Page 43 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘I’m a journalist,’ he replies, snatching his cigarette from his lips and sticking it behind his ear. Throwing his corduroy shoulders back, he gives me a lofty glare. ‘I was conducting an interview.’

‘About Ernie?’

Spike’s face is impassive. ‘About Mr Darcy,’ he replies evenly. ‘Perhaps you’d care to answer a few questions yourself. When you’ve calmed down and got rid of your hangover.’

‘What hangover?’ I say sharply. As if on cue a wave of nausea wafts over me. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

And ignoring the lurching feeling in my stomach, I stalk past him. I don’t believe him. Not for a second. I definitely think he’s said something to Maeve about Ernie. But he is right about one thing: my hangover.

Feeling light-headed, I steady myself on the trunk of a tree. In fact, I think any minute now I’m going to pass out.

Chapter Twelve

Leaving the rest of the party behind, I quickly find a quiet patch of frosty grass behind the cathedral and collapse on to an empty wooden bench. Everything is starting to spin and I close my eyes. God, I’m feeling really dodgy now. Dropping my head between my knees, I start inhaling lungfuls of piercingly cold air.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In . . .

I’ve no idea how long I remain like this, sitting here, taking deep breaths, but the next thing I know I suddenly hear the sound of footsteps crunching. I stop breathing and hold my breath. Who’s that? I stiffen and snap my eyes wide open. Probably Spike, come back to hassle me about the interview, I realise, with a horrible sinking feeling.

Remaining perfectly still, I keep my head between my knees and my eyes focused on the ground, childishly wishing that perhaps if I can’t see him, he won’t see me. Well, it used to work when I was five years old and playing hide and seek with my grandparents, I tell myself hopefully.

The crunching is growing louder, closer, right by me. A pair of feet suddenly appear in my field of vision. Just the tips. Then stop.

Double shit.

‘Ahem.’

He clears his throat and waits for me to look up. So he can gloat, no doubt, I tell myself, feeling tempted to ignore him and pray he gets the message and goes away. But I know there’s no chance of that. Spike’s a journalist. Persistence is his middle name.

I stare at his shiny boots a moment longer, bracing myself for the onslaught of jokes – seeing as I am one now, I think huffily – then lift my head. Except in the split second it takes to do so, something registers as not quite right. Hang on a minute. Spike’s boots are scuffed and always unlaced.

As I look up, I’m hit by a sudden headrush.

They’re not Spike’s boots.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’

It’s him again. The man from the museum. I stare blankly at his impossibly square jaw with the sexy cleft in his chin and take a moment to absorb this. As I do so, two thoughts are whizzing through my head:

What a weird coincidence. What on earth is he doing here?

What brilliant luck. I never thought I was going to see him again.

‘You look a little pale.’

‘No, I’m fine. I was just feeling a little . . . erm . . . light-headed.’

He looks at me with concern, then reaches for his temples and rubs them in consternation. ‘I am also feeling a little light-headed. Would you mind if I sit down?’

‘Oh . . . um . . . sure – of course.’ I nod, shuffling up a bit to make room for him. I suddenly feel ridiculously nervous, the way I always feel when I’m really attracted to someone. I glance surreptitiously at him. He’s still wearing the same funny clothes he was wearing yesterday, but even so, let’s not beat about the bush here. Fancy-dress costume or not, he’s still drop-dead good-looking.

Flicking out his thick black winter frock coat, he sits down next to me. My heartbeat quickens at his close proximity. So what if he’s wearing a frilly shirt, tight breeches and fob watch? I dated a man who wore white cowboy boots, remember?

Er, hello, Emily, you’re not dating him.

Yet, pipes up a little voice inside me.

Jesus, what’s come over me? Since when did I get so predatory?