Me and Mr Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  Completely thrown, I open my mouth to say something, although I’m not quite sure what. I mean, is this guy simply crazy? Admittedly, he seems perfectly normal, apart from his clothes, and he is really attractive . . . God, that would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? I finally meet someone I’ve got real chemistry with and he turns out to be a total fruit-loop.

  ‘But there is one thing I don’t understand . . .’

  I snap back to see my dark, handsome stranger flicking through the book, his smile having vanished. ‘Why are the rest of the pages empty?’

  ‘Empty?’ I repeat.

  Oh, God, I was right. He is crazy.

  ‘Look.’

  With my heart sinking, I watch him hold out the book and fan through the second half.

  Typical, just typi—

  Hang on a minute.

  I feel a jolt of astonishment. Instead of the pages being full of printed text, they’re all entirely blank.

  But how could that be? It’s impossible.

  All at once I wobble and a tiny flicker of doubt catches alight inside me. Something very weird is going on here. I was just reading that book on the tourbus. That book was normal before, and yet now—

  ‘How did you do that?’ I gasp, snatching it from him.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he says simply.

  I’m thumbing through the book now, as if somehow expecting the rest of the story to reappear, but the pages remain resolutely blank. There’s probably a hundred or so of them. White, empty pieces of paper. I stare at them in disbelief, trying to think of a rational explanation. But there isn’t one. How can words from a page simply disappear? Vanish into thin air?

  ‘Is it some kind of trick?’ I gasp in confusion. I’ve seen my dad make playing cards disappear up his sleeve, but actual text . . . ‘Are you a magician or performance artist – you know, like David Blaine?’

  He looks troubled. ‘I’m afraid I am not aware of this Mr Blaine, but I assure you I am Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Why will you not believe me?’

  ‘But then how . . . ?’ I trail off. ‘It just doesn’t make sense,’ I mutter, shaking my head.

  ‘Miss Albright?’

  I’m suddenly aware of a shadow falling over me and I twirl round on the bench to see Miss Steane standing right beside us.

  ‘Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?’

  How long has she been there? I’ve clearly been so transfixed by Mr Darcy that I didn’t hear her coming. I turn back to Mr Darcy, ready to explain—

  Except the bench is now empty . . .

  ‘I was saying we’re due to leave any minute. If you don’t hurry inside immediately you will miss out on the opportunity to visit one of our most important literary sites.’

  Where’s he gone? I feel a crushing disappointment. With my heart thumping I run my hand over the space next to me on the bench. It’s still warm from where he was sitting. I couldn’t have imagined him. And yet – I put my hands to my throat – his scarf isn’t there any more.

  ‘Miss Albright?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah, coming,’ I say, feeling all disorientated.

  ‘Well, come along now. Chop chop,’ she cheers, vigorously clapping her tiny leather-gloved hands together. ‘Even though I say it myself, I think you’ll find the stained glass fascinating.’ There’s a pause, and then she peers at me suspiciously. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah . . . I was feeling a bit light-headed, but I’m fine now,’ I reply, trying to sound casual when I’m anything but. I press my throbbing temples. We didn’t even get the chance to maybe arrange to see each other again. I stand up shakily. That’s if he was even real in the first place.

  ‘Forgive me if I’m intruding, but I understand you were at the local drinking establishment last night.’

  Gosh, what is it with everyone? I’m like the talk of the whole tour.

  ‘Um . . . yes, I went with Maeve. The two single girlies,’ I say jokingly.

  If I’m expecting her to disapprove, I’m wrong. ‘Excellent. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love,’ she says wisely, then adds confidingly, ‘I would, however, advise staying away from the cider.’

  Oh, my God, who told her?

  ‘Alrighty. Ready?’ she barks, advice over.

  ‘Um . . . yes . . . absolutely.’

  Taking a deep lungful of fresh air, I stick my hands in my pockets, but as I turn to follow Miss Steane she cries, ‘Oh, look,’ and points at something half hidden in the grass underneath the bench.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, feeling a thump of excitement.

  ‘He must have dropped his scarf,’ she remarks, before continuing her brisk pace towards the cathedral.

  As she walks away, her footsteps crunching rhythmically on the gravel, I bend down to pick it up. So I didn’t imagine it. I feel butterflies inside as I press it against my nose. It smells just like him. That same distinctive mix of cologne and shaving cream.

  I quickly tuck the scarf in my coat pocket and hurry after my tour guide. Which is when something suddenly registers. Hang on a minute.

  ‘Miss Steane?’

  About to walk through the doorway, she turns. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You just said he must have dropped his scarf.’

  She looks at me, her face impassive, completely unreadable. For a second there I could have sworn I caught a flash of uncertainty, a flicker of something, but now it’s gone again and she’s ushering me inside.

  ‘Did I? Oh, silly me, a slip of the tongue,’ she says breezily. ‘I meant you.’ And without further ado, she thrusts a pamphlet into my hand and launches into her guidebook speech. ‘Now, if you look straight head you’ll see the impressive Gothic nave built in 1858 . . .’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I am going crazy.

  Actually, scrub that.

  I am crazy. Totally, utterly, back-in-college-doing-tequila-shots-on-acid crazy.

  Back in my hotel room later that night, I’m lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the afternoon’s events. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and I’ve been trying to fall asleep for the last hour, but it’s not happening. My mind is whirling round and round, sloshing all these insane thoughts together in a jumble, like dirty laundry in the washing machine. What was that back there? An out-of-body experience? My overactive imagination? A fictional character come to life?

  Gasping loudly, I grab my pillow and turn it over, trying to find a cool spot. Honestly, Emily, this is ridiculous. Agitated, I begin tossing and turning, causing the wooden bed frame to start squeaking violently. In the next room Rose bangs on the wall.

