Me and Mr Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Oh, come on, I didn’t mean it like that,’ he retorts. If he thinks he’s going to start talking he’s got another thing coming. It’s my turn now.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ I cry, cutting him dead. ‘And who do you think you are? Criticising me! Insulting me! You’re not so perfect, you know. Far from it.’

  ‘OK, so I thought those things then, but I’m just being honest, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be with each other? Totally honest?’

  ‘Oh, you want us both to be brutally honest, do you?’ I’m shouting now, my voice high and hoarse, but I don’t care. ‘Well, in that case, let me be honest with you about a thing or two . . .’

  As I step towards him I see Spike flinch.

  ‘Let’s imagine, for one ridiculous moment, that I did happen to like you. That I did feel the same way about you. Do you even think –’ I spit out the word ‘think’ as if it’s got a nasty taste ‘– I would ever consider going out with a guy who thinks it’s perfectly OK to go around punching a defenceless old man and threatening him to stay away from his mother or else?’

  It’s as if Spike’s been slapped. The muscle in his jaw starts clenching furiously. He looks demonic, but he’s not saying anything.

  ‘Well, are you going to deny it?’ I yell.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he says coldly, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘You can’t, can you? You can’t deny it!’ I’m demanding.

  Spike’s face turns red with anger. ‘No, if we’re talking about Ernie Devlin, I’m not going to deny it,’ he snaps.

  I look at him, shocked that he’s actually admitting to it. He’s not even trying to make up some excuse.

  ‘I did everything in my power to keep that bastard away from my mother, and if I had to do it all over again, I would.’

  ‘But you hit him!’ I gasp.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ He nods. ‘And trust me, I’ve never hit anyone in my life before.’

  He seems so genuine I falter slightly, but pull back.

  ‘Trust you? After everything that’s happened?’ I snort sarcastically. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Jesus, you’ve really got a great opinion of me, haven’t you?’

  ‘You lied to Maeve. I know you did. You wanted to prevent any kind of relationship between her and Ernie.’

  ‘You’re damn right I wanted to keep him away from Maeve.’

  I can’t believe it! He’s not even making an attempt at arguing.

  ‘God, you’re pathetic,’ I gasp. ‘You couldn’t stand your mom loving Ernie, could you? You were so jealous you broke up their relationship. You beat him up and broke his nose, causing him to be so terrified of you he had to quit his job and disappear. You broke your mom’s heart.’

  Spike looks so angry that I might feel afraid if I wasn’t so angry myself.

  ‘But then to destroy any other relationship that Ernie might enter into is just vindictive. How could you? Maeve’s just the sweetest person and she’s been sad for such a long time. But you wouldn’t have any idea about that, would you? You wouldn’t know that she had to have her baby girl adopted when she was just eighteen, that she’s been wracked with guilt ever since, that on this trip, maybe for the first time in years, Ernie made her smile. Made her laugh. Made her feel worth something again. You wouldn’t care about all that, would you?’ I break off, realising I’ve said too much. I didn’t mean to tell him about Maeve, but I couldn’t help it. I’m just so angry. I pause, my heart thudding. I’m out of breath. ‘And you went and ruined it for her,’ I add quietly.

  ‘That’s what you think of me, is it?’ asks Spike, finally speaking. ‘That I’m a thug and a liar and a vindictive bastard? That I’d ruin something for Maeve because of my own feelings towards— God, I can’t even bear to say his bloody name.’ He breaks off and gasps, shaking his head. ‘You think that this is all about me?’

  ‘You said it,’ I reply bitterly.

  We face each other, me with my arms folded, Spike with his hands shoved firmly into his pockets. Animosity wafts between us like the chill from a freezer cabinet.

  ‘You talk about your first impressions of me, well, let me tell you mine. From the moment I met you you’ve been rude, selfish and arrogant. You’re so self-obsessed you think the whole world is about you.’

  ‘I think you’ve said enough, don’t you?’ he says, his voice trembling.

