Page 37 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Her invitation catches me by surprise. Am I? On the one hand I don’t want to be within a snooker cue of Spike Hargreaves, but on the other hand Cat seems really lovely and a game of pool does sound like fun . . .

‘Yeah, sure. That sounds great.’ I smile, tipsily. ‘Um, but there’s just one thing. About Spike—’

‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ she interrupts, her face suddenly serious. ‘I won’t let on I know. I can be very discreet when I want to be.’ And before I’ve got a chance to explain, she links her arm through mine and begins steering me towards the pool table.

Four games later I’ve eaten my first ever packet of pork scratchings – which I thought were going to be gross, then I tasted one and discovered they were gross, but also delicious – learned that Cat loves Lee, the Killers and Topshop (that’s the second time I’ve heard about this place. Like Stella, she referred to it in a hushed, reverential voice) and finished my pint of cider.

Which in total means I’ve polished off one and a half pints and I’m feeling quite drunk. Or, as Cat taught me they say here in England, pissed. But it doesn’t matter, as I’m actually playing really well. Funny, as for the last three shots I haven’t even been able to focus on the ball without getting double vision, but it’s not a problem as I’ve worked out a really easy way to fix that. I just close one eye. Clever, huh?

Screwing up one eye, I watch Cat, who’s zipping around the table, potting ball after ball with alarming skill and ease. At the moment we’re winning – girls against boys.

‘Whoo-hoo, you go girl,’ I cheer, raising my empty pint glass. ‘Get ’em by the balls.’

Oh, my God. That’s so funny, isn’t it? Balls. Pool. Men. I suddenly get the giggles.

‘Hey, come on, Cat,’ whines Lee, pretending to beg as she goes to pot our last ball. ‘Have mercy on us.’

‘Oi, speak for yourself,’ grumbles Spike, looking over at me with this really sour expression as if he’s just sucked on a lemon. I don’t know why but it makes me giggle even harder. ‘We don’t need any favours.’

‘I think we do, mate,’ smiles Lee good-naturedly. ‘Cat’s a pub champion.’

‘True, but she’s got a handicap,’ says Spike pointedly.

‘Oh, is it like golf?’ I cry excitedly, though I’m not exactly sure why as I don’t play golf, or know anyone who plays golf, or is even remotely interested in golf for that matter. Grinning, I direct my question at Lee, who like Cat, is totally adorable. I mean, really. I just love these guys. They’re such a sweet couple. In fact, I think I’m going to invite them to stay with me in New York.

‘Um, no,’ replies Lee awkwardly. He throws Spike a look.

‘But then I don’t understand . . .’

I trail off. Oh, I get it. I’m the handicap.

‘Bugger. Missed it,’ gasps Cat, grabbing everyone’s attention before I’ve got time to come back with a crushing put-down for Spike. Because I’m sure I’d think of one, it’s just it’s escaping me right now.

We all look at the table, just in time to see our last ball gliding past the pocket in the far corner and gently tapping the side, where it comes to a halt.

‘Bad luck, ladies,’ tuts Spike, who’s doing this thing of stretching the cue behind his shoulders. His shirt tails pop out of his trousers and I suddenly catch more than a glimpse of his pot belly, which is all freckly and covered in blond fuzz. It runs all the way down past his navel to—

Oh, yuck.

‘You were so near.’

‘And yet so far,’ finishes a grinning Lee. Ducking a playful punch from Cat, he looks at Spike. ‘So, who’s gonna show them how it’s done?’

Shrugging, Spike puts down his cue.

Thank God.

‘Leave it to me, mate.’ He winks.

We all wait as Spike begins circling the table, working out his next shot. Back and forth he goes, leaning across the table from one side, then from the other, until finally satisfied, he stands upright and begins making a big show of rubbing chalk on to his cue as if he’s Tom Cruise in The Color of Money.

Oh, please. And this from a man who’s so far managed to pot just three balls. Two of which were ours.

‘For Christsakes, just get on with it,’ I can’t help muttering under my breath.

At least I thought I muttered it, but it must have come out a bit louder as Spike looks up and shoots me daggers.

Oooh. Grumpy.