Me and Mr. Darcy

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘It was commissioned by Ralph Allen to improve the view of his townhouse, and from a distance it appears to be the genuine article. However, it is in fact merely an impressive façade,’ he continues, as we come to a standstill.

  ‘It’s like a prop from a movie,’ I gasp, before I realise what I’m saying.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say, quickly brushing it aside. I don’t want to spoil the mood by getting bogged down in explanation, and instead we remain quietly side by side on our horses, both gazing up at the ‘impressive façade’.

  Well, actually, I tell a lie. I’m peeking at him.

  ‘Still rather magnificent, though, don’t you think?’ he says after a moment, his eyes never leaving the castle. Not that he should be looking at me, I’m just saying.

  ‘Yeah,’ I manage quietly. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  But I’d still much rather be gazing at you, I think, getting that jittery feeling again as it registers that we’re here, alone, just the two of us . . . and what with the moonlight, it’s all very seductive. My eyes trace the sharp silhouette of his cheekbone, the proud arch of his nose, his strong, confident mouth—

  He turns to look at me. His dark eyes lock with mine and I feel another spasm in my groin.

  Oh, God, this is it. This is the part where he kisses me.

  My heart is hammering so loudly in my chest I’m surprised he can’t hear it, and as he leans towards me I close my eyes in delicious anticipation. I can feel his warm breath close against my neck. Smell his cologne. Feel his lips . . .

  ‘O, Rose, thou art sick!’

  I jolt slightly, startled by Mr Darcy’s voice in my ear.

  ‘The invisible worm . . .’

  Invisible worm? I feel a jerk of confusion. What on earth’s he going on about?

  ‘. . . That flies in the night, In the howling storm . . .’

  Oh, now I get it, I realise, recognising the words from the time I reorganised the poetry section at McKenzie’s: it’s a poem by William Blake.

  Furtively I open one eye, just a tiny little bit, and sneak a peek at Mr Darcy. He’s right there, only inches away, staring at me intensely.

  Drawing a deep breath, he continues: ‘. . . Has found out thy bed, Of crimson joy . . .’

  He’s reciting poetry to me.

  Oh my God, he’s so passionate I don’t know where to look! Heroes are always doing this in novels, but I’ve never heard of it happening in real life before. It’s incredible.

  Except . . .

  I don’t want to sound ungrateful. What woman wouldn’t want Mr Darcy reciting poetry to them, in that gorgeous cut-glass accent of his, beside a moonlit castle, on New Year’s Eve?

  ‘. . . And his dark secret love . . .’

  But to be honest, I’d rather have that kiss.

  An icy chill whips off the turrets and I shiver. Now we’ve stopped riding, I’m fast realising just how cold it is. I try wiggling my toes, but they’re so numb I can’t feel them any more. Unlike the rest of me. My whole body is aching. My butt, my boobs, my ankle. As if on cue, it twinges. No doubt by tomorrow that’s going to be black and blue and the size of a cantaloupe.

  ‘. . . Does thy life destroy,’ finishes Mr Darcy with a dramatic flourish.

  God, it’s all a bit heavy isn’t it?

  Irritation bites. I’ve come all the way out here, on a horse, in the freezing cold, and I don’t even get one little kiss? So what am I supposed to do now? Applaud? Swoon? Or—

  My thoughts are silenced as Mr Darcy suddenly pulls me close.

  Oh, OK. I take it back. So that’s what happens now.

  All my life I’ve dreamed about being kissed by Mr Darcy, and now it’s actually coming true . . . Closing my eyes, I lift my face to his expectantly. Everything seems to slow down. I angle my body against his, but the satin of my dress is slippery in the saddle, and as his lips brush against mine I have to dig my heels against Lightning’s ribcage to keep my balance.

  Oh, my God. So this is it. The kiss. Finally.

  ‘Arggghhhhh!’ I shriek.

  Suddenly, without warning, Lightning lets out a loud whinny and rears up on her back legs.

  ‘Arggghhhh.’

  Instead of a passionate embrace, I’m now being thrown backwards into the air. Clutching at the reins, I hang on for dear life as Mr Darcy’s coat slips from my shoulders.

  Holy shit!

