Page 55 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘What? You mean you agree with all those women in the poll? He’s your ideal date too?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod. I feel as if I’m bursting with this great big secret that I can’t tell anyone. ‘I’ve had a crush on him since I can remember.’

‘A tough act to follow, huh?’

‘Meaning?’

‘For us regular blokes,’ he says, sucking on his liquorice. ‘We’re never going to be able to live up to him, are we? It’s like everything. The reality is always more disappointing than the fantasy.’

I look at Spike’s shambolic figure. In his case it’s most definitely true.

‘I’m the same. My first love was Betty Blue. I adored her. Passionate, sexy, French. Normal girls didn’t match up. But in reality, do I really want to go out with a nutcase who stabs her own eye out?’

I smile, despite myself.

‘Trust me,’ he continues, ‘a passionate affair with a sexy French woman might look great in the movies, but in reality there’s nothing sexy about constant rows and broken crockery.’

‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience,’ I say, getting a flashback of him arguing with his girlfriend in the parking lot.

‘Emmanuelle has broken every plate in my flat. Now I have to eat off paper ones.’ He smiles ruefully, but I get the feeling he’s not joking. She did have a pretty mean temper on her. ‘No, what I really want is someone I can have a proper conversation with, who’s going to help me get the clues in the Daily Times crossword that I can’t, who’ll laugh at my shitty jokes and share my passion for spaghetti Westerns.’

‘So why don’t you go out with a girl like that?’

‘Now there’s a thought,’ he says, cocking his head on one side as if he’s only just considering the idea. ‘I dunno. Maybe because a girl like that is real. And that would mean being in a real relationship,’ he says, emphasising the words and rolling his eyes in mock horror. ‘I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. To be honest, I think it scares me.’ He smiles sheepishly.

‘What? More than having plates thrown at you?’

‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘I can always try to duck the plates. Emmanuelle’s a pretty crap aim.’

He smiles and looks at me in a way that makes me feel I should say something, but his honesty about his relationship has thrown me. I wasn’t expecting it.

A pause opens up, and feeling awkward, I turn back to the rack of postcards and resume choosing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Spike studying me thoughtfully.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ he asks after a moment.

I glance up at him warily. ‘Is this for your article?’

‘No, I’m just curious.’ Having difficulty biting off a piece of twirl, he clamps it between his back molars and tugs hard.

‘About what?’

‘About why a girl like you is spending New Year by herself on a book tour.’ He begins gnashing the red liquorice between his teeth.

‘Who’s a girl like me?’

OK, so I’m being defensive, but do you blame me? So far I’ve already had ‘pretty dull’ and ‘average-looking’.

‘No, I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . .’ He gives up and sighs. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re a reporter and you’re writing an article too.’

I eye him warily, then decide to let him off the hook. ‘I manage a bookstore in New York,’ I say, trying to keep the pride out of my voice.

‘Crikey, that’s great,’ says Spike in admiration.

I feel a beat of pleasure, but don’t let him see. ‘And I saw an ad and . . .’ I trail off. Actually, now I come to think of it, I don’t really want to admit how this trip came about. How I’d sworn off men after my last disastrous date and booked this tour on an impulsive whim to avoid being coerced on to an 18–30 holiday where I’d no doubt have to meet lots of men and enter a wet T-shirt competition. ‘I thought it sounded interesting,’ I say simply.

He gives me the same look that Stella gave me.

‘Blame my parents. They’re total bookworms. Hence my name: Emily Brontë Hemingway Albright.’