Page 52 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘No, it’s OK, go ahead.’

He shrugs. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to tell me about Mr Darcy.’

His question completely blindsides me. I try not to let even a flicker cross my face, but it’s like someone just dropped a ten-ton weight on my chest.

‘Me and Mr Darcy?’ I squeak. Oh, shit. What does he know? What did he see?

Spike gives me a curious look. ‘Yeah, I need to interview you, for the paper.’

‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I nod, feeling both relieved and a bit ridiculous.

‘Tomorrow?’

I’m all jumpy, but I try to appear casual. ‘Sure, whenever.’ I shrug, acting like a pouty teenager instead.

‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘Um, excuse me?’

‘You were saying . . . ?’

That I met Mr Darcy again today and I really like him and I can’t stop thinking about him and – oh – I think I’m going mad.

‘Um . . . nothing. Just that it was getting late.’

I try to gather my thoughts. Easier said than done when your thoughts are whirling round all over the place like leaves in a storm. Spike. Emmanuelle. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy.

Right at that moment the grandfather clock next door begins softly chiming.

Saved by the bell.

‘Wow, midnight. I should go to bed.’ Quickly releasing my knees, I hoist myself up from the snug of the leather armchair. ‘Before I turn into a pumpkin,’ I quip, making a feeble attempt at humour.

‘And I turn into Prince Charming.’ Spike smiles ruefully.

I look at him uncertainly.

‘That was a joke,’ he adds.

‘Obviously,’ I reply.

There’s a pause and he regards me for a moment as if he’s thinking about something, but I can’t read his face.

‘Well, night, then.’

‘Yeah, night.’

He sort of salutes me with his brandy and I give an awkward little wave. I came down here to clear my mind, but I’ve only made it worse.

A yawn overwhelms me and I suddenly realise how tired I am. No wonder I’m all confused. I’m so jet-lagged I can barely remember my own name. And clutching my book to my chest, I turn and head out of the drawing room. Once I’ve had a good sleep I’ll feel loads better.

Chapter Fourteen

I wake up the next morning feeling like a different person. Invigorated, energised and completely clear-headed. Yesterday all seems like a dream. I’ve heard of jet lag doing funny things to you: I once read about an English woman who’d ripped off all her clothes on the Heathrow Express and straddled a businessman demanding sex because, according to her defence lawyer, she’d been travelling fifteen hours without any sleep on a flight from Singapore – and I thought that was outrageous. But meeting Mr Darcy? Honestly.

We check out of the hotel after breakfast (after yesterday’s disaster I go for the safe option and order Continental) and set off on the journey to Bath. It’s a gorgeous day. Still, with a crisp frost, brilliant blue skies and bright sunshine. It’s the kind of day that almost makes you want to start humming about brown paper packages tied up with string. Well, almost.

Leaning my face up against the window of the coach, I watch the matchstick trees whizzing by, the blur of hedgerows and the villages that seem to finish before they begin with funny names like Upper Dumpling – or something like that. I still can’t get over how different England is from America, with its vast sprawl, straight roads and huge horizons. Here, everything’s in miniature, with skinny winding roads, blind corners (I’m still trying to get used to driving on the left without my stomach leaping into my mouth), the patchwork of fields and church spires. It’s all so pretty.