  That moment in the air feels like for ever until – thwack – all four hooves hit the floor and I’m propelled forwards again. Relief floods my body. Oh, thank God, thank God, thank—

  It lasts all of about two seconds.

  Then she bolts.

  ‘Hold on!’ shouts Mr Darcy.

  ‘Argghhhh . . .’

  That’s all I can do. Shriek at the top of my lungs in sheer terror.

  ‘Whoah, easy girl.’ Masterfully he swings his horse round and tries to grab the reins, but Lightning rears up again, knocking him off his horse with sheer brute force.

  ‘Mr Darcy,’ I scream with horror as he crashes on to the muddy ground.

  ‘Emily,’ he gasps, winded by the fall.

  I glance back. I can hear him shouting something else, but as Lightning charges off his voice is whipped away by the wind and disappears into the night.

  ‘Help,’ I scream at the top of my lungs as we plunge deep into the woods and I’m thrown around in the saddle. ‘Help,’ I yell again. But it’s hopeless. There’s no Mr Darcy to rescue me.

  And now we’re galloping out of the woods and across pitch-black fields. The moon seems to have disappeared behind a cloud and I can’t see a thing, just dark shapes in the distance. Dark, scary shapes that loom out at me like monsters. My stomach jumps into my chest. Jesus! What’s that over there? Brushing underneath branches of trees, I crouch down low, but it’s too late.

  Whack.

  I feel a sharp blow to my forehead. Then it all goes black.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Where am I?

  I wake up lying face down. Slowly I roll my head to the side. It thuds dully. Ugghh. Next I curl my fingertips into the palms of my hands, feeling crisp, starched cotton beneath them. I’m in a bed. I peel open my eyes a crack. My bed.

  I experience a lurch of relief, swiftly followed by confusion. How did I get here? I don’t remember going to bed. In fact, I don’t remember anything since— I feel a slight panic – I can’t remember.

  I try focusing, but my head doesn’t seem to want to work properly. Not the memory bit, anyway. Befuddled, I peer blearily through my eyelashes. My room is still in darkness but for a lamp casting a glow in the far corner.

  For a few seconds I don’t move. I just lie here, doing nothing but breathing in and breathing out, cocooned in a snug of blankets and praying for this fog of sleep and amnesia to lift. And now, slowly, my eyes are starting to adjust. Fuzzy shapes are appearing out of the Anaglypta shadows and coming into focus: in the corner, the nylon jaws of my suitcase lie wide open, and there are items of clothing strewn everywhere – T-shirts, jeans, sweaters – a swathe of chocolate satin slung across the full-length mirror.

  Of course. The dress. The New Year’s Eve ball. It’s all coming back to me now. Dancing with Spike, smoking that joint, bumping into Mr Darcy—

  Mr Darcy.

  Tentatively I roll my head across the pillow to the other side. My eyes follow like those in a haunted-house painting. My hangover starts thumping like a bongo drum. Slowly, slowly, slow-lee . . .

  The pillow next to me is empty.

  I stare distrustfully at it for a moment, almost expecting Mr Darcy’s dark head to materialise on the paisley cotton, then indignantly shove the thought aside. Of course I didn’t sleep with him! I’m not that kind of girl, and he’s not that kind of guy.

  Move’s the pity, whispers the lustful little voice inside me.

  Ignoring it, I try recollecting the evening’s events. We were talking on the balcony, I remember that, and how sexy he looked, yup, I d
efinitely remember that bit and— Ouch – my butt gives a painful twinge – of course, we went horseriding and my horse bolted and then . . .

  Blank.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  A voice startles me and I take a sharp breath as I see a figure looming over me.

  A face coming into close-up.

  Spike.

  Make that two Spikes.

  Woozily I look up at him and try focusing. For a horrible moment there’s not just one selfish lying pig of a journalist, there’s another selfish lying pig of a journalist until, squinting hard, both blurry images merge into one.

  ‘What time is it?’ I mumble groggily.

  He glances at his watch. ‘Nearly four a.m.’

  I try to sit up, but he stops me with a wet flannel.

  ‘No, you need to lie still.’

  ‘Huh?’ I groan, then realising my head is killing me, I flop back down on to the pillow.

