Me and Mr Darcy (14 page)

Screwing up one eye, I watch Cat, who’s zipping around the table, potting ball after ball with alarming skill and ease. At the moment we’re winning – girls against boys.

‘Whoo-hoo, you go girl,’ I cheer, raising my empty pint glass. ‘Get ’em by the balls.’

Oh, my God. That’s so funny, isn’t it?
Balls. Pool. Men.
I suddenly get the giggles.

‘Hey, come on, Cat,’ whines Lee, pretending to beg as she goes to pot our last ball. ‘Have mercy on us.’

‘Oi, speak for yourself,’ grumbles Spike, looking over at me with this really sour expression as if he’s just sucked on a lemon. I don’t know why but it makes me giggle even harder. ‘We don’t need any favours.’

‘I think we do, mate,’ smiles Lee good-naturedly. ‘Cat’s a pub champion.’

‘True, but she’s got a handicap,’ says Spike pointedly.

‘Oh, is it like golf?’ I cry excitedly, though I’m not exactly sure why as I don’t play golf, or know anyone who plays golf, or is even remotely interested in golf for that matter. Grinning, I direct my question at Lee, who like Cat, is totally adorable. I mean, really. I just love these guys. They’re such a sweet couple. In fact, I think I’m going to invite them to stay with me in New York.

‘Um, no,’ replies Lee awkwardly. He throws Spike a look.

‘But then I don’t understand . . .’

I trail off. Oh, I get it.
I’m
the handicap.

‘Bugger. Missed it,’ gasps Cat, grabbing everyone’s attention before I’ve got time to come back with a crushing put-down for Spike. Because I’m sure I’d think of one, it’s just it’s escaping me right now.

We all look at the table, just in time to see our last ball gliding past the pocket in the far corner and gently tapping the side, where it comes to a halt.

‘Bad luck, ladies,’ tuts Spike, who’s doing this thing of stretching the cue behind his shoulders. His shirt tails pop out of his trousers and I suddenly catch more than a glimpse of his pot belly, which is all freckly and
covered
in blond fuzz. It runs all the way down past his navel to—

‘You were so near.’

‘And yet so far,’ finishes a grinning Lee. Ducking a playful punch from Cat, he looks at Spike. ‘So, who’s gonna show them how it’s done?’

Shrugging, Spike puts down his cue.

‘Leave it to me, mate.’ He winks.

We all wait as Spike begins circling the table, working out his next shot. Back and forth he goes, leaning across the table from one side, then from the other, until finally satisfied, he stands upright and begins making a big show of rubbing chalk on to his cue as if he’s Tom Cruise in
The Color of Money.

Oh, please. And this from a man who’s so far managed to pot just three balls.
Two of which were ours.

‘For Christsakes, just get on with it,’ I can’t help muttering under my breath.

At least I thought I muttered it, but it must have come out a bit louder as Spike looks up and shoots me daggers.

Looking away, I catch Cat’s eye, who throws me a ‘secret smile’, as if to say, ‘Aw, look at you two, pretending to argue.’ I pull a face and try shaking my head to show her she’s got completely the wrong idea, but she just grins all hippy-dippily and wraps her arms drunkenly round Lee.

For a wistful moment I watch them, all coupled up and happy, and I get a sense of hope that maybe there are some decent guys out there, then I glance back at the table. About to take his shot, Spike is leaning so close to the table his belly is almost resting on the baize. In fact – uggh – it is.

As Spike flashes me his naked stomach yet again, an image of the stranger I met this afternoon in the museum suddenly pops into my head. I bet his belly wouldn’t rest on the table, I muse, imagining the six-pack that was no doubt lurking underneath his shirt.

I watch Spike sliding the cue through his fingers.

He has bitten fingernails. I
hate
bitten fingernails.

That’s one thing I really remember about the guy in the museum. He had lovely hands, with long fingers like a piano player. In fact, I know I’m supposed to be off men, but this guy was different. There was something really – how can I put it? –
dignified
about him.

Unlike Spike, who’s now making a noise like a pig.

Honestly, the man really is a slob, I think, letting out a burp. Oops, excuse me. This cider is making me a bit gassy.

‘Uggghhh.’ Grunting, Spike hits the white, misses his ball and instead pots the black.

