Me and Mr Darcy (13 page)

‘Rubbish,’ I admonish. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

I suddenly feel very protective of Maeve. God knows what happened to wreck her self-esteem, but it must have been something pretty bad. She’s just so down on herself the whole time.

Maeve throws me a grateful look. ‘You’d never guess, but I used to be the life and soul before . . .’

‘Before what?’ I ask, as she trails off.

She hesitates, as if battling with something inside of her, then says flippantly, ‘Before I got old,’ and smiles.

And that’s the other thing about Maeve. She can’t tell fibs either.

We continue walking. Ahead of us we can now see the pub. All lit up, it’s wrapped in ivy that’s turned deepest red, like a great big Christmas present, and high above the door swings a sign that reads, ‘Ye Olde King’s Head.’ It looks so inviting – a snug refuge from the prickling cold of the night – and as we grow closer I can almost smell its beery warmth.

‘It’s nothing like this.’

‘Eh?’

‘New York,’ I explain, turning to Maeve. ‘You asked me what it was like.’ I pause, trying to work out how to describe it, then give up. ‘It’s a million different things to a million different people. You should go experience it for yourself.’

‘Aye, I’d love to,’ she says dreamily, her eyes bright behind her glasses.

And for a brief moment it’s as if I can see a real spark inside Maeve, the spark of a young girl, the spark of someone with big dreams and possibilities.

‘Maybe if I was younger, if I had my time again, eh?’

But now it’s gone again, and she’s got that resigned look back on her face. It’s almost as if she’s determined to put herself down, not to get her hopes up. I wonder why? What’s she so scared of? What could have happened to Maeve to make her give up on everything? To leave her with zero self-esteem. To make her so goddamn sad?

But of course I can’t ask her, can I? I’ve barely known her two minutes. And anyway, it’s none of my business, is it? Who do I think I am –
Dr Phil
? And reaching for the handle, I push open the wooden door and we go inside.

 

W
e’re greeted with a rush of noise, heat and cigarette smoke. The ceiling is low with thick, gnarly beams running across it, and the uneven walls are painted a dark maroon and hung with horse brasses, faded sepia photographs and sets of antlers. A Christmas tree stands in the far corner, fighting for space among the wooden benches and tables.

It looks like the entire village is crammed in here. Middle-aged couples eating bar food, groups of older men downing pints and a bustling crowd of twenty-somethings in skinny jeans and full Friday-night make-up.

And there was me expecting a few sleepy locals, I realise, feeling slightly taken aback to see such a modern crowd. A couple of ruddy farmers maybe, with muddy boots and flat caps, playing dominoes, like in the James Herriot books.

Which were set in Yorkshire, not Hampshire, during the Second World War, reminds a little voice inside my head.

Embarrassment twinges. Honestly, talk about being the cliché of an American tourist. If I’m not careful I’ll soon be wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and calling everything ‘quaint’.

‘What can I get you?’

After finally manoeuvring our way to the bar and squeezing between a couple of elbows, I manage to attract the attention of the bartender – sorry, barman.

‘Maeve, what would you like?’ I ask, tugging off my hat and gloves and making a start on peeling off the numerous layers of clothes I’m wearing. But before she’s had a chance to answer I hear a male voice.

‘I’ll get these.’

I turn sideways. A man in a checked flannel shirt is standing next to me, smoking a pipe. He looks really familiar but for the moment I can’t place him.

‘Ernie. Your coach driver,’ he explains, seeing my confusion.

‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I smile. ‘Sorry, for a minute there . . .’

‘I know. Mine’s an easy face to forget,’ he jokes, his eyes twinkling.

Instantly warming to him, I laugh. ‘I’m Emily . . . and this is Maeve.’ I gesture towards Maeve, who blushes at her introduction.

‘Maeve? Now that’s an interesting name,’ replies Ernie, giving her his full attention.

Maeve looks as if she wants to disappear through the stone-flagged floor. Avoiding his eye, she looks instead at her feet.

‘It’s Irish,’ she says, her voice so quiet it’s practically lost in the din of the pub.

Puffing on his pipe, he nods. ‘It means “intoxicating”,’ he adds evenly.

Startled, she looks up and meets his eye. He smiles warmly, and finding herself caught, Maeve has no choice but to smile back.

Watching from the sidelines, I get the feeling that didn’t just happen by accident on Ernie’s part. Still, I’m impressed. That’s the first real smile I’ve seen from Maeve all night.

