Page 34 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Eh?’

‘New York,’ I explain, turning to Maeve. ‘You asked me what it was like.’ I pause, trying to work out how to describe it, then give up. ‘It’s a million different things to a million different people. You should go experience it for yourself.’

‘Aye, I’d love to,’ she says dreamily, her eyes bright behind her glasses.

And for a brief moment it’s as if I can see a real spark inside Maeve, the spark of a young girl, the spark of someone with big dreams and possibilities.

‘Maybe if I was younger, if I had my time again, eh?’

But now it’s gone again, and she’s got that resigned look back on her face. It’s almost as if she’s determined to put herself down, not to get her hopes up. I wonder why? What’s she so scared of? What could have happened to Maeve to make her give up on everything? To leave her with zero self-esteem. To make her so goddamn sad?

But of course I can’t ask her, can I? I’ve barely known her two minutes. And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it? Who do I think I am – Dr Phil? And reaching for the handle, I push open the wooden door and we go inside.

Chapter Ten

We’re greeted with a rush of noise, heat and cigarette smoke. The ceiling is low with thick, gnarly beams running across it, and the uneven walls are painted a dark maroon and hung with horse brasses, faded sepia photographs and sets of antlers. A Christmas tree stands in the far corner, fighting for space among the wooden benches and tables.

It looks like the entire village is crammed in here. Middle-aged couples eating bar food, groups of older men downing pints and a bustling crowd of twenty-somethings in skinny jeans and full Friday-night make-up.

And there was me expecting a few sleepy locals, I realise, feeling slightly taken aback to see such a modern crowd. A couple of ruddy farmers maybe, with muddy boots and flat caps, playing dominoes, like in the James Herriot books.

Which were set in Yorkshire, not Hampshire, during the Second World War, reminds a little voice inside my head.

Embarrassment twinges. Honestly, talk about being the cliché of an American tourist. If I’m not careful I’ll soon be wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and calling everything ‘quaint’.

‘What can I get you?’

After finally manoeuvring our way to the bar and squeezing between a couple of elbows, I manage to attract the attention of the bartender – sorry, barman.

‘Maeve, what would you like?’ I ask, tugging off my hat and gloves and making a start on peeling off the numerous layers of clothes I’m wearing. But before she’s had a chance to answer I hear a male voice.

‘I’ll get these.’

I turn sideways. A man in a checked flannel shirt is standing next to me, smoking a pipe. He looks really familiar but for the moment I can’t place him.

‘Ernie. Your coach driver,’ he explains, seeing my confusion.

‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I smile. ‘Sorry, for a minute there . . .’

‘I know. Mine’s an easy face to forget,’ he jokes, his eyes twinkling.

Instantly warming to him, I laugh. ‘I’m Emily . . . and this is Maeve.’ I gesture towards Maeve, who blushes at her introduction.

‘Maeve? Now that’s an interesting name,’ replies Ernie, giving her his full attention.

Maeve looks as if she wants to disappear through the stone-flagged floor. Avoiding his eye, she looks instead at her feet.

‘It’s Irish,’ she says, her voice so quiet it’s practically lost in the din of the pub.

Puffing on his pipe, he nods. ‘It means “intoxicating”,’ he adds evenly.

Startled, she looks up and meets his eye. He smiles warmly, and finding herself caught, Maeve has no choice but to smile back.

Watching from the sidelines, I get the feeling that didn’t just happen by accident on Ernie’s part. Still, I’m impressed. That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from Maeve all night.

‘Now, then.’ Turning his attention back to both of us, Ernie asks brightly, ‘What can I get you two ladies to drink?’

I’m not usually indecisive – I’m strictly a Corona, Sauvignon Blanc or Jack and Coke girl – depending on whether I’m in the mood for beer, wine or liquor. But on this occasion I’m faced with something different: cider. Not that they don’t have cider in the bars in New York, but usually it’s just a choice between apple or pear. Here they’ve got all kinds of different varieties, called such bizarre names, like, for example, Old Pig’s Squeal, Punch Drunk, Badger’s Brew . . .