  ‘Do you mind!’ she complains loudly. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’

  Great. Now I’m being accused of having sex. I wouldn’t mind if I was having sex, but I’m so not. I’m lying here, wearing fleecy pyjamas with cherries all over them and a plastic mouthguard to stop me from grinding my teeth, and thinking about meeting Mr Darcy this afternoon . . .

  Did I just say meeting Mr Darcy?

  Right, that’s enough. I’ve got to get up.

  Grabbing my copy of Pride and Prejudice, I tug on my jeans and an old sweatshirt, and go downstairs. The hotel is quiet. Everyone else seems to be already in bed and fast asleep, I muse, padding into the deserted drawing room.

  Lit by various lamps with the kind of tasselled lampshades your granny would have, and decorated with dozens more hunting scenes, the room has a surprisingly cosy feel to it. It’s the antithesis to all those hip hotels you get in New York, with their minimalist modern furniture, bare steel and concrete designs. Here, it’s chintz, chintz and more chintz, I muse, looking at the couple of lumpy-looking sofas over by the mullioned windows and an old button-back leather chair.

  I, however, rather like it.

  I walk over to the stone fireplace, where there’s a real fire. It’s died down, but there’s still a few logs glowing in the grate. Next to it I spy a stash of newspapers. Guilt stabs. God, I feel like s
uch a philistine. This is my second day and I haven’t looked at an English newspaper yet.

  Apart from the one today, but that was nearly two hundred years old, interrupts a voice in my head.

  It gives me a little jolt, but I ignore it and, grabbing the Daily Times, cosy up on the leather armchair. Whoo-hoo, look at me, I feel like the lady of the manor, I think with amusement. Smiling to myself, I flick open the newspaper and begin scanning the pages for something interesting to read.

  ‘Lover of disgraced MP recalls affair’, ‘Nurses threaten strikes’, ‘£3-million fraud case revealed’ . . .

  Hmmm, it seems the news isn’t any different whichever side of the Atlantic you live on, just a mixture of gloom and gossip. Idly I begin scanning the various articles. Nothing sparks my interest. I flick over the lifestyle pages. I think I’ll carry on with my book as I’m just at the part where—

  Spike Hargreaves.

  The name jumps out at me from the newspaper. I blink again and look at it. There, in small print, underneath an article about an Irish actor I’ve never heard of, are the words ‘Interview by staff writer, Spike Hargreaves’. Wow, so he really is a proper journalist. The Daily Times, huh? So it’s true. A begrudging sense of respect creeps over me. I hate to admit it, but I’m rather impressed. This isn’t some local rag, it’s a national newspaper.

  Saying that, let’s not get too excited. After all, it’s not the New York Times, is it? It’s not that amazing. I chew my lip and eye the article. Part of me desperately wants to ignore it, to refuse to read it on principle. And yet . . .

  C’mon, how can I resist?

  Curiously, I begin reading, even though I have no clue who this actor is. Not that it matters. I just want to confirm that it’s badly written. As soon as I’ve established that I’ll stop. Which I’m sure will be only a matter of lines . . .

  Hmmm. Actually, the introduction isn’t bad. But no matter, I’m sure it’s going to get worse.

  Only it doesn’t. It just gets better. By the third paragraph I’m seriously impressed. Spike certainly has a distinctive voice. He’s neither effusive about his subject nor over-descriptive in his style; instead, it’s just good writing. Insightful, respectful and rather charming.

  Damn. How disappointing. I really wanted to rip him to shreds.

  Even worse, he’s really very funny in parts, I realise, giggling to myself at a comment he makes about men looking better than women in high heels. Who would have thought it? Alert the media. Spike Hargreaves has a good sense of humour.

  ‘Something funny?’

  I look up to see the writer himself appear from behind my chair, nursing what looks like a large brandy.

  ‘Umm, no. Not really,’ I reply stiffly, furious with myself for being caught actually laughing at something he’s written.

  ‘Is that the Daily Times?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it?’ I fib, pretending I hadn’t noticed. With a loud crunching of pages, I hurriedly shut the newspaper and stuff it down the side of the leather seat cushion in an attempt to get rid of the evidence.

  Spike’s eyes glance from me to the newspaper. Then, without saying anything, he walks over to the fireplace, leans against the mantelpiece and, cradling the bowl of the glass, studies his brandy with careful consideration.

  God, is he just going to stand there? Annoyed at the intrusion, I’m half tempted to get up and leave. But my pride stops me. I was here first, so why should I? And anyway, like I said, I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m not going to let him get to me any more. I’m just going to carry on as if he’s not even here. Tra-la-la . . .

  Nonchalantly I pick up Pride and Prejudice. Right, where am I? I scan the paragraphs. Oh, yes, here, where Darcy is beginning to pay attention to Elizabeth:

  Occupied in observing Mr Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise.

  Hmm, like some others I could mention. I’m still piqued by Spike’s comments about me on the coach yesterday.

  But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.

  Spike clears his throat as if to say something, but I don’t look up. If he thinks he’s going to engage me in conversation with him, he can think again.

  Resolutely, I keep reading.

  Of this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.

  ‘You and I have got off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’

  For a stubborn moment I think about pretending I haven’t heard him, then I remember my new leaf. My mature, composed and infinitely cool new leaf.

  Casually marking my page by turning over the corner, I close my book and look up.

  Resting his chin on the rim of his glass, Spike’s fixed me with his pale blue eyes. I fidget under the spotlight of his attention.

  ‘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.

  Remember: new leaf, Emily. New leaf.

  ‘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 . . .’