Page 56 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Blimey,’ he says aghast.

‘I know. It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s not as bad as mine.’

I look at him curiously.

‘Napoleon Caesar Nelson Hargreaves,’ he rattles off, his face serious. ‘My father was in the navy. He’s obsessed by military leaders.’ He rips off another chunk of liquorice.

‘Naturally.’ I nod, trying to stop my mouth from twisting into a smile. ‘He’d have to be, with a name like that.’

‘Uh-huh,’ chews Spike.

‘So tell me. How did you get the nickname Spike?’ I ask, busting him.

‘Actually, it’s funny you should ask that,’ he replies unfazed.

‘Isn’t it?’ I stifle a giggle.

‘It’s, um . . . the name of a battle,’ he replies, keeping a completely straight face. ‘The Battle of Spike.’

‘Oh, you mean the famous Battle of Spike.’ I nod, playing along.

‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling.

‘Oh, yeah, it’s very well known in America.’ I nod gravely. There’s a pause and then, ‘Tell me, what were they fighting over again?’

‘Um . . .’ He scrunches up one eye as if thinking hard. ‘I think it was postcards.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, I’d forgotten.’ I tut. ‘Postcards.’

Our eyes meet briefly and despite our straight faces amusement flashes between us.

‘Talking of which. You’re right.’

‘I am?’ He looks surprised.

‘Yep, that is a good one.’ And plucking the postcard out of his fingers, I turn and head towards the cash register. Battle of Spike, indeed. With my back to him I break into a smile. That’s the annoying thing about Spike. He can be kind of cute when he wants to be.

Chapter Fifteen

Dear Mr McKenzie,

Well, here I am in Bath, England, home to one of our bestselling authors! Having a great time. Wish you were . . .

Shit. I can’t put ‘wish you were here’ to my boss, can I? I don’t wish he was here. Even if he is a sweet little old man with natty taste in bowties and not really like a boss at all. I cross it out and replace it with:

You would love it here. Hope things are all OK in the store.

As I think about the store I feel a seed of worry. That shop’s like my baby. Before I left I wrote masses of Post-It Notes and stuck them everywhere, together with a list of my contact numbers in case of an emergency, but even so . . .

Emily, quit panicking. It’s a bookstore. What kind of emergency is there going to be, for Godsakes? You run out of copies of He’s Just Not That Into You?

Actually, that did happen once, and I had to deal with a store full of irate females, but since then I’ve always made sure I’ve got tons in stock. Anyway, I’m sure everything will be fine.

Chewing the end of my biro, I look back at the postcard. There’s still quite a bit of blank space left. I agonise. God, I never know what to put on these things. I always want to sound witty and interesting, and I always end up writing something really obvious. Like ‘Here I am in Bath, England’ when it’s pretty obvious I’m here in Bath, England, as that’s what it says on the front of the postcard. Oh, I give up.

BACK VERY SOON. [I write it in big letters and underline that bit twice.]