  ‘I haven’t even started.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to stand here and listen to any more of this crap,’ he says determinedly. ‘You’ve made your feelings pretty clear. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time.’ He pauses, as if to say something else, then adds simply, ‘I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ And with that, he turns, pulls open the door and slams it so hard behind him it nearly comes off its hinges. I flinch.

  ‘And a Happy New Year to you, too. Asshole,’ I yell loudly. And then, to my utter astonishment, I burst into tears.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I wake up the next morning with ‘crying eyes’.

  You know the ones: the horrible swollen peepers that you get when you combine crying + sleeping. Bloodshot slits with big puffy bags that refuse to respond to any of those age-old beauty tips involving tea bags, cold teaspoons and Preparation H, and leave you with no option but to hide them.

  Which explains why I’m going down to breakfast wearing my sunglasses. In January.

  Leaving my hotel room, I let the door fall closed behind me and hobble slowly along the patterned pink carpet. My ankle hurts and I’m still feeling a bit shaky. Last night I must have been suffering from shock. I didn’t realise it at the time, but that’s obviously why I burst into tears. It had nothing to do with anything Spike said – even though it might appear like that – no, it was definitely the shock of the fall.

  Plus, of course, the concussion I got from hitting my head. I rub my forehead. The lump’s still there, but it’s shrunk quite a bit. I’ll probably end up with a nasty bruise as a souvenir from my trip.

  I feel a twinge of self-pity. When I booked this trip I’d had visions of myself wafting around the English countryside in various colour coordinated outfits, my H&M spangly scarf thrown nonchalantly over my shoulder, a copy of Pride and Prejudice in my hand. I was going to be sexy, yet bookish. An American girl abroad, turning her back on the shallowness and disappointments of modern-day life and embracing a world steeped in history and literature. A world filled with quaint country pubs and roaring fires – in front of which I’d be curled with my book, sampling a local custom or two and making jovial banter with the villagers, most of whom would be wearing tweed.

  I wasn’t supposed to be going around getting drunk and stoned, into huge arguments and knocked off horses and nearly killed.

  As if to remind me, my head begins to throb naggingly.

  I’m distracted by the faint burble of my phone, and digging it out of my bag, I look at the display. Stella. I feel a wave of relief. Boy, do I need a friend right now.

  ‘Hey, Happy New Year. Got the message,’ she says cheerily as I answer. ‘I wanted to find out how the ball was.’

  ‘Oh, it was great,’ I reply with forced cheeriness in an attempt to match hers. Reaching the staircase, I pause and sort of hover near the grandfather clock.

  ‘So tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well, it was in this amazing house, and there was a string quartet and dancing and champagne and . . .’ My eyes start watering again. ‘Oh, God, Stella, I had the most awful row,’ I blurt.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Yeah, I did. And it was a really huge one . . .’ My voice goes all wobbly and high-pitched, and I start furiously blinking back tears.

  ‘Aww, Em, what did you go and do that for?’ she reprimands me teasingly, trying to make me laugh. ‘My fling went and flung himself at about twenty other women, so I need to live vicariously through yours.’

  I don’t laugh, and hearing nothing but a faint snifflin
g on the other end of the line, she gets serious. ‘Come on, tell Auntie Stella, what did you and this Fitzwilliam guy argue about?’

  Suddenly I realise she thinks I’m talking about Mr Darcy.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t with him.’

  ‘It wasn’t? Well, who was it with?’ she asks, surprised.

  ‘Spike.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, Em. Who on earth’s Spike?’

  ‘The asshole.’ I sniff.

  ‘Ahhhh, the cute asshole,’ says Stella. And there’s something in the way she says it that makes me feel defensive.

  ‘I never said he was cute,’ I protest.

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ she replies knowingly.

  ‘What are you, some kind of psychic?’ I snap, annoyed.

  ‘Oh, so he is cute.’

  ‘OK, OK, so he’s cute,’ I admit under pressure. ‘Now will you stop going on about it?’ I’m starting to feel very frustrated that this phone conversation is not going the way I wanted. You know, lots of female support, the ‘Yes, he is a dickhead; no, of course none of it’s your fault’ kind of thing.