  ‘You’ve got a bit of a nasty bump on your head, but don’t worry, you’re going to be OK,’ he soothes, pressing the cold flannel to my forehead.

  Tentatively I touch my forehead. ‘Ouch,’ I whimper, flinching as my fingertips brush against a lump the size of an egg. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I went looking for you – after the phone call,’ he adds, looking sheepish. ‘When I found you, you’d completely passed out.’

  ‘Where did you find me?’ I murmur, still desperately trying to piece everything together.

  ‘Near the stables.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  My mind starts whirring. I must have hit my head on something and blacked out, and yet somehow managed to stay in the saddle until Lightning found her way back to the stables . . . Or maybe I rode back to the stables but I just can’t remember because I fell off as I was dismounting and hit my head on the floor and it’s made me lose my memory . . . Or maybe—

  ‘I bumped into some kids when I was looking for you.’ Spike interrupts my confused cerebral ramblings. ‘They said they’d last seen you smoking a joint with them.’

  ‘Oh . . . right, yeah.’

  Now that might explain my amnesia.

  ‘And drinking two glasses of champagne.’

  That as well.

  ‘One of them was yours,’ I point out weakly.

  Spike sighs and scratches self-consciously at his burgeoning beard. I notice he’s taken off his jacket and tie, undone his collar and rolled up his sleeves to reveal two thick, hairy forearms, one of which is now disappearing into the neck of his shirt. He starts awkwardly scratching his collarbone. He’s obviously feeling guilty about the whole thing. Either that or he’s got fleas.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he begins self-consciously. ‘I feel somehow responsible – that’s why I offered to watch you – make sure you were OK. Someone had to stay. You were pretty out of it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say stiffly. Jesus, how embarrassing. Why did it have to be Spike who found me? Talk about bad luck. He must be crowing right now. ‘But I’m fine now, so you can go,’ I add, and pull up the bedcovers in a ‘closed for business’ kind of metaphor. Which is when I suddenly realise that I’m not wearing my pyjamas. In fact, I am not wearing anything.

  I am totally butt naked.

  Mortified, I sharply tug the eiderdown even tighter to my chest. I don’t even want to think about who took off my clothes. ‘If you could close the door behind you,’ I prompt.

  Spike looks at me as if he’s going to say something, but then picks up his jacket and tie and snatches at the door.

  He opens it, hisses, ‘Fuck,’ then slams it shut again.

  I jump.

  He turns to me, his face flushed, his jaw set hard. ‘Look, it’s no good, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to say to you, but there’s never been the right time and – well – I’m just going to come out and say it . . .’ He steps towards me.

  Bracing myself for an angry outburst, I mentally start frantically stacking up ammunition to retaliate.

  ‘I’m crazy about you.’

  I stop stacking and look at him in total astonishment – and confusion. His hands are held stiffly down by his sides and his body is rigid.

  ‘Is this supposed to be one of your jokes?’ I manage to stammer.

  ‘No, not at all,’ he replies quickly. ‘I’m totally serious.’ He pulls up a chair and sits down, straddling it with his legs and hugging the back. He looks at me, waiting for my reaction.

  Now, when I say I’m totally speechless, I mean it. I stare at him incredulously. He’s got to be joking, right? We hate each other’s guts.

  Only he’s not smiling or winking or doing any of the stuff he usually does, which means—

  Oh, shit. He’s really serious.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Emily,’ he’s now saying, his words coming out even faster than normal, falling over themselves in their haste, ‘and I know this is all probably coming as a bit of a surprise, but I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re amazing . . .’

  Someone please tell me I’m still out cold and this is some bizarre nightmare. This cannot be happening. It just can’t.

  ‘. . . Really amazing.’

  But it is.

  Oh, God.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  All this time I thought Spike hated me, and yet all along he was really into me.

  I almost feel myself blushing. Despite the fact that I hate Spike I can’t help feeling just the teensiest bit delighted. Flattered even. I mean, who doesn’t like being showered with compliments? Even if they are from a liar/love-wrecker/old-man-basher.

  ‘Even though you know that when I first saw you I didn’t fancy you in the slightest . . .’

  Hang on, what was that?

