Me and Mr Darcy (15 page)

‘Sunny side up?’ I suggest instead, looking at her face for some kind of recognition and, seeing nothing, feeling like a bit of an idiot. God, I must look like a right tourist.

‘Um . . .
scrambled
?’ I ask uncertainly.

Suddenly she breaks into a smile and I feel a beat of relief.

‘And could I have—’ I’m about to say egg whites, but decide against it. I don’t want to look like one of those fussy Americans who ask for everything to be non-fat and on the side, I think, remembering Spike’s comment last night. ‘Just a non-fat latte,’ I say instead.

Oh, shit. I just did, didn’t I?

‘I mean . . . um . . . Tea is just fine,’ I say, gesturing to the teapot in the middle of the table. ‘When in Rome . . .’ I laugh breezily, but the waitress merely gives me a puzzled look and scuttles away.

‘Nothing better than a nice cup of tea,’ approves Rose, taking a rather loud slurp as if to prove it. ‘Although of course the tea they serve here is ghastly.’

‘Oh, really?’ I nod, ignoring my hangover, which is screaming out for a coffee. Like I said, I’m keen to try all these English traditions, and this is one of them.

Reaching for the teapot, I squeeze my fingers through the fine bone-china handle. I hold it gingerly, reminded of the time I held my cousin Lisa’s newborn baby: at arm’s length, away from my chest, terrified I was going to drop and break it. It’s surprisingly heavy – the teapot, not the baby – and my wrist wobbles. Saying that, I’ve also got the shakes from alcohol poisoning, which isn’t exactly helping matters.

‘
So?
’

‘Mmm, delicious.’ I smile, taking a sip of weak, milky tea. ‘Very refreshing.’

Rose purses her lips. ‘I’m not referring to the tea,’ she chastises. ‘I’m referring to your . . .’ she hesitates, choosing her words carefully ‘. . .
encounter.
’

Aww, bless, how chaste. Underneath the booming voice and guise of heavy eyeliner, Rose really is still just a sweet little old lady, I think affectionately. ‘Nothing happened. It was entirely innocent,’ I say reassuringly.

‘I’m sure it was, my dear.’ She nods. ‘But let me tell you, men are
never
innocent in their thoughts.’

I stifle a smile. No doubt she’s now going to warn me about the dangers of men and how I have to protect my honour. How cute.

‘I was young once, you know.’

I nod kindly and settle back in my chair. What joy. Rose is going to tell me tales of courtship and romance. Of being wooed by handwritten love letters and being recited poetry to under a spreading oak tree . . .

Scenes from novels flash through my mind and I feel a wistful pang. Oh, to be young and single in those days. Things were so very different.

‘Long before I became a famous actress in the theatre, I met Larry, my first husband . . .’

I feel a blip of surprise. Her
first
husband? How many husbands has Rose had? I wonder.

‘. . . He was a US serviceman based here during the war . . .’

Ah, you see. That explains it. He probably died in action and she was left heartbroken for years. No doubt she only married again later in life for companionship, but she never forgot her first love, their tender moments shared, their slow, sweet courtship.

‘. . . I was only nineteen years old . . .’

See. I knew it.

‘. . . and I’d never even seen a penis . . .’

My reverie screeches to an abrupt halt. Hang on a minute. Did she just say
penis
?

‘. . . I was somewhat of a late bloomer. Tilly, my best friend, had already done it with her young chap . . .’

No. Please. No. There must be some mistake. What happened to handwritten love letters?

‘. . . several times in fact. Both missionary and from behind . . .’

Arrrggh.

‘. . . It all came as quite a shock, I can tell you . . .’

For the love of Christ. Make this stop.
I’ve got a hangover.

‘. . . In those days all I was interested in was getting my hands on a pair of nylons, but Larry was interested in getting those great big Ohio hands of his on my—’

‘Full English breakfast?’ Like a white frilly angel, the waitress suddenly reappears at the table.

I almost cry with relief. Thank God. Another second and I don’t think I would have made it.

‘Yes, please . . . Oh, thank you.’ I smile gratefully as the waitress puts a huge plate in front of me.

And I mean
huge.