‘Now, then.’ Turning his attention back to both of us, Ernie asks brightly, ‘What can I get you two ladies to drink?’

I’m not usually indecisive – I’m strictly a Corona, Sauvignon Blanc or Jack and Coke girl – depending on whether I’m in the mood for beer, wine or liquor. But on this occasion I’m faced with something different:
cider.
Not that they don’t have cider in the bars in New York, but usually it’s just a choice between apple or pear. Here they’ve got all kinds of different varieties, called such bizarre names, like, for example, Old Pig’s Squeal, Punch Drunk, Badger’s Brew . . .

I summon up my courage and go for one called Legless but Smiling.

‘So, how is it?’ asks Ernie, raising his bushy eyebrows.

I glance at my half-pint of cloudy amber liquid and take a tentative sip. It’s warm and sort of wheaty and makes my teeth feel furry, like they do when I’ve eaten rhubarb. I swish it around my mouth for a minute, then swallow. It’s got that kick at the end that you only get when there’s serious amounts of alcohol involved.

‘Trust me, it’s not called Legless but Smiling for nothing,’ quips the barman, who’s leaning on the bar, also waiting for my response.

‘Well?’ echoes Maeve, who’s sipping a sherry.

‘I like it,’ I decide after a moment.

‘See, what did I tell you? This New Yorker’s got balls,’ cheers Ernie proudly.

Shaking his head, the barman throws me a look of respect. ‘There’s not many that can stomach that brew, I have to tell you.’

‘In that case, I’ll have a pint.’

A voice cuts into our conversation and all four of us turn to see where it came from. I spot a familiar figure further along the bar and my heart sinks.
Great.
It had to be, didn’t it?
Spike frigging Hargreaves.
Where did he spring from?

Seeing us all staring at him, he nods amiably. ‘And whatever these two ladies are having,’ he continues to the barman, ignoring Ernie.

Because obviously he didn’t see him, I assume, but then I notice a look pass between them. What the . . . ? And I thought outside was icy.

‘Why, thank you, but I’m fine . . . We’re fine . . . thank you,’ replies Maeve, while Ernie looks down and mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘troublemaker’.

My ears prick up at once. ‘Are you talking about Spike?’ I hiss.

Ernie gives me a look that says I shouldn’t have heard that.

‘Why do you say that?’ I persist, intrigued.

‘Journalists. Always sticking their nose into other people’s business.’ He shrugs, but I get the distinct feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.

‘Oh, no, you must have got Mr Hargreaves wrong,’ protests Maeve, leaping to Spike’s defence. ‘He’s not like that. He’s always been so charming.’

‘Not to me he hasn’t,’ I retort. ‘He’s been an asshole.’

I look at Ernie, who nods in silent agreement. I’m dying to quiz him more, but Maeve, I notice, is now looking quite disconcerted. Reluctantly I drop the subject, but as Ernie changes the conversation to grandchildren, I can’t help watching Spike taking a sip of his pint of cider. Honestly, how pathetic. Ordering a whole pint because I ordered a half. Feeling all riled up again, I watch him a moment longer, and then before I know what’s come over me, I hold my breath and swig back the rest of my cider.

‘Actually, I’ll have the same again,’ I manage to croak as I gulp down the dregs. Putting the empty glass defiantly on the bar, I throw down the gauntlet. ‘This time make it a pint.’

I can feel glances flying around me, but I ignore them.

‘I thought you Americans didn’t drink,’ smirks Spike from across the bar. ‘Being fitness freaks and into all those faddy diets.’

‘That’s LA. I’m from New York,’ I reply dryly.

‘Great,’ says Spike tightly. ‘Well, in that case, why not make it a pint this time?’

Boy, is he pissed off about those braised carrots.

‘Yeah, why not?’ I reply, forcing my brightest of smiles.

As I watch the barman draws two pints of frothy I feel a twinge of concern, but I brush it aside indignantly.
Please.
I spent three years at college drinking Jägermeister. No need to worry about me. I’ll be just fine, I tell myself, as my pint is placed in front of me.

‘Cheers.’ Holding his own aloft, Spike looks me directly in the eye.

It feels like a game of chicken.

‘Cheers,’ I reply archly, picking up my pint and steadfastly meeting his gaze.

I mean, c’mon. How much stronger than Jägermeister can this stuff be?

