Page 40 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Poor me indeed,’ grumbles Rose, clanking the spoon against the sides of the cup as she stirs. ‘However, it seems others were enjoying themselves.’ Leaning closer, she suddenly fixes me with a heavily mascaraed eye. ‘A little birdie told me you and our journalist friend were embroiled in a little tête-à-tête last night at the local drinking establishment.’

My cheeks tinge with colour. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. We just bumped into each other in the local pub,’ I protest hurriedly, wondering why I feel the need to explain when nothing happened. ‘We played pool.’

Rose raises a painted eyebrow. ‘Quite,’ she says, clicking her tongue. Looping her finger through her teacup, she leans back against her chair and sips her tea. It’s more than obvious she doesn’t believe me, and I’m about to protest further when a teenaged waitress appears in full frilly-aproned garb.

‘Would madam care to order breakfast?’ she asks, hovering awkwardly at the head of the table, her eyes darting around like a frightened bird.

My stomach is still swilling round like a washing machine set to cycle ‘nauseous’ and I really don’t feel like eating anything. But I know I have to. Even if just because I can’t take two Nurofen on an empty stomach.

Quickly I scan the menu. Usually breakfast for me consists of snatching a low-bran muffin from the Italian bakery next to the bookstore, but this is all cooked. ‘Um, what would you recommend?’ I ask, feeling a bit fazed.

The waitress stares at me fearfully. ‘We do a full English breakfast,’ she suggests meekly.

I have no idea what this involves, but I’m keen to embrace local traditions. ‘Sounds great.’ I smile, closing my menu.

The waitress’s face flushes with relief and she makes a little scribble on her pad. ‘And how would you like your eggs, madam?’

‘Over easy,’ I reply automatically. That’s how I always have my eggs.

She looks at me with a baffled expression.

‘Sunny side up?’ I suggest instead, looking at her face for some kind of recognition and, seeing nothing, feeling like a bit of an idiot. God, I must look like a right tourist.

‘Um . . . scrambled?’ I ask uncertainly.

Suddenly she breaks into a smile and I feel a beat of relief.

‘And could I have—’ I’m about to say egg whites, but decide against it. I don’t want to look like one of those fussy Americans who ask for everything to be non-fat and on the side, I think, remembering Spike’s comment last night. ‘Just a non-fat latte,’ I say instead.

Oh, shit. I just did, didn’t I?

‘I mean . . . um . . . Tea is just fine,’ I say, gesturing to the teapot in the middle of the table. ‘When in Rome . . .’ I laugh breezily, but the waitress merely gives me a puzzled look and scuttles away.

‘Nothing better than a nice cup of tea,’ approves Rose, taking a rather loud slurp as if to prove it. ‘Although of course the tea they serve here is ghastly.’

‘Oh, really?’ I nod, ignoring my hangover, which is screaming out for a coffee. Like I said, I’m keen to try all these English traditions, and this is one of them.

Reaching for the teapot, I squeeze my fingers through the fine bone-china handle. I hold it gingerly, reminded of the time I held my cousin Lisa’s newborn baby: at arm’s length, away from my chest, terrified I was going to drop and break it. It’s surprisingly heavy – the teapot, not the baby – and my wrist wobbles. Saying that, I’ve also got the shakes from alcohol poisoning, which isn’t exactly helping matters.

‘So?’

‘Mmm, delicious.’ I smile, taking a sip of weak, milky tea. ‘Very refreshing.’

God, I’d kill for a Starbucks.

Rose purses her lips. ‘I’m not referring to the tea,’ she chastises. ‘I’m referring to your . . .’ she hesitates, choosing her words carefully ‘. . . encounter.’

Aww, bless, how chaste. Underneath the booming voice and guise of heavy eyeliner, Rose really is still just a sweet little old lady, I think affectionately. ‘Nothing happened. It was entirely innocent,’ I say reassuringly.

‘I’m sure it was, my dear.’ She nods. ‘But let me tell you, men are never innocent in their thoughts.’

I stifle a smile. No doubt she’s now going to warn me about the dangers of men and how I have to protect my honour. How cute.

‘I was young once, you know.’

I nod kindly and settle back in my chair. What joy. Rose is going to tell me tales of courtship and romance. Of being wooed by handwritten love letters and being recited poetry to under a spreading oak tree . . .

Scenes from novels flash through my mind and I feel a wistful pang. Oh, to be young and single in those days. Things were so very different.