Page 21 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘He’s a journalist?’

‘From the Daily Times?’

‘And he wants to interview us?’

As I walk into the wood-panelled dining room a commotion greets me. A medley of voices, each one rising higher and higher up the scale as they shout questions over one another. I pick out Rose’s distinctive tones, but the loudest voice is coming from a tiny Indian lady called Rupinda. Wearing a turquoise-blue sari embroidered with silver peacocks, she’s sitting at the table waving a soup spoon like a conductor’s baton and demanding, ‘What he want to ask me, hey? What he want to ask me?’ over and over like a cockatoo.

Curious as to what’s going on, I look for a place to sit, but as I’m late they all seem to be taken already. I hover awkwardly, feeling like a child on her first day at school, when Rose rescues me.

‘Em-i-lee, darling, over here,’ she booms, waving me over to the table nearest the fireplace with those huge glittering rocks of hers on her fingers.

I smile gratefully and, squeezing myself in between the tables, plop myself down next to her. Immediately a waiter swoops on me with a silver tureen of soup and begins ladling it into my bowl.

‘Cream of cauliflower. Lukewarm and rather hideous,’ Rose criticises, seemingly unaware of the waiter at her elbow as she takes a large slurp from her own bowl.

She’s applied even more make-up, and despite it being only lunchtime, I notice she’s changed into a black chiffon top, the beaded sleeves of which are trailing in the aforementioned soup. However, she seems not to notice and so I don’t mention anything. To be honest, I’m rather afraid to. Despite her seventy-something years, Rose is more than a little intimidating.

‘So, what do you think of all this interview nonsense?’ she asks, breaking off to butter a bread roll.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ I reply, watching with fascination as she cuts thick, creamy slices of butter, lays them on top of the bread as if they’re pieces of cheese and then, picking up the silver salt-shaker, sprinkles them with a dusting of salt. ‘Why, what’s going on?’

‘They’re writing an article about us,’ whispers Maeve, looking worried. ‘Apparently, we have to give interviews.’

‘When I was in the theatre, I was always having articles written about me,’ says Rose. ‘I have scrapbooks filled with press cuttings.’

‘You were an actress?’ I ask interestedly.

‘Not just an actress. A leading lady,’ she corrects mindfully. ‘I played opposite them all, Gielgud, Olivier, McKellen . . .’ Taking a mouthful of bread, she waves her arm flamboyantly. ‘I had the pick of the crop.’

‘So you’re famous?’ gasps Maeve in a hushed voice, visibly impressed.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ refutes Rose, lowering her eyelashes and batting them in an attempt at a modicum of modesty. ‘But in my youth the stage door would be crowded with autograph-hunters.’ She pauses for effect, puffed up by Maeve’s wide-eyed admiration. ‘But time passes, and I’m afraid the public have a terrible memory,’ she adds. ‘I doubt anyone remembers me now. C’est la vie.’ She laughs carelessly and dives for another bread roll, but I get the distinct impression that although Rose might no longer be on the stage, she’s still very much acting.

‘So who’s writing an article about us?’ I ask, changing the subject.

Taking a hungry bite, Rose gestures with the piece of leftover crust. ‘Ask that young chap, he knows.’

As soon as she says ‘young chap’ I feel a clunk of inevitability. In fact, to tell the truth, as soon as I walked in and heard the word ‘he’ I had a feeling who they meant. My eyes flick towards the end of the table, where Rose is pointing.

‘So he’s a journalist, huh?’ I shrug, disinterested. Whoopy-doo. Like I care.

I continue eating my soup. I can hear him talking, feel everyone’s eyes upon him, but I’m just going to ignore him. He can’t exactly be here to report anything very interesting anyway, can he?

OK, so I can hear snippets of what he’s saying and it does sound vaguely interesting, but I’m not going to listen. He’s so arrogant I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Besides, I’m too busy focusing on my soup. My lovely cauliflower soup. Despite what Rose thinks, it’s actually rather delicious, sort of spicy with a hint of—

Oh, for Godsakes, Emily, talk about my lady doth protest too much. Quit the excuses and listen.

‘. . . and so I think our readers will be interested in hearing what you’ve got to say.’ Sleeves rolled up to reveal his hairy forearms, he’s dragging heavily on a cigarette as he fields questions from the women clustering round him.

‘But why us?’ exclaims one in a lilac turtle neck, clutching her ribbed woollen chest and looking at him beseechingly. If she was thirty years younger I’d swear she was flirting. On second thoughts, she is flirting, I realise, feeling vaguely shocked.

‘Who better equipped to answer my questions?’ he fires back unwaveringly. Folding one leg across the other, he hugs his ankle and eyes his captive audience. ‘Recently a poll by the Orange Prize for Fiction asked nearly two thousand women over three generations who their dream date would be . . .’ taking a breath, he drags on his cigarette ‘. . . and one man got more votes than any other . . .’

Well, I know who gets my vote, I think dreamily.

‘. . . Mr Darcy.’

I feel a jolt of surprise. Did he just say what I think he said? I lean forward in my seat to try to hear better. Just curious of course.