Quite a bit, actually.

Ten minutes later I’m chatting to Ernie and Maeve when my lips start feeling a bit funny. It’s the strangest sensation. A bit like when I go to the dentist and he gives me an injection to make my mouth go numb.

‘. . . and that’s Theresa. She’s a bonny lass. Nearly nineteen now, I’ll be damned, and studying to be a nurse . . .’

And I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Ernie’s produced pictures of his grandchildren from his wallet, but I can feel myself zoning out.

‘. . . and little Thomas, only six and already a rascal. Do you have grandchildren, Maeve?’

‘Um . . . no, no, I don’t.’

Maybe I should try to mingle, meet some people my own age. Yeah, that sounds like fun. I peer woozily around the bar. Hmm, saying that, everyone here seems to know everyone already. It could be kind of tricky. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Go up to a complete stranger and tap them on the shoulder?

Someone taps me on my shoulder.

I twirl round unsteadily and come face to face with a tiny, ebullient blonde wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and a disarming grin.

‘Um . . . hi.’ She gives a little wave, then stuffs her hands into the pockets of her combat pants. ‘Your friend told us you’re staying up at the Old Priory . . .’

‘My
friend
?’ I repeat, puzzled.

‘Yeah.’ She nods, gesturing over to Spike, who’s now deep in conversation with a tall, shaven-headed guy.

‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t call him a friend
exactly
,’ I confide.

She looks triumphant. ‘I knew it!’ Dipping her head to hide her face behind her hair, which I can now see has all these tiny little braids woven in it, she leans closer and hisses, ‘I said to Lee, there’s no way those two are just friends.’

Er, what?

‘I could just tell. Straight away.’

The cider has dulled my reactions so it takes me a moment to realise she’s completely misunderstood.

‘I’m like that, you know. I can just read people.’

‘Oh, no, I didn’t mean—’

‘I’m Caroline, by the way.’

‘Oh, hi, I’m Emily.’ I smile, concentrating hard on appearing sober. I’m fast realising why this cider got its name.

‘Friends call me Cat. Like Cat Deeley, you know, on the telly—’ She breaks off and tuts loudly. ‘Bloody hell, I’m such a dummy. You probably won’t know who she is, will you? Being from America . . .’

‘Actually, she presents some show in the States.’

‘Does she
really
?’ Cat greets this news with such genuine, wide-eyed fascination you’d think Cat Deeley was a personal friend. ‘That’s great. I really like her. And she’s so pretty. In fact I wish we shared a bit more than a name.’ She lets out a snort of laughter and quickly covers up her nose with her hand. I notice she’s got a little tattoo of a star between her thumb and forefinger.

‘Yoah, Cat.’

We’re interrupted by a loud yell from across the pub and I turn to see the shaven-headed guy standing with Spike over by the pool table beckoning her over.

Cat breaks into a huge smile. ‘That’s Lee, my boyfriend,’ she explains. ‘We’re coming,’ she yells loudly, then turns back to me sheepishly. ‘I’m supposed to be inviting you to join us for a game of pool, but once I get talking . . .’ She rolls her eyes. ‘So, are you up for it?’

Her invitation catches me by surprise.
Am I?
On the one hand I don’t want to be within a snooker cue of Spike Hargreaves, but on the other hand Cat seems really lovely and a game of pool does sound like fun . . .

‘Yeah, sure. That sounds great.’ I smile, tipsily. ‘Um, but there’s just one thing. About Spike—’

‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ she interrupts, her face suddenly serious. ‘I won’t let on I know. I can be very discreet when I want to be.’ And before I’ve got a chance to explain, she links her arm through mine and begins steering me towards the pool table.

Four games later I’ve eaten my first ever packet of pork scratchings – which I thought were going to be gross, then I tasted one and discovered they
were
gross, but also delicious – learned that Cat loves Lee, the Killers and Topshop (that’s the second time I’ve heard about this place. Like Stella, she referred to it in a hushed, reverential voice)
and
finished my pint of cider.

Which in total means I’ve polished off one and a half pints and I’m feeling quite drunk. Or, as Cat taught me they say here in England,
pissed.
But it doesn’t matter, as I’m actually playing really well. Funny, as for the last three shots I haven’t even been able to focus on the ball without getting double vision, but it’s not a problem as I’ve worked out a really easy way to fix that. I just close one eye. Clever, huh?