a difficult time when families are apart. Sometimes you just want to forget about it.’ Patting my arm reassuringly, she peers at me intently, her face reminiscent of an owl’s in her huge wide-framed spectacles.

I’m about to tell her she’s mistaken and I’m absolutely fine being apart from my family, when I get the sense that she’s actually talking about herself.

‘Are your family back in Ireland?’ I ask cautiously. I don’t want her to think I’m being nosy. Since the other day when she snapped at me on the bus I’ve been careful to keep our conversations very surface, which is one of the reasons why I decided not to tell her what Ernie told me. Part of me wants to set the record straight, but the other part is afraid to get involved. Shoot the messenger and all that. Plus, he did make me promise to keep it a secret. Still, it’s such a shame. I think Ernie and Maeve would have been great together.

‘Oh, there’s only my brother, Paddy, and he’s spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve at his daughter’s villa in Spain . . .’

She’s smiling brightly as she talks, but her eyes betray a certain sadness. I’ve always presumed Maeve was single, but now it strikes me that perhaps she’s a widow. That would explain the sad look she always has, as if she’s in mourning for someone, I think, glancing at Maeve’s ring finger. I’m sure I didn’t notice her wearing a ring before, but maybe—

‘I never married,’ she says, catching me looking.

‘Oh, I . . . didn’t mean . . .’

Seeing my embarrassment, Maeve quickly reassures me. ‘It’s all right, dearie, people often wonder.’

‘So you never wanted to?’ I ask curiously.

She hesitates for a moment, as if thinking about something, then says matter-of-factly, ‘It just never happened for me, that’s all.’ Stuffing her hands in the pockets of her rather drab woollen coat, she gestures across to a group of children building a snowman in the square. ‘My goodness, will you look at them. Isn’t that wonderful?’

And with that our conversation ends and we pause for a few moments to watch them, all bundled up in stripy scarves and woollen mittens, their faces bursting with innocent excitement as they make eyes out of buttons and a nose from a carrot. And no doubt the topic would have switched to something else entirely and I would have forgotten all about it if I hadn’t happened to glance across at Maeve and see a look in her eyes that belies the smile on her face. It’s that haunted look again. And right there and then I know for sure there’s a lot more than Maeve’s telling me. I just don’t know what it is.

But this time I’m determined to find out.

‘What is it, Maeve?’ I begin uncertainly.

She doesn’t answer and continues staring resolutely ahead, but I can see the muscles in her jaw clench tightly. Regret stabs. Oh, shit. What did I do that for? I shouldn’t have said anything. What’s it got to do with me?

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I’m now saying quickly. ‘It’s none of my business . . .’

‘I had a daughter.’

I’m silenced.

‘When I was eighteen. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I named her Orla,’ she continues, speaking in the past tense. ‘They only let me hold her for a few minutes and then they took her away.’

I feel a rush of sadness. Oh, God. So
that’s
what it is. That’s why she always looks so terribly sad. Maeve had a baby girl and she must have died. How awful.

‘I think about her every day.’

I look at Maeve. Her eyes are watering behind her thick glasses and I want to say something to comfort her, but I don’t know what. The tried-and-tested words seem so trite. There’s a whole canyon of grief that she’s kept bottled up inside. How can I even begin to imagine what she’s been through?

‘I wonder where she is, what she’s doing, if she has her own children now,’ continues Maeve, who’s talking quietly to herself.

I feel a jolt of confusion.

‘She’s grown up?’

Maeve nods. ‘She turned thirty-seven this year.’

‘But I thought, I mean, the way you were speaking—’ I break off.

‘That she died?’ finishes Maeve, and smiles sadly. ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘I gave her up for adoption. I was the one who died that day.’ She looks at my face, and seeing I don’t understand, adds quietly, ‘I died the moment I gave her away.’

Suddenly it all makes perfect sense. That sadness that Maeve always seems to be carrying around with her. Maeve is in mourning. She lost not just a daughter, but herself.

‘
Gave.
It sounds so easy, doesn’t it,’ Maeve is now saying. Swallowing hard, she looks straight at me, her eyes shining brightly. ‘It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It broke my heart.’

I place my hand on her arm and squeeze it supportively. There’s so many questions that I want to ask, but I get the feeling that Maeve has kept this secret hidden for a long, long time, and now she just wants to let it all out. So I just listen as she talks.

‘His name was Seamus. I met him at the fair. He had long, dark hair. Blue eyes. Cheekbones to cut you with. And the most beautiful hands – long, delicate fingers, smooth, pale skin – I’d never seen hands like that before. Men’s hands were always rough and calloused and ingrained with dirt from working on the land.’

Without prompting she starts telling the story, staring off into the middle distance as she talks.

‘But he was a painter. Landscapes were his thing. Big, dark canvases that filled the tiny flat he was renting . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see she’s back there again, with him in his flat, experiencing all those feelings she had for him all over again. ‘I’d never known anyone like him. I’d lived on a farm my whole life, I didn’t know what a hippy was. I didn’t know anything. I was so naïve.’

She shakes her head in disbelief at her younger self.

‘He told me he loved me and I believed him. Everyone warned me against him, but I wouldn’t listen. What did they know? I was young and headstrong and invincible. And I was in love.’

Knowing Maeve now, it’s hard to imagine her being a strong, vibrant, confident person.

‘But then I got pregnant. And suddenly he didn’t love me any more,’ she says simply.

I’m silent for a moment, then I have to ask: ‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘He left town. Ran away. And there was I. Eighteen, unmarried and pregnant. Suddenly I wasn’t so invincible any more.’

She smiles ruefully.

‘The priest told me I’d brought shame on my family. My brother threw me out. I had nowhere to live. No job. I couldn’t support a baby.’

I try putting myself in her shoes, but I can’t. My parents would never disown me over something like that. Times have changed. Being unmarried and pregnant is no big deal. It’s practically the norm these days. How sad to think that something that would barely raise an eyebrow today had such a devastating effect upon her. Poor Maeve. God, she must have been so scared and alone. No wonder her self-esteem has been wrecked.

‘I had no choice,’ she says now, wiping away a lone tear that’s slowly trickling down her cheek. I squeeze her arm tighter in support. ‘Except that’s a lie, isn’t it?’ She sniffs, suddenly angry at herself. ‘I had a choice. I could have said no. I could have run away with her. Found a place to live. A job. I was a coward.’

‘No, you weren’t,’ I cry indignantly. ‘Things were different back then. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you can’t keep punishing yourself. You did the best you could.’

‘But did I? Did I really?’ she demands, and I suddenly get just a glimpse of the guilt she’s been carrying around with her for years. ‘All she had was me. Her father deserted her, and then I did too.’ Her lip trembles and she bites it. ‘I’m so ashamed of what I did. I don’t deserve to be happy ever again. I did a terrible thing, Emily. I deserve to be punished. She probably hates me and I don’t blame her.’