Page 99 of Me and Mr. Darcy

But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my thoughts then immediately turn to myself. This doesn’t bode well for the store. Ever since Mr McKenzie stopped working in the store, his wife has been pushing him to officially retire and sell the business, but he’s always managed to persuade her to keep it on. But now? I feel a pang of dread. Who knows what will happen.

I send a cheerful reply, wishing him a full recovery and telling them both not to worry, that I will be back soon and can’t wait to take over things again. I try to make myself sound as positive and capable as ever, but the worry is there. I know I can always get another job in a bookstore, but to work anywhere else would be like going from driving around in an Aston Martin to getting on the bus. And what about Stella? What would happen to her?

I try to calm myself. No need to panic just yet. Nothing is going to happen right away. I’ve got a few weeks to think of something. Maybe I could borrow the money to buy him out?

Yeah, right. And maybe you’ll win the lottery, Emily.

I feel a wave of tiredness as I look at the flickering glare of the computer screen. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, right now all I want to do is curl up under my bedcovers and catch up on my sleep. I go to log off but a new email pops into my inbox. I don’t recognise the address and the subject line is ‘Please read’. I peer at it suspiciously. It’s probably junk. I move my mouse over it to delete, then pause: [email protected]. The Daily Times? Isn’t that Spike’s newspaper?

Then I realise. Of course. Sbh. I don’t remember one of his middle names beginning with B, but these must be Spike’s initials.

My heart thuds. Immediately two thoughts hit me: (1) How’s he got my email address? (2) What’s he going to say?

I click on it with slight trepidation. I’m not sure what I’m expecting – a few sharp lines, an apology, a bitchy PS – but as I watch the email opening up I’m taken aback to see it’s a letter. I move my mouse downwards. One that runs into six, seven, eight whole pages.

I stare at them for a moment. Each page is filled with text, but at the bottom are pasted what appear to be extracts from newspapers.

‘Excuse me, have you nearly finished?’

Someone is talking to me and I look up sharply to see a few people hovering in the lobby, obviously waiting to use the computer.

‘Oh, sure . . . Just give me a minute.’ Turning back to the computer, I press ‘print’. There’s no hurry. So he wrote me a letter? So what? I’ll read it later, when it’s convenient.

Who am I kidding?

Less than two minutes later I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in my hotel bedroom, the pages of Spike’s email clutched in my hand. Catching my breath, I start to read.

Dear Emily,

The chances are you’ll delete this email before you ever read it. But, on the off-chance your curiosity is greater than your hate for me, right now you’re probably thinking I’m about to reiterate those sentiments that last night were so disgusting to you.

In which case, let me put your mind at rest and tell you that you don’t have to worry. You made your feelings pretty clear – in fact, I don’t think they could have been ANY clearer, so I think the faster we both forget about that, the better.

OK, that out of the way, I’ll cut straight to the chase. Last night you accused me of some pretty serious stuff and for personal reasons I was not prepared to explain or defend myself as I didn’t know what I could and should reveal. And anyhow, you’d made up your mind, so what was the point?

However, since then I’ve had time to think about it, and although it’s unlikely we’re ever going to see or speak to each other again, I still want you to know my side of the story. I would hate to think that you never knew the truth.

Now, obviously you don’t have to read this email. You can delete it, banish it to cyber hell for ever with just a click of your mouse – it’s up to you. But there’s some stuff you don’t know. There’s some stuff you SHOULD know. Afterwards if you still think I’m guilty, still believe I’m a liar and a vindictive bastard, then so be it. But to judge me without knowing all the facts isn’t fair – to you or me.

Last night you laid two serious offences at my door:

Lying to Maeve about Ernie and therefore basically ruining her first chance at happiness in years, maybe even her entire life.

Behaving despicably towards Ernie, a poor, defenceless old man who did nothing wrong but fall in love with my mother, causing me to fly into a jealous rage, make repeated threats to him, and culminating in me beating him up and breaking his nose without any provocation. And then – it gets worse – forcing him to quit his job at the Daily Times, which he did, as he was so terrified of me.

OK, so now we’ve established what you believe to be the truth, let me tell you my version of events:

I first met Ernie Devlin when he came to work at the Daily Times five years ago as one of the drivers of our courtesy cars. We would say hello and goodbye, exchange small talk, discuss football scores, that kind of thing. And he seemed like a nice enough bloke.

Then one night my mum came to meet me after work. That’s how she met Ernie. I was on a deadline, couldn’t get away from my desk, and so she had to wait half an hour in the lobby. The two of them got chatting – Mum loves to talk – and, well, the upshot was Ernie asked my mum if he could take her out and she said yes.

Now, I know you’re not going to believe this, but when she told me she’d been invited on a date I couldn’t have been more pleased for her.

My dad died when I was sixteen and since then it’s just been the two of us, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to have another man in her life. On the contrary. I loved my dad, but he’s gone now, and I don’t want her to be alone for the rest of her life. I want her to meet someone and live happily ever after. Who it is and what they do is irrelevant. I’m not a snob. He doesn’t have to be rich or successful. He just has to be a good bloke. And he has to love my mum.

So my mum and Ernie go on their date and then they go on another and another, until pretty soon they’re ‘courting’, as my mother likes to call it. I was delighted for her. She was the happiest I’d seen her since before my dad died. It was as if she was young again. And Ernie? He called when he said he would call. He was always punctual. Every time he turned up he’d have flowers or a small gift. He seemed like the perfect gent.

In hindsight, I think I should have been suspicious. He was too perfect.