Page 35 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I summon up my courage and go for one called Legless but Smiling.

‘So, how is it?’ asks Ernie, raising his bushy eyebrows.

I glance at my half-pint of cloudy amber liquid and take a tentative sip. It’s warm and sort of wheaty and makes my teeth feel furry, like they do when I’ve eaten rhubarb. I swish it around my mouth for a minute, then swallow. It’s got that kick at the end that you only get when there’s serious amounts of alcohol involved.

‘Trust me, it’s not called Legless but Smiling for nothing,’ quips the barman, who’s leaning on the bar, also waiting for my response.

‘Well?’ echoes Maeve, who’s sipping a sherry.

‘I like it,’ I decide after a moment.

‘See, what did I tell you? This New Yorker’s got balls,’ cheers Ernie proudly.

Shaking his head, the barman throws me a look of respect. ‘There’s not many that can stomach that brew, I have to tell you.’

‘In that case, I’ll have a pint.’

A voice cuts into our conversation and all four of us turn to see where it came from. I spot a familiar figure further along the bar and my heart sinks. Great. It had to be, didn’t it? Spike frigging Hargreaves. Where did he spring from?

Seeing us all staring at him, he nods amiably. ‘And whatever these two ladies are having,’ he continues to the barman, ignoring Ernie.

Because obviously he didn’t see him, I assume, but then I notice a look pass between them. What the . . . ? And I thought outside was icy.

‘Why, thank you, but I’m fine . . . We’re fine . . . thank you,’ replies Maeve, while Ernie looks down and mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘troublemaker’.

My ears prick up at once. ‘Are you talking about Spike?’ I hiss.

Ernie gives me a look that says I shouldn’t have heard that.

‘Why do you say that?’ I persist, intrigued.

‘Journalists. Always sticking their nose into other people’s business.’ He shrugs, but I get the distinct feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.

‘Oh, no, you must have got Mr Hargreaves wrong,’ protests Maeve, leaping to Spike’s defence. ‘He’s not like that. He’s always been so charming.’

‘Not to me he hasn’t,’ I retort. ‘He’s been an asshole.’

I look at Ernie, who nods in silent agreement. I’m dying to quiz him more, but Maeve, I notice, is now looking quite disconcerted. Reluctantly I drop the subject, but as Ernie changes the conversation to grandchildren, I can’t help watching Spike taking a sip of his pint of cider. Honestly, how pathetic. Ordering a whole pint because I ordered a half. Feeling all riled up again, I watch him a moment longer, and then before I know what’s come over me, I hold my breath and swig back the rest of my cider.

‘Actually, I’ll have the same again,’ I manage to croak as I gulp down the dregs. Putting the empty glass defiantly on the bar, I throw down the gauntlet. ‘This time make it a pint.’

I can feel glances flying around me, but I ignore them.

‘I thought you Americans didn’t drink,’ smirks Spike from across the bar. ‘Being fitness freaks and into all those faddy diets.’

‘That’s LA. I’m from New York,’ I reply dryly.

Like you’d know the difference. Moron.

‘Great,’ says Spike tightly. ‘Well, in that case, why not make it a pint this time?’

Boy, is he pissed off about those braised carrots.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I reply, forcing my brightest of smiles.

As I watch the barman draws two pints of frothy I feel a twinge of concern, but I brush it aside indignantly. Please. I spent three years at college drinking Jägermeister. No need to worry about me. I’ll be just fine, I tell myself, as my pint is placed in front of me.

‘Cheers.’ Holding his own aloft, Spike looks me directly in the eye.