Page 129 of Me and Mr. Darcy

She blushes. ‘Well, at least I know he’s going to respect me in the morning,’ she quips, and we both laugh.

We’re interrupted by the phone ringing, and Stella jumps up to get it. After a moment she calls out, ‘It’s Spike – your boyfriend.’

Now it’s my turn to blush. ‘Stop it,’ I hiss, as I rush over and snatch the receiver from her.

But I’m not really miffed, I’m only pretending. I love people calling Spike my boyfriend. I love calling him my boyfriend. I love everything about him being my boyfriend. Like, for example, sending him funny cards that I find in these little boutiques in SoHo, exchanging funny emails, chatting on the phone for hours as I lie in bed with my hot-water bottle imagining it’s him and counting down the days until he’s flying out to New York to visit me (it’s four, I’ve already counted, well, actually, it’s three days and twenty-two hours and about forty-five minutes), making silly doodles on the pad at work that involve writing our names, writing the word ‘love’ and then doing that thing where you count up how many Ls, Os, Vs, Es there are and then add them together and—

OK, I’ll stop now. I know that’s a load of old rubbish, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it. Because finally, after a litany of disastrous dates, I’ve finally met a guy I’m crazy about and who’s crazy about me. Well, he’s definitely crazy, anyway. And it took a long time to find him, and I went a long way to find him, and it even took me dating Mr Darcy to find him, but like Jane Austen said, ‘Don’t be in a hurry. The right man will come at last,’ and he did.

Albeit I wasn’t imagining him to be wearing a toothpaste-stained Smiths T-shirt, but then love has a habit of surprising you. Saying that, I think I’ve had enough surprises for one lifetime.

‘Hey, you,’ I say, pressing the phone to my ear. ‘How’s it going?’

‘I miss you,’ replies Spike matter-of-factly on the other end of the line.

I get that lovely warm feeing inside. ‘Miss you too,’ I say happily, and then mouth, ‘Ouch,’ as Stella grins and elbows me in the ribs. Trust me, she has very bony elbows.

‘OK, now we’ve got all that slushy stuff out of the way, how’s the sign looking?’

‘Amazing,’ I say proudly, using Freddy’s adjective. ‘You’ll see it soon.’

‘I know, I can’t wait. Two whole weeks with you in New York.’

My smile gets even wider. ‘Hey, by the way, will you manage to finish all your articles in time?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah, should do – I’ve just got a few loose ends to tie up on a couple of pieces . . .’

‘What about the Mr Darcy piece?’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’

‘You finished it and the editor loved it?’

‘Well, yeah, there’s that,’ he says modestly, ‘and the fact that now he wants to hold it back for the Valentine’s Day issue . . .’

We both groan.

‘. . . but, no, there was something else. When I came to do all the name-checks, I called up the tour company and asked to be put through to Miss Steane, and they said there was no Miss Steane at that company. That in fact they’d never heard of her. I checked the number a couple of times, but I’d definitely got the right company. Isn’t that just the weirdest thing?’

‘Wow, yeah,’ I say, puzzled.

Just then I hear someone asking Spike a question in the background, and he comes back on the line: ‘Hey, Em, I’m going to have to go – work stuff. Can I call you later?’

‘Yeah, of course. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I hang up and stare at the phone for a moment, deep in thought.

‘Something up?’

Stella reappears from the back carrying two mugs of fresh coffee and passes me one.

‘Thanks,’ I murmur absently, staring at the handset a little longer, before putting it down on the counter. ‘He’s right. That is really weird,’ I say, thinking out loud.

‘What? What? Tell me what?’ demands Stella, her interest now fully piqued.

‘The tour guide on my trip,’ I explain. ‘Apparently no one at the company’s ever heard of her.’