Me and Mr Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘He’s gone back to London,’ says Miss Steane matter-of-factly.

  What? My head flicks up. ‘Gone back?’ I gasp in astonishment, and then, even more astonishing, feel a stab of disappointment.

  ‘Yes, he had to leave early. Urgent business to attend to.’

  There’s murmuring at the table – they are evidently as surprised as I am.

  ‘But what about the article?’ Hilary is asking, folding her arms in readiness to cross-examine Miss Steane. It’s not hard to imagine her as a partner in a top legal firm and a local magistrate.

  ‘It’s as good as finished. He’s done all his interviews,’ she replies simply.

  ‘But he never interviewed me,’ I suddenly hear myself protest.

  My outburst catches me by surprise, and I see Miss Steane glance over at me.

  ‘Perhaps you gave him the impression that you didn’t want to be interviewed,’ she opines.

  ‘Yeah, perhaps.’ I nod, although I know there’s no perhaps about it.

  ‘In my experience, Emily, when anything concerns a man, you have to make things very clear. Women love figuring a man out, and we’re very good at it. But men have no interest in figuring us out, isn’t that right, ladies?’ Miss Steane looks around the table for approval and is met with chuckles of concurrence. ‘And this is never more true than when it applies to affairs of the heart. As Charlotte Lucas said in Pride and Prejudice, “It is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels.”’

  As Miss Steane finishes speaking I catch her looking right at me and I get the same feeling I had last night at the ball. As our tour guide I know she’s simply quoting Jane Austen, but you’d almost think the words of advice are her own, as if she knows a lot more than she’s letting on.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ booms Rose. ‘Nice chap. I would have liked to say goodbye.’

  There are nods of agreement, and as everyone begins murmuring their regret at not having wished him a Happy New Year, invited him to drop in anytime he was passing, or attempted to fix him up with their ‘single but adorable’ niece, I make my excuses and leave the table.

  So that’s it, then. Spike’s gone back to London. And I catch a late flight to New York the day after tomorrow. Which means we’ll never have to see each other again. No more arguments. No more anything. It’s over. The end. Boy, what a relief.

  But even as I’m telling myself that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m trying to convince myself. That somewhere, deep inside of me, is a nagging doubt that I might have made a really big mistake. And that this isn’t relief I’m feeling, it’s regret.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Being New Year’s Day, we’re given a break from our busy itinerary. Instead, a whole day of screen adaptations of Jane Austen books are going to be shown in the drawing room, followed by a series of discussions. First up on the list, and scheduled for right after breakfast, is the movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. I decide to pass. It’s a great movie, and Matthew Macfadyen is a babe, but I’ve seen it on DVD twice already. And anyway, I don’t feel in the mood for watching a movie.

  To be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on anything for thinking about last night. But not the parts I want to think about. Like, for example, my moonlight ride with Darcy, how he recited poetry to me, that delicious moment when everything sort of stopped and he was about to kiss me, Spike calling me a bitch—

  See! It’s done it again. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. As soon as I try to think about my evening with Mr Darcy my mind veers off course and snaps back to what happened with Spike.

  Stop it, a loud voice barks inside my head. I don’t care, OK? I don’t care about Spike, or what he had to say. Like I said, it’s over. I’m never going to see him again, so what does it matter?

  Walking into the lobby, I’m about to just go back to my room and catch up on some more sleep, when I spy a computer tucked away in the corner. Actually, maybe I should check my emails while I’m here. Not that I’ll have many, what with it being over the holidays and everyone being away. Plus, all my friends and family have my cell-phone number, so if there was anything important they’d call or text. But you never know. And anyhow, it will only take a few minutes.

  Clicking on to Internet Explorer, I access my web server and type in my address and password. I watch the little egg-timer as the page waits to download. The hotel is big on its miniature soaps and showercaps, but modern technologies such as highspeed Internet or wireless are still light years away and instead it’s good old-fashioned dial-up.

  Finally it connects, and I move the mouse on to my inbox. It opens up, showing me I’ve received twenty-four junk emails offering me Viagra and thirty per cent off books at some book club. That’s my mom for you. I told her the last thing I needed was to buy books online, but she signed me up anyway, and now I get all these emails cluttering up my inbox.

  Highlighting them all, I delete them and continue down. The first one I see is from Freddy – he emails me occasionally, usually around Stella’s birthday, though sometimes it’s just to see how I am. He’s sweet like that. I open it. Sure enough, he’s saying it was nice to talk to me yesterday, apologising for not enquiring after my trip and hoping I’m having a lovely time, and then there’s something else:

  As Stella’s best friend, I want your advice on something. I know you’ve always been aware of my true feelings for her – and yesterday you made me face up to those feelings. I love Stella, I always have, but I guess I’ve just been burying my head in the sand as I know she’s not in love with me. But while she’s been away I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. (Don’t panic, I’d already made this decision before our conversation, so don’t feel responsible!)

