Me and Mr Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  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.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ I stifle a giggle.

  ‘It’s, um . . . the name of a battle,’ he replies, keeping a completely straight face. ‘The Battle of Spike.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the famous Battle of Spike.’ I nod, playing along.

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘Oh, yeah, it’s very well known in America.’ I nod gravely. There’s a pause and then, ‘Tell me, what were they fighting over again?’

  ‘Um . . .’ He scrunches up one eye as if thinking hard. ‘I think it was postcards.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course, I’d forgotten.’ I tut. ‘Postcards.’

  Our eyes meet briefly and despite our straight faces amusement flashes between us.

  ‘Talking of which. You’re right.’

  ‘I am?’ He looks surprised.

  ‘Yep, that is a good one.’ And plucking the postcard out of his fingers, I turn and head towards the cash register. Battle of Spike, indeed. With my back to him I break into a smile. That’s the annoying thing about Spike. He can be kind of cute when he wants to be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dear Mr McKenzie,

  Well, here I am in Bath, England, home to one of our bestselling authors! Having a great time. Wish you were . . .

  Shit. I can’t put ‘wish you were here’ to my boss, can I? I don’t wish he was here. Even if he is a sweet little old man with natty taste in bowties and not really like a boss at all. I cross it out and replace it with:

  You would love it here. Hope things are all OK in the store.

  As I think about the store I feel a seed of worry. That shop’s like my baby. Before I left I wrote masses of Post-It Notes and stuck them everywhere, together with a list of my contact numbers in case of an emergency, but even so . . .

  Emily, quit panicking. It’s a bookstore. What kind of emergency is there going to be, for Godsakes? You run out of copies of He’s Just Not That Into You?

  Actually, that did happen once, and I had to deal with a store full of irate females, but since then I’ve always made sure I’ve got tons in stock. Anyway, I’m sure everything will be fine.

  Chewing the end of my biro, I look back at the postcard. There’s still quite a bit of blank space left. I agonise. God, I never know what to put on these things. I always want to sound witty and interesting, and I always end up writing something really obvious. Like ‘Here I am in Bath, England’ when it’s pretty obvious I’m here in Bath, England, as that’s what it says on the front of the postcard. Oh, I give up.

  BACK VERY SOON. [I write it in big letters and underline that bit twice.]

  Love, Emily x

  ‘There you go, dearie.’

  It’s lunchtime and I’m sitting upstairs in a cosy, traditional-looking café, tucked away in a f
lock-wallpapered corner. I look up at the waitress, who is holding out a plate piled high with thick, chunky-cut chips, a golden hunk of battered cod and something described fascinatingly on the menu as ‘mushy peas’.

  ‘Fish and chips?’

  My stomach gives a loud gurgle of approval. ‘Mmm, yes, please.’

  I hastily clear away my postcards to make room for her, and she puts the plate down in front of me, together with a big plastic ketchup tomato and a bottle of something called Sarson’s Vinegar, and bustles off, her opaque tights rustling against her nylon underskirt.

  I inhale deeply. Just the smell makes my mouth water and I suddenly realise how hungry I am.

  Yum, England’s famous fish and chips. Unrolling my knife and fork from the pink paper napkin, I eye my plate hungrily. Well, it would be rude not to try the national dish, wouldn’t it?

  I squirt a dollop of ketchup on to my plate. That’s the amazing thing about going on vacation: it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card when it comes to calories. Like money in airports. It’s not real money, just like they’re not real calories.

  Offering up a silent thank-you that I’m not Stella right now and don’t have to be squeezing into a string bikini, I forgo my fork and pick up a chip with my fingers. Well, that’s the only way to eat chips, isn’t it? It’s hot and burns my mouth, but I persevere. They’re real chips, big and chunky, not like the skinny fries we get at home.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that.’

  I turn sideways and suddenly notice Ernie sitting across from me at the next table. He’s wearing a tartan shirt, rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearm, and is reading a newspaper.

  ‘Mmmm . . . ummm.’ I can only manage to half grunt, as my mouth is full of red-hot potato.

  Ernie laughs. ‘I’ll take that as “yes”, then.’

  I finish chewing and swallow. ‘Sorry, they were just too delicious to wait.’

  ‘I bet.’ He nods. ‘’Fraid the doctor won’t let me within a mile of fish and chips,’ he grumbles and pats his tartan paunch with a certain pride. ‘I’m having the baked potato. Tuna and sweet-corn. No butter.’

  I throw him a look of sympathy.

  ‘Blimey, those chips do smell bloody good.’

  ‘Want one?’

  He hesitates for a moment. ‘Go on, then,’ he whispers. ‘One isn’t going to kill me, now, is it?’

  At that moment his baked potato and tuna makes an entrance. Even with the jaunty attempt at a salad garnish, it still looks really boring. I watch Ernie peer at it, see his ruddy face collapse and a weary resignation appear in his eyes.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you join me?’ I suggest brightly. ‘You can steal a few chips. There’s far too many for me anyway, and that way it doesn’t count.’

  ‘How do you reckon that?’ he asks, raising a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, it’s an old female trick,’ I confide, scooting over to make room for him and grabbing some cutlery off his table. ‘You have the salad but you get your boyfriend to order the fries. Then you spend the whole meal stealing them off his plate until they’re all gone. But that’s OK, you don’t have to feel guilty. You only ordered the salad.’

  Ernie smiles. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, it’s great. It works with other things too. Dessert at restaurants . . . popcorn at the movies . . . hot dogs at the game . . .’ Pushing away his baked potato, I move my fish and chips into the middle of the table so we can share. ‘It’s pretty incredible.’

  Ernie laughs. ‘So is that what you do with your boyfriend back in America, then?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m single.’

  I try a scoop of mushy peas. They taste like Mexican refried beans. Only they’re green.