  Instead, I’m being badgered and insinuated at.

  There’s a triumphant silence on the other end of the line.

  See what I mean?

  ‘So what did you guys argue about?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I sigh wearily.

  ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere,’ offers Stella kindly.

  I hesitate, then before I can stop it, the floodgates open and it all comes pouring out.

  ‘Well, first I discovered he’d told lies about our driver, Ernie, to Maeve, this sweet Irish lady who I think really liked him, and then yesterday Ernie told me himself that Spike had punched him for going out with his mom . . .’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘. . . and then last night at the ball we were dancing and his girlfriend called him, and he just ignored me so I ended up smoking a joint . . .’

  ‘You smoked a joint?’

  ‘. . . and went horseriding . . .’

  ‘In a balldress?’

  ‘. . . but then I must have hit my head and blacked out because the next thing I know I’m waking up naked in bed and Spike’s there . . .’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘. . . and he tells me he’s crazy about me . . .’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘. . . and then we have this huge argument and he storms off.’

  There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘Fucking hell, Em, I’m supposed to be the one on the 18–30 holiday. Jeez, if I’d known a book tour could be that wild I’d have come with you!’

  I smile. ‘I guess it does all sound a bit crazy.’

  ‘Crazy? It sounds fantastic!’ gushes Stella, enviously. ‘Trust me, Mexico is totally dull in comparison. All that’s happened here is a couple of pathetic wet T-shirt competitions and a few all-night margarita parties. I never thought I’d say it, but believe me, I don’t want to see another margarita again. In fact, to tell the truth, I’m really looking forward to going home . . . Talking of which, have you heard from Freddy? He hasn’t returned any of my texts.’

  I think about my conversation with Freddy last night. Him telling me how much being in love sucked. All at once I feel very emotional again.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ asks Stella, suddenly aware of my silence.

  ‘Not really,’ I reply feebly.

  ‘Sorry, there’s me prattling away. So. How do you feel about him?’

  ‘Who? Spike?’

  ‘Well, you’ve barely mentioned the other guy,’ says Stella pointedly.

  I bristle. ‘I still think he’s an asshole. Even more so now,’ I say defiantly. ‘In fact, now I also think he’s a liar and a bully.’

  ‘So what are you gonna do?’

  ‘I don’t know. What did you do about Scott?’ I ask, remembering our last conversation.

  ‘You mean after I threw a pitcher over him?’ laughs Stella. ‘Simple. I ignored him. If you do that he’ll soon get the message.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do,’ I decide firmly, pulling myself together. It’s the lack of sleep that’s making me emotional. Nothing more.

  ‘What? You’re going to take my advice?’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘Wow, that’s a first. What’s come over you?’

  Leaning back against the wall, I think about this last week, about everything that’s happened. I’m still struggling to get my head round it all. ‘I’m not sure exactly,’ I say finally. ‘I’m really not sure. ‘

  We say our goodbyes, and of course as soon as we hang up I remember the dress. Damn, I meant to mention it again. Though I wonder why she didn’t. I guess it must have slipped her mind, I decide, descending the staircase; after all, Stella’s not exactly renowned for having the best memory.

  Entering the dining room, I try to appear as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to be wearing ten-dollar fake Gucci sunglasses at 9 a.m., on New Year’s Day. Hopefully no one will pay any attention and I can just slip in and out.

  ‘So you’re alive!’

  On second thoughts, perhaps not.

  I glance over to see Rose, Maeve, Hilary and Rupinda. Sitting round a table, they’ve all stopped what they’re doing to stare at me. Now I know how it must feel to be famous.

  And not in a good way.

  ‘Well, good morning, Emily,’ Rose is barking. ‘And a Happy New Year.’

  Her voice slices right through me and I smile weakly.

  ‘Got a little bit of a hangover, have we?’ she chortles loudly, waving a thickly buttered English muffin at me.

  ‘A little bit.’ I nod, sitting down at the empty chair they’ve pulled up for me. Smiling gratefully, I reach for the coffeepot. My hand trembles. This morning I think I’m allowed to dispense with the English traditions and forgo the Earl Grey.