  Anyway, I decided that, you know what, perhaps she’s right. We can only ever be friends. So with that in mind I’ve been on a couple of dates this past week. Nothing serious, but I’m not sure how to tell Stella, which is why I haven’t returned her calls. I don’t think she’s gonna be upset – knowing Stella, she’ll probably be really pleased for me – but it still feels a bit weird. That was partly the reason I called you yesterday, I wanted your take on it, but we didn’t have time to talk properly. Anyway, I thought I’d send you an email instead. She texted me just this morning asking me if I was OK, so I feel I have to say something. Any suggestions how to break the news?

  Wow. So Freddy’s finally got fed up with waiting for Stella. I knew it was going to happen eventually, but I can’t help feeling disappointed. I really wanted those guys to get it together. Saying that, I’ve got a feeling that Freddy’s got it wrong about Stella being pleased for him. Despite all her protestations to the contrary, I’ve got a sneaky feeling that when she discovers he’s dating again, Stella might just realise her feelings are not as platonic as she thought.

  A thought strikes. Immediately I dismiss it. No, I can’t. That would be wrong. Freddy told me in confidence. Then again . . . maybe he was secretly hoping I would . . .

  Would what, Emily? Hit ‘forward’ and type in Stella’s email address?

  As I press ‘send’ and I watch the email disappear from my screen into cyberspace, I feel a touch guilty. Who do I think I am? A modern-day Cupid? Firing emails instead of arrows?

  But I get over that pretty quickly. Maybe this will finally make Stella see sense. Maybe it won’t. Maybe they’re both going to kill me. But I think it’s still worth a shot. Just because I’ve made a total mess of my love life, it doesn’t mean everyone should.

  I turn back to my inbox. OK. Now, what else?

  Hmm, there’s a Hallmark card from a friend in Chicago, a couple from my bank . . . Oh, there’s one from Mr McKenzie. Automatically I feel a stab of worry. I hope there’s no problem with the figures for the stock orders, I think, clicking on it anxiously. Oh, hang on, maybe we’ve had some complaints from customers about those copies
of Pride and Prejudice we just got in, the ones with all those blank pages. I meant to email Mr McKenzie about that, but it slipped my mind. Kicking myself, I start reading:

  Dearest Emily,

  This is Audrey McKenzie here, and I’m writing on behalf of my husband, William.

  Only this email isn’t about incorrect stock orders or complaints about misprints. I only wish it was.

  Two days ago he suffered a slight stroke and had to be admitted to hospital. It was all a bit of a worry, but fortunately we were very lucky. William is a tough old boot and he’s going to be absolutely fine. I’m not sure I will be, though! He’s currently recuperating at home and is already complaining he’s bored and badgering the doctors to let him go back to work!

  However, in the meantime I’ve got him under lock and key. We’ve currently closed the store until your return, at which point we’ll need to arrange a meeting to discuss the store’s future, and obviously your position.

  But I would like to use this opportunity to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all the hard work and dedication you’ve shown for McKenzie’s over these past five years. And to apologize for bringing you such news over the holiday season, but William and I felt it was better that you were kept informed about everything, at all times.

  Safe trip back and let’s speak on your return.

  Best wishes,

  Audrey and William McKenzie

  Of course my initial reaction is to thank God he’s OK. Mr McKenzie is more than just a boss to me. If anything happened to him I’d be so upset.

  But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my thoughts then immediately turn to myself. This doesn’t bode well for the store. Ever since Mr McKenzie stopped working in the store, his wife has been pushing him to officially retire and sell the business, but he’s always managed to persuade her to keep it on. But now? I feel a pang of dread. Who knows what will happen.

  I send a cheerful reply, wishing him a full recovery and telling them both not to worry, that I will be back soon and can’t wait to take over things again. I try to make myself sound as positive and capable as ever, but the worry is there. I know I can always get another job in a bookstore, but to work anywhere else would be like going from driving around in an Aston Martin to getting on the bus. And what about Stella? What would happen to her?

  I try to calm myself. No need to panic just yet. Nothing is going to happen right away. I’ve got a few weeks to think of something. Maybe I could borrow the money to buy him out?

  Yeah, right. And maybe you’ll win the lottery, Emily.

  I feel a wave of tiredness as I look at the flickering glare of the computer screen. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, right now all I want to do is curl up under my bedcovers and catch up on my sleep. I go to log off but a new email pops into my inbox. I don’t recognise the address and the subject line is ‘Please read’. I peer at it suspiciously. It’s probably junk. I move my mouse over it to delete, then pause: Sbh@thedailytimes.com. The Daily Times? Isn’t that Spike’s newspaper?

  Then I realise. Of course. Sbh. I don’t remember one of his middle names beginning with B, but these must be Spike’s initials.

  My heart thuds. Immediately two thoughts hit me: (1) How’s he got my email address? (2) What’s he going to say?

  I click on it with slight trepidation. I’m not sure what I’m expecting – a few sharp lines, an apology, a bitchy PS – but as I watch the email opening up I’m taken aback to see it’s a letter. I move my mouse downwards. One that runs into six, seven, eight whole pages.

  I stare at them for a moment. Each page is filled with text, but at the bottom are pasted what appear to be extracts from newspapers.

  ‘Excuse me, have you nearly finished?’

