Page 51 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Oh, shit, where did that just spring from? Why did I just say that? It’s not as if she was that hot, anyway. So she wore red lipstick and had that chic turtle neck and scarf thing going on. So what?

For a moment Spike looks shocked, then his face floods with realisation. ‘Oh, that’s what all this is about.’ Squaring his shoulders, he seems to reinflate.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Whoah . . .’ Stretching out my hand, I stop him right there. ‘You can’t pull the “nothing” trick on me. I’m a woman, remember. Nothing always means something.’

‘And I wonder why I’ve never understood women,’ he mutters, taking a gulp of brandy.

I shoot him one of my scary looks.

‘Look, let’s drop it, shall we?’ he suggests.

I think about it. For, like, a second.

‘No, I’m not going to drop it,’ I reply stubbornly. Even though while I’m saying it I know that I should. But that’s my biggest fault, I’m stubborn to the point of mulish.

He hesitates, as if weighing me up to see if I’m serious enough. ‘OK, have it your way.’ He shrugs in surrender. ‘You’re jealous,’ he says simply.

‘Jealous?’ I gasp, feeling little hot knives of anger pricking me all over. ‘Of what?’

‘Emmanuelle,’ he says, as if it’s obvious.

Simultaneously my brain registers two thoughts: (1) Not only does she look fabulous in bright-red lipstick, which makes my teeth look yellow; and look stylish in chic turtle-neck sweaters and knotted Hermès scarves, while I stumble around H&M like a drowning woman clinging to anything sparkly, but her name is really pretty and sexy and so much nicer than boring old Emily. (2) You arrogant fucking asshole.

I go with thought number two.

‘You arrogant asshole,’ I curse.

Spike’s head goes back, like a boxer who’s just taken a jab.

‘I am not remotely jealous of any woman that has to go out with a man who has zero personality, appalling manners and wears corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows.’

We both glance down at his jacket.

‘You don’t like the patches?’

His innocent question disarms me, pricking my anger as if it’s a balloon. I want to be angry. I’ve a right to be angry. But for some reason, I just can’t stay angry.

Surveying his jacket, I wrinkle up my nose. ‘They’re a bit Simon and Garfunkel.’

He absorbs this comment. ‘I like Simon and Garfunkel,’ he says simply.

‘I do too,’ I confess.

He meets my eye and smiles. I smile back, albeit begrudgingly.

There’s a pause.

‘So, when do I—’

‘Well, I guess—’

We both start speaking at the same time and then stop.

‘You first,’ he gestures.