My stomach balks. Wow, that’s a lot of food for one person. I stare nervously at the glistening mound of eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and some kind of patty. Not to mention the slices of toast. And they say
Americans
eat huge portions.

‘Well, don’t just sit there looking at it. Tuck in,’ scolds Rose, who thankfully seems to have been steered off course from telling me all about her sex life. ‘You need to get some meat on those bones.’

Trust me, I have enough meat on these bones to last more than one series of
Survivor
, but I’m not going to argue with Rose. Picking up a fork, I cautiously survey my plate. Hmm, I wonder what this patty thing is?

Shaving off a slither, I tentatively taste it.

I get a very pleasant surprise. ‘Wow, this is delicious,’ I enthuse, taken aback. I cut a bigger slice. ‘What is it?’ I ask, savouring the juicy, salty taste. My hangover’s starting to feel better already.

‘Black pudding,’ beams Rose. ‘It’s always been a favourite of mine, too.’

‘Pudding?’ I mumble, as I chew hungrily. Those crazy Brits, I think fondly. A savoury dessert for breakfast. What will they think of next? ‘Mmm, yum, what’s it made of?’

‘Dried cow’s blood,’ says a male voice next to me, and I turn sideways to see Spike pulling out a chair and sitting down.

My jaws freeze mid-chew. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Black pudding’s made of cow’s blood,’ he says matter-of-factly, plonking down his tatty old notebook on to the table and helping himself to a cup of tea.

For a second I’m almost about to heave all over the table. Then I get it. Of course. Spike and his hilarious English sense of humour.

‘Very funny,’ I reply and continue chewing.

‘I’m not joking.’ He shrugs, yawning loudly without covering his mouth. He’s even more dishevelled than usual. He’s wearing a crumpled sweatshirt with some kind of stain on it, and there are dark rings under his bloodshot eyes. ‘You can ask Rose if you don’t believe me.’

‘OK, I will.’ Calling his bluff, I look across the table. ‘Rose, would you believe it, a certain someone just told me that this . . .’ I wave the piece of black pudding that’s speared on my fork. ‘. . . is made of cow’s blood!’ I give a little sarcastic snort.

Rose purses her scarlet lips. ‘Nonsense,’ she tuts, shaking her raven bob dismissively. ‘It’s not made of cow’s blood!’

I knew it. I throw Spike a triumphant glance. Cow’s blood indeed! As if I was going to fall for that! Defiantly popping the rest in mouth, I make lots of smug chewing noises: ‘Mmmmm . . . mmmmm . . .’

Then Rose has to go and say something I really don’t want to hear.

‘It’s made of pig’s.’

Urgggh.

I’ve cleaned my teeth twice, flossed
and
gargled with mouthwash, and I can still taste that . . . that stuff. OK, so I admit it’s delicious, but still. Dried pig’s blood? That has to be the most revolting thing I’ve heard. It’s like eating scabs.

Taking a glug of Diet Coke, I slosh it around my mouth and stare out of the coach window. We’re on our way to Winchester to visit the cathedral where Jane Austen is buried, and as we weave through the narrow streets I try to concentrate on the scenery and not my dodgy stomach.

The seat next to me is empty, Maeve is sitting somewhere towards the back, being interviewed by Spike for his article. I bristle at the very thought. No doubt he’s still cracking up about breakfast, but I’ve made a resolution. I’m not going to waste any more time getting annoyed about Spike. He’s
so
not worth it. From now on I’m going to Etch-a-Sketch him from my mind and concentrate on my trip.

‘We’ll be spending the next couple of hours exploring Winchester Cathedral, so if you’d like to gather your things together . . .’ our tour guide’s shrill voice fizzes over the microphone as we pull into the parking lot and come to a standstill.

Cricking my neck, I stare out of the window and up at the impressive piece of architecture with its intricately carved stonework and elaborate stained-glass windows.

Wow, this looks amazing. As the door swings open I eagerly grab my coat and stand up. I see Maeve making her way down the aisle towards me. For a moment I think she’s going to walk right past me. She mustn’t have seen me.

‘Hey.’ I smile as I shuffle into the aisle next to her. ‘How’s it going?’

She doesn’t turn round and for a split second I almost think she’s going to ignore me, but then she turns and nods. ‘Oh, Emily, hello.’ She seems a little flustered, but I ignore it. Maeve often seems flustered.