  To be honest, I don’t really like them.

  Ernie, however, appears to love them. ‘Get away!’

  I laugh. ‘I know. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’ I say ironically.

  Shovelling a spoonful of peas into his mouth, he smacks his lips. ‘I bet you’re fighting them off.’

  I get a flashback to me a few weeks ago, standing on the sidewalk in New York while John, the architect, tried to shove his tongue down my throat. ‘Kind of.’ I take a bite offish and offer a piece to Ernie. It’s delicious. We fall silent for a few moments as we eat.

  ‘No one you’ve got your eye on?’

  My stomach flutters as I think of the handsome stranger at Winchester Cathedral. My Mr Darcy.

  ‘Actually, yeah,’ I say, trying not to blush and blushing anyway.

  ‘What? Back home?’

  ‘No, I met him here, on the tour.’

  Ernie’s face suddenly pales and his smile fades.

  ‘Yeah, well, you be careful,’ he warns.

  ‘Of what?’ I laugh, and then suddenly realise he’s being deadly serious. ‘Ernie?’

  He looks away, and won’t catch my eye. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Tell me, what?’ I persist.

  He hesitates for a moment, then sighs. ‘It’s not what, it’s who.’

  I look at him, puzzled.

  ‘Look, I shouldn’t really be saying anything, but I’d hate you to get hurt.’

  I relax. Oh, it’s that old chestnut again about broken hearts and being older and learning from experience.

  ‘Physically hurt, I mean . . .’

  I drop my fork from my mouth. Did he just say physically hurt? Fuck. Don’t say there’s a murderer in our midst or something. My thoughts suddenly leap to Mr Darcy. No, surely not.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ I say in a low voice, leaning towards him over the table.

  ‘Why, Spike Hargreaves of course,’ says Ernie, frowning.

  I don’t know whether to feel relieved or horrified.

  ‘Spike Hargreaves?’ I repeat in disbelief. For a split second I almost take it seriously, then I burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I know he can be a bit of an asshole, but—’

  ‘He punched me once.’

  ‘He punched you!’ I gasp.

  ‘Broke my nose.’

  ‘He broke your nose!’

  Not only am I in total shock at what I’m hearing, but the power of speech seems to have deserted me and all I can do is repeat after Ernie in a strangulated, high-pitched squeak.

  ‘It was five years ago now, but I still have trouble breathing . . .’

  Oh. My. God. I’m staring at Ernie across the table as he proceeds to put a thumb against each nostril to demonstrate how his septum has been irreversibly damaged, despite two operations, but his voice has become a sort of blurry noise, as if I’m underwater, and all I can hear is the hammering of my heart against my chest.

  Spike punched Ernie.

  Nice, jovial, pensionable Ernie who eats bacon sandwiches despite doctor’s orders, drives about twenty miles an hour and showed me pictures of his grandchildren. My mind is whirling.

  ‘But why?’ I finally manage to stammer.

  In the middle of giving a graphic description of his rhino-plasty, Ernie looks at me, astonished.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘I courted his mother.’

  Surprises are being fired at me thick and fast. I’m reeling over my cod and chips.

  ‘His mother?’ I repeat.

  Shit. I’m back to that again.

  ‘I used to work as one of the drivers at the Daily Times, that’s how I met Iris. She came a few times to visit her son, and we got chatting and, well . . .’ His voice trails off. ‘We were very much in love.’ He sees me looking at him in astonishment and obviously misinterpreting my dropped jaw and wide eyes, adds, ‘People my age can still fall in love, you know.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I say hurriedly.

  ‘Just because you get to my age, doesn’t stop you being a romantic,’ he says sadly.

  ‘I know, I’m a romantic too,’ I gasp in solidar
ity. ‘My friend Stella even calls me a hopeless romantic’

  Ernie smiles weakly. I don’t know what’s happened, but he seems to have suddenly shrunk in his tartan shirt and his eyes look suspiciously moist.

  ‘And then her son decided I wasn’t good enough.’

  Suddenly I get really angry. ‘Jesus. How dare he!’ I cry, slamming down my knife and fork. I’d suspected Spike was a snob, but this? This is so much worse than I’d thought. Suddenly I understand Maeve’s sudden change of heart after talking to him. No wonder she’d seemed strange. God only knows what lies Spike told her about Ernie. ‘I had no idea. What a bastard,’ I hiss, my voice low.

  Ernie chews thoughtfully on his mouthful of baked potato and tuna.

  ‘Told me I had to stay away from her, or else.’

  ‘He threatened you?’ I’m aghast. This is getting worse and worse.

  ‘But I couldn’t. I loved her. That’s when he hit me.’

  ‘What? Without provocation?’

  ‘Well, I guess I did provoke him by being in love with Iris.’

  I can’t believe it. This is terrible. Beating someone up because he’s in love? I’ve got a good mind to punch Spike I’m-a-bully Hargreaves myself. And trust me, I am not a violent person. I can’t even kill the spider that’s been living in my bathroom for the past year and a half, terrorising me every time I get in the shower.

  ‘Provoke him? Of course not!’ I cry. ‘I bet he was jealous of the attention his mom gave you.’

  ‘I suppose it’s just a son being protective of his mother,’ Ernie says kindly.

  Suddenly I like him even more than before.

  ‘There’s being protective and then there’s being a great big bully,’ I admonish. ‘You must be twice his age.’

  ‘Well, not quite—’

  ‘And he’s a pretty big guy . . . to use violence.’

  Ernie is nodding silently.

  ‘It’s disgusting.’

  Spitting expletives, I sit back in my chair, watching Ernie eating his baked potato, trying to get my head round this new information. And to think I’ve been so civil to him. All the ladies on the tour think he’s so nice, but imagine what they’d think if they knew this!