  ‘. . . far from it. Blondes are usually my type. In fact, I’m a total sucker when it comes to the whole glamorous red-lipstick thing.’ He smiles with embarrassment. ‘And you didn’t have any of that going on . . .’

  Excuse me? My delight is suddenly taking a U-turn.

  ‘. . . and if I’m honest, I thought you were a bit dull . . .’ He laughs ruefully.

  Stunned. There’s no other word for it. STUNNED.

  ‘. . . but these past few days I’ve really got to know you as a person, and even though I tried to dislike you, and trust me I’ve tried, I can’t. I mean, I’m mad about you, Emily. I’ve even managed to overlook the fact you’re an American . . .’ Having obviously warmed up now, he emits another chuckle at what he obviously thinks is a joke.

  But I’m not laughing. I’m angry.

  ‘. . . I always swore I could never go out with an American – you know I always had this thing about French girls . . .’

  Very angry.

  ‘. . . but you’re different . . .’

  Fucking furious. Damn right I’m different, you fucking asshole, I want to scream.

  ‘. . . and so, well, I just wanted to tell you how I feel and I was wondering . . . well, hoping, really, that you might feel the same way. About me, that is. And that maybe you’d have dinner with me tonight, if you’re not doing anything.’

  He stops talking – finally – and, evidently pleased with his monologue, looks at me expectantly. I survey him with every drop of restraint holding my anger tight inside me.

  He says ‘hoping’, but there’s no doubting he’s pretty confident he’s going to get a positive reaction. That I’m going to suddenly swoon into his arms with grateful relief. Now, more than ever, I want to slap him.

  Instead, I fold my arms and look at him coldly. ‘And what about Emmanuelle?’

  Not only is he a liar, love-wrecker and an old-man-basher. It would now appear he’s also a potential cheat. God, how can I resist?

  ‘Oh, didn’t I mention it? We broke up last night,’ he says as if to reassure me.

  I feel a twinge of something that could be mistaken as pleasure, but I quickly reject it.

  ‘It was never right between us. We fought like cat and dog.
You were right the other day when you said I needed to go out with a normal girl’

  ‘And I’m normal, am I?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he enthuses, pulling his chair closer. ‘Absolutely.’

  I feel stung. No girl ever wants to be called ‘normal’, do they? You want to be called ‘special’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘sexy’ and ‘passionate’ and a million other words that mean you’re unique. ‘Normal’ is just another word for ‘boring’.

  ‘Jeez, I’m flattered,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Thanks.’

  He looks at me uncertainly. It’s the first flicker that things might not be going the way he’d planned.

  ‘I can’t think what I’ve done to inspire such love and affection,’ I continue calmly. ‘Truly, I’m very flattered. Privileged, even.’ With the anger building inside, I discard the flannel and gather myself up as best I can in a sheet. Sticking out my chin, I say determinedly, ‘But if you even think I might feel the same way about you, you’re very much mistaken.’

  Spike seems to take a moment to register what I’ve just said. And then his smile seems to freeze and he goes a funny colour. For once he’s lost for words. This is obviously not the reaction he was expecting.

  ‘And even if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t go out to dinner with you,’ I declare ferociously.

  A whole range of emotions flit over his features. Shock, anger, disbelief, incredulity, hurt. In fact, he looks really hurt, but then he quickly buries it and, composing himself, says stiffly, ‘You know, I find it really hard to talk about emotional stuff, and it took me a lot of balls to tell you how I feel about you.’

  For a second regret stabs. Determinedly I push it aside.

  ‘So you don’t feel the same way. Clearly,’ he adds, grim-faced. ‘But you didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’

  He stands up, the injured party, and turns to leave.

  Which is when I lose it.

  ‘You have feelings?’ I exclaim, my face flushing. Jumping out of bed, my sheet wrapped round me, I grab my bathrobe and – while trying to cover myself fully – tug it on. ‘What about my feelings?’ I demand. ‘You stand there and tell me that you thought I was this, that and the other when you met me, but that you’ve decided to like me against all your better judgement, and that it’s so out of character for you, but you’ve struggled against it!’ I break off, panting, my chest heaving up and down. ‘And then you expect me to be nice to you?’