‘So, how did you and Ernie get along last night?’ I ask, leaning closer to make sure no one hears. I’ve been dying to ask her, but I haven’t been able to get her on her own. When we got back to the hotel after the pub I left her and Ernie chatting in the foyer and went to bed, and then this morning she’s been with Spike the whole journey.

‘Oh . . . um . . . all right,’ she says warily.

‘Just all right?’ I tease, giving her a little nudge. ‘I think you two make a lovely couple.’

‘Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if you kept thoughts like that to yourself,’ she snaps.

I look at her in disbelief. I don’t know who’s more shocked that she’s snapped, me or her.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Maeve. It was a joke. I didn’t mean—’ I break off as I notice that her eyes look suspiciously moist behind her glasses. ‘Hey, are you OK?’ I ask quietly.

There’s a pause as she swallows hard. We’re at the front of the coach now about to disembark, and I see her glance anxiously towards Ernie, who’s sitting behind the wheel. For a brief second I think she’s going to tell me something, but then she looks quickly away before he sees her.

‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit under the weather. I think I’ve got a cold coming,’ she mumbles, rushing down the steps and into the parking lot to join Rupinda and Rose.

Puzzled, I follow her. I see no evidence of a runny nose or as much as a sneeze. Something’s definitely up. But what? Walking home from the pub last night she seemed relaxed and in really good spirits. I was so drunk it was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other, but I remember her laughing at Ernie’s jokes and talking glowingly about her nieces and nephews. What could have happened between then and now?

I glance across the parking lot and see a familiar figure pulling out a packet of Marlboros from his breast pocket. Suddenly it dawns on me:
Spike
is what happened between then and now.

Hands dug deep in my pockets, I stride across the blustery asphalt. Spike’s standing apart from everyone, head bent into his cupped hands, trying to light a cigarette. ‘Hey, have you said something to Maeve?’ I hiss angrily.

So much for my resolution.

‘Excuse me?’ He looks up, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, please, don’t act all innocent with me,’ I snap, and I see him flinch a little. ‘What were you two talking about on the coach?’

‘I’m a journalist,’ he replies, snatching his cigarette from his lips and sticking it behind his ear. Throwing his corduroy shoulders back, he gives me a lofty glare. ‘I was conducting an interview.’

‘About Ernie?’

Spike’s face is impassive. ‘About Mr Darcy,’ he replies evenly. ‘Perhaps you’d care to answer a few questions yourself. When you’ve calmed down and got rid of your hangover.’

‘What hangover?’ I say sharply. As if on cue a wave of nausea wafts over me. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

And ignoring the lurching feeling in my stomach, I stalk past him. I don’t believe him. Not for a second. I definitely think he’s said something to Maeve about Ernie. But he is right about one thing: my hangover.

Feeling light-headed, I steady myself on the trunk of a tree. In fact, I think any minute now I’m going to pass out.

 

L
eaving the rest of the party behind, I quickly find a quiet patch of frosty grass behind the cathedral and collapse on to an empty wooden bench. Everything is starting to spin and I close my eyes. God, I’m feeling really dodgy now. Dropping my head between my knees, I start inhaling lungfuls of piercingly cold air.

I’ve no idea how long I remain like this, sitting here, taking deep breaths, but the next thing I know I suddenly hear the sound of footsteps crunching. I stop breathing and hold my breath. Who’s that? I stiffen and snap my eyes wide open. Probably Spike, come back to hassle me about the interview, I realise, with a horrible sinking feeling.

Remaining perfectly still, I keep my head between my knees and my eyes focused on the ground, childishly wishing that perhaps if I can’t see him, he won’t see me. Well, it used to work when I was five years old and playing hide and seek with my grandparents, I tell myself hopefully.

The crunching is growing louder, closer,
right by me.
A pair of feet suddenly appear in my field of vision. Just the tips. Then stop.

Double shit.

‘Ahem.’

He clears his throat and waits for me to look up. So he can gloat, no doubt, I tell myself, feeling tempted to ignore him and pray he gets the message and goes away. But I know there’s no chance of that. Spike’s a journalist. Persistence is his middle name.