  ‘We were all very worried about you,’ whispers Maeve, leaning close and placing her hand reassuringly upon mine.

  ‘What happened exactly?’ demands Hilary, reaching for a slice of toast.

  Oh, God, questions, questions. I feel a flurry of panic. This is what I was dreading.

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’ I reply, feeling my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘I hit my head.’

  ‘You were gabbling all kinds of nonsense,’ chimes in Rose.

  ‘I was?’ I feel a beat of alarm. Hurriedly I take a sip of coffee. I need the caffeine urgently.

  ‘Romantic horserides, moonlit castles, poetry . . .’

  ‘Mr Darcy,’ adds Hilary, raising an eyebrow.

  I freeze, my mouth filled with coffee. It’s lukewarm and slightly bitter. Hilary looks at me suspiciously. Or maybe that’s just me being paranoid. I try thinking of an excuse.

  ‘Well . . . er . . . you see . . .’ I start my sentence not having a clue where it’s going.

  Fortunately, I’m rescued by Rupinda. ‘No need to explain, we all have our fantasies about Mr Darcy.’ She winks, taking a sip of her usual hot water and lemon. ‘Though I must say, yours are a lot more inventive than mine.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always had an overactive imagination,’ I joke. ‘Ever since I was a little girl.’ I smile gratefully at Rupinda, relieved to have escaped what was no doubt going to be a very awkward conversation.

  ‘Thank goodness Spike found you, hey?’ says Hilary.

  Only to find myself slap bang in the middle of another.

  ‘Um . . . yeah . . .’ I murmur vaguely. I really don’t want to talk about Spike.

  The ladies, however, obviously have other ideas.

  ‘Ah, yes, the wonderful Mr Hargreaves,’ smiles Rupinda dreamily.

  ‘Well, I have to say, I think it’s very romantic,’ comments Hilary, who has changed her mind about the toast and is now chewing a mouthful of All Bran.

  ‘Romantic?’ I repeat dismissively, before I can help it. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘But he came to your rescue,’ whispers Maeve, her eyes s
hining behind her glasses. ‘He saved you.’

  The ladies have been hell-bent on setting up us ‘two young ones’ since the beginning of this tour, and now they’re obviously using this turn of events to back up their theory. God, if only they knew what really happened in the early hours of this morning. It was anything but romantic.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that—’ I begin, but I’m cut off by Miss Steane, who suddenly swoops upon the table with a clipboard.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Albright. You were very fortunate to be found by Mr Hargreaves. If it wasn’t for him, you could have caught your death of cold out there—’

  ‘We wanted to take you to the hospital, but with it being New Year’s Eve accident and emergency would have been packed—’

  ‘But luckily Spike had done a first-aid course so he checked you over—’

  ‘And he even offered to stay with you in your room, just to make sure—’

  ‘Concussion can be a funny thing, you know.’

  As all the women speak at once, chiming in over one another, my feelings towards Spike wobble. Gosh, I had no idea he did all that. I never even said thank you. In fact, I said all those mean, horrible things instead – rude, selfish, self-obsessed, arrogant, liar – I wince as I remember a few. God, I really went for it, didn’t I? That’s not like me at all, I sound like such a nasty bitch.

  Probably because you were such a nasty bitch, Emily.

  Guilt punches me in the stomach with a mean left hook and winds me, but I’m not going to take it lying down. Yes, but what about Ernie? I hear myself cry in justification. What about the abominable way he behaved towards him? Spike deserves everything he gets. Why should you have been nice to him? He wasn’t nice to Ernie, was he? I think indignantly.

  ‘Speaking of which, where is our wonderful Mr Hargreaves?’ booms Rose. ‘I haven’t seem him at breakfast this morning.’

  My stomach lurches with dread. Oh, Jeez. Justified or not, I can’t face him now. I just can’t. Bracing myself for him to walk in at any moment, I bury my face in my coffee cup. Talk about awkward.