Page 58 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Ernie, however, appears to love them. ‘Get away!’

I laugh. ‘I know. It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’ I say ironically.

Shovelling a spoonful of peas into his mouth, he smacks his lips. ‘I bet you’re fighting them off.’

I get a flashback to me a few weeks ago, standing on the sidewalk in New York while John, the architect, tried to shove his tongue down my throat. ‘Kind of.’ I take a bite offish and offer a piece to Ernie. It’s delicious. We fall silent for a few moments as we eat.

‘No one you’ve got your eye on?’

My stomach flutters as I think of the handsome stranger at Winchester Cathedral. My Mr Darcy.

‘Actually, yeah,’ I say, trying not to blush and blushing anyway.

‘What? Back home?’

‘No, I met him here, on the tour.’

Ernie’s face suddenly pales and his smile fades.

‘Yeah, well, you be careful,’ he warns.

‘Of what?’ I laugh, and then suddenly realise he’s being deadly serious. ‘Ernie?’

He looks away, and won’t catch my eye. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he mumbles.

‘Tell me, what?’ I persist.

He hesitates for a moment, then sighs. ‘It’s not what, it’s who.’

I look at him, puzzled.

‘Look, I shouldn’t really be saying anything, but I’d hate you to get hurt.’

I relax. Oh, it’s that old chestnut again about broken hearts and being older and learning from experience.

‘Physically hurt, I mean . . .’

I drop my fork from my mouth. Did he just say physically hurt? Fuck. Don’t say there’s a murderer in our midst or something. My thoughts suddenly leap to Mr Darcy. No, surely not.

‘Who are you talking about?’ I say in a low voice, leaning towards him over the table.

‘Why, Spike Hargreaves of course,’ says Ernie, frowning.

I don’t know whether to feel relieved or horrified.

‘Spike Hargreaves?’ I repeat in disbelief. For a split second I almost take it seriously, then I burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I know he can be a bit of an asshole, but—’

‘He punched me once.’

‘He punched you!’ I gasp.

‘Broke my nose.’

‘He broke your nose!’

Not only am I in total shock at what I’m hearing, but the power of speech seems to have deserted me and all I can do is repeat after Ernie in a strangulated, high-pitched squeak.

‘It was five years ago now, but I still have trouble breathing . . .’