‘Oh, shit, mate,’ gasps Lee, but his voice is drowned out by Cat, who erupts like a shrieking volcano and rushes over to me.

‘Yippee, we’ve won, we’ve won!’

‘Put it there,’ I hear myself exclaiming, high-fiving Cat.

She laughs delightedly. ‘Oooh, I love how you Americans do that.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I laugh back, though to be honest I don’t really, as I never high-five anyone – in fact, I don’t know what just possessed me to high-five Cat.

‘I think that deserves a drink,’ laughs Cat. ‘Your round, boys.’

At that moment a bell sounds twice. How odd. I thought I heard a bell five minutes ago.

‘Sorry, that’s the end of last orders,’ grins Lee. ‘You weren’t quick enough.’ Then seeing my puzzled expression, explains, ‘That means closing time.’

‘Awww,’ groans Cat, her face falling. ‘Well, we’ll have to do this again sometime.’

‘Definitely.’ Honestly it’s amazing, I’ve only known Lee and Cat a few hours, but I’m feeling quite emotional. I’ve even got the hiccups.

I glance over to the bar, where Maeve and Ernie are engrossed in conversation, their heads bent low, their bodies turned towards one another. You’d have to be blind not to read the body language, and as I catch Maeve’s eye her face flushes like a teenager on a first date. Aww, would you look at that? They look so cute together.

Gesturing for her to wait for me, I turn back to Cat and Lee and launch into a round of hugs and goodbyes and the promise of keeping in touch, until we’re eventually broken up by the barman, who appears to collect our glasses.

‘There you go,’ I hiccup, passing him my empty one. Stumbling to my feet, I turn unsteadily to leave when I notice that Spike’s pint is still half-full.

‘Couldn’t finish that, huh?’ I hear myself slurring. God, I really am a lot more drunk than I thought. Still, I don’t think he noticed.

‘Nope,’ he replies, not looking at me as he hands his cider to the barman.

I feel a hot flush of satisfaction. This is so great. First I beat him at pool, then I drink more than him. That’ll show him!

‘’Fraid I’m a complete wuss when it comes to alcohol. Never could stand the hangovers.’ He grins smugly.

Huh? What? I hiccup loudly and put my hand up to my head, which is beginning to throb.

‘Make sure you drink lots of water,’ he chortles.

And with that he’s walking away across the pub and I’m left behind with a bad case of the hiccups and the woozy feeling that I’ve just been had.

 

‘
B
eep-beep-beep . . . beep-beep-beep
. . .’

The next morning I sleep through my alarm and wake up with only ten minutes left to make it in time for breakfast. Not that I feel like breakfast. I have the
worst
hangover. My tongue feels like a small furry animal, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and that alarm is like a pneumatic drill boring through my skull.

‘Shuddup.’

I hit the ‘snooze’ button for the umpteenth time and let my arm flop down on to the bedspread like a leaden lump. It still feels like the middle of the night. Probably because back in New York it still
is
the middle of the night . . . For a joyous, fleeting moment I imagine I’m back home in my apartment and I can sleep for hours, and hours, and hours . . .

But I’m not. And I can’t.

I have to get up.

The alarm starts beeping again.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stagger zombie-like – eyes closed, arms outstretched, groaning loudly – into the bathroom. Once I’ve taken a really hot shower I’ll feel a lot better. There’s no better hangover cure than being blasted by strong jets of water for five minutes to wake you up, I tell myself, thinking back to my power shower in my apartment and the countless times it’s brought me back to life. God, it’s just what I need. Tugging off my pyjamas, I blearily open my eyes. It takes a moment to focus, and then—

No. Surely not. It can’t be.

This
is the shower?

A few minutes later and I’m standing shivering in the small, pink, plastic bathtub, sprinkling myself with a sort of brass hose-type attachment. Having shampooed my hair, I’m now trying to rinse it with the feeble trickle of lukewarm water, but it’s not easy. I seem to be doing a better job of rinsing the flowery wallpaper than my scalp. Plus, it’s really difficult to get the temperature right. I fiddle with the taps. It’s either freezing cold or—

‘Argghhhh.’

Hot enough to cause third-degree burns.