  Someone is talking to me and I look up sharply to see a few people hovering in the lobby, obviously waiting to use the computer.

  ‘Oh, sure . . . Just give me a minute.’ Turning back to the computer, I press ‘print’. There’s no hurry. So he wrote me a letter? So what? I’ll read it later, when it’s convenient.

  Who am I kidding?

  Less than two minutes later I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in my hotel bedroom, the pages of Spike’s email clutched in my hand. Catching my breath, I start to read.

  Dear Emily,

  The chances are you’ll delete this email before you ever read it. But, on the off-chance your curiosity is greater than your hate for me, right now you’re probably thinking I’m about to reiterate those sentiments that last night were so disgusting to you.

  In which case, let me put your mind at rest and tell you that you don’t have to worry. You made your feelings pretty clear – in fact, I don’t think they could have been ANY clearer, so I think the faster we both forget about that, the better.

  OK, that out of the way, I’ll cut straight to the chase. Last night you accused me of some pretty serious stuff and for personal reasons I was not prepared to explain or defend myself as I didn’t know what I could and should reveal. And anyhow, you’d made up your mind, so what was the point?

  However, since then I’ve had time to think about it, and although it’s unlikely we’re ever going to see or speak to each other again, I still want you to know my side of the story. I would hate to think that you never knew the truth.

  Now, obviously you don’t have to read this email. You can delete it, banish it to cyber hell for ever with just a click of your mouse – it’s up to you. But there’s some stuff you don’t know. There’s some stuff you SHOULD know. Afterwards if you still think I’m guilty, still believe I’m a liar and a vindictive bastard, then so be it. But to judge me without knowing all the facts isn’t fair – to you or me.

  Last night you laid two serious offences at my door:

  Lying to Maeve about Ernie and therefore basically ruining her first chance at happiness in years, maybe even her entire life.

  Behaving despicably towards Ernie, a poor, defenceless old man who did nothing wrong but fall in love with my mother, causing me to fly into a jealous rage, make repeated threats to him, and culminating in me beating him up and breaking his nose without any provocation. And then – it gets worse – forcing him to quit his job at the Daily Times, which he did, as he was so terrified of me.

  OK, so now we’ve established what you believe to be the truth, let me tell you my version of events:

  I first met Ernie Devlin when he came to work at the Daily Times five years ago as one of the drivers of our courtesy cars. We would say hello and goodbye, exchange small talk, discuss football scores, that kind of thing. And he seemed like a nice enough bloke.

  Then one night my mum came to meet me after work. That’s how she met Ernie. I was on a deadline, couldn’t get away from my desk, and so she had to wait half an hour in the lobby. The two of them got chatting – Mum loves to talk – and, well, the upshot was Ernie asked my mum if he could take her out and she said yes.

  Now, I know you’re not going to believe this, but when she told me she’d been invited on a date I couldn’t have been more pleased for her.

  My dad died when I was sixteen and since then it’s just been the two of us, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to have another man in her life. On the contrary. I loved my dad, but he’s gone now, and I don’t want her to be alone for the rest of her life. I want her to meet someone and live happily ever after. Who it is and what they do is irrelevant. I’m not a snob. He doesn’t have to be rich or successful. He just has to be a good bloke. And he has to love my mum.

  So my mum and Ernie go on their date and then they go on another and another, until pretty soon they’re ‘courting’, as my mother likes to call it. I was delighted for her. She was the happiest I’d seen her since before my dad died. It was as if she was young again. And Ernie? He called when he said he would call. He was always punctual. Every time he turned up he’d have flowers or a small gift. He seemed like the perfect gent.

  In hindsight, I think I should have been suspicious. He
was too perfect.

  But I think seeing Mum so happy again blinded me. I didn’t have my investigative reporter head on. When he talked about his past and how his wife had died tragically in a car accident, I didn’t try to corroborate his story, dig deep into his past or check the facts. After Dad died there were months, years even, when I never thought I’d see my mum smile again, and yet here she was smiling and laughing – it was as if she’d come back to life.

  I actually felt grateful to him.

  And seeing as I’m being totally honest, I’ll admit to you something that I have difficulty even admitting to myself. I was also relieved. I had a girlfriend. I had a life. A job that took up long hours. Now I didn’t have to worry about my mum. Didn’t have to feel guilty that she was alone at Christmas when I went snowboarding.

  God, that’s so fucking selfish of me, isn’t it? My mum, who’d given me everything in life, and there was I, thinking about myself. I still beat myself up about that now. I regret to this day that I didn’t ask more questions, pay more attention, spend more time getting to know Ernie Devlin. Maybe then I could have uncovered some clue, something that would have made me suspect. But I didn’t, and I can’t turn the clock back now, can I?

  Ernie proposed to my mum just three months after they’d met. Got down on one knee and gave her an antique diamond ring that he said was his mother’s. She was over the moon. She cried when she told me the news. They were going to have a small wedding in the summer, with a reception at the local golf club and a honeymoon on Lake Garda.

  But they weren’t the only plans they’d made. They’d also decided to sell both of their houses and buy a place together, make a fresh start. In fact, they’d made an offer on a bungalow in a nearby village.