I drop the attachment. It falls clattering into the bathtub, affecting the water pressure, which suddenly changes from feeble-cum-nothing to Niagara Falls-type gushing and takes on a life of its own, spinning round like a whirling dervish and spraying scalding water everywhere.

‘Jesus!’

Trying to get out of the way, I now lose my balance and bash my shin against the tub.

‘Frigging hell,’ I yell, hopping around before promptly slipping on the pink plastic and sort of bellyflopping out of the bathtub and on to the pink shagpile bathmat.

For a moment I lie prostrate, cheek wedged up against the bathmat, limbs outstretched, feeling like one of those scene-of-the-crime chalk figures. I close my eyes. I’m tempted to lie here and go back to sleep, but I can’t. I’m supposed to be on vacation. A soapsud drips down the side of my nose and I shiver. And I’m not going to let a little thing like a hangover spoil that, now, am I?

A few minutes later I’m finally ready. I’ve managed to rinse my hair in the sink with a cup, but decided to pass on my fuzzy legs. After all, it’s the dead of winter – who’s going to see them? And anyway, I need the extra layer to keep me warm. I shiver, walking into the dining room, which is distinctly chilly.

That’s another thing I’m learning about English people. They’re so hardy! In New York when the temperature dips below zero we’re slaves to our central heating, but here they just put on another sweater.

I’m wearing three already.

‘Well, good morning,’ roars Rose through a mouthful of toast.

I’ve noticed that Rose doesn’t really mix with the other ladies on the tour and this morning is no exception. She’s sitting alone at an empty table wearing a sparkly black turtle neck and more diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor. By the looks of the screwed-up napkins, toast crumbs and empty teacups, most people have already eaten breakfast.

Yet it’s not even nine thirty, I realise, glancing at my watch. Will someone tell me why that is? Why do old people love getting up early? They’re retired. They can sleep till noon. Why, when the rest of us would do anything for that extra five minutes in bed, are they getting up at the crack of dawn when they don’t have to?

Baffled by one of life’s great mysteries, I pull out a chair.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I reply. ‘Apart from a bit of a hangover—’

‘Well, lucky you. I didn’t,’ she interrupts, pouring another cup of tea and adding three heaped teaspoons of sugar. ‘My room was far too hot, and the mattress was horribly lumpy. I didn’t sleep a wink all night.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I sympathise, deciding against mentioning that I woke up at 4 a.m. with jet lag and could hear her snoring through the wall. ‘Poor you.’

‘Poor me indeed,’ grumbles Rose, clanking the spoon against the sides of the cup as she stirs. ‘However, it seems others were enjoying themselves.’ Leaning closer, she suddenly fixes me with a heavily mascaraed eye. ‘A little birdie told me you and our journalist friend were embroiled in a little tête-à-tête last night at the local drinking establishment.’

My cheeks tinge with colour. ‘I wouldn’t call it that. We just bumped into each other in the local pub,’ I protest hurriedly, wondering why I feel the need to explain when nothing happened. ‘We played pool.’

Rose raises a painted eyebrow. ‘Quite,’ she says, clicking her tongue. Looping her finger through her teacup, she leans back against her chair and sips her tea. It’s more than obvious she doesn’t believe me, and I’m about to protest further when a teenaged waitress appears in full frilly-aproned garb.

‘Would madam care to order breakfast?’ she asks, hovering awkwardly at the head of the table, her eyes darting around like a frightened bird.

My stomach is still swilling round like a washing machine set to cycle ‘nauseous’ and I really don’t feel like eating anything. But I know I have to. Even if just because I can’t take two Nurofen on an empty stomach.

Quickly I scan the menu. Usually breakfast for me consists of snatching a low-bran muffin from the Italian bakery next to the bookstore, but this is all cooked. ‘Um, what would you recommend?’ I ask, feeling a bit fazed.

The waitress stares at me fearfully. ‘We do a full English breakfast,’ she suggests meekly.

I have no idea what this involves, but I’m keen to embrace local traditions. ‘Sounds great.’ I smile, closing my menu.

The waitress’s face flushes with relief and she makes a little scribble on her pad. ‘And how would you like your eggs, madam?’

‘Over easy,’ I reply automatically. That’s how I always have my eggs.

She looks at me with a baffled expression.