Chapter Eleven #2
‘. . . 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 baulks. 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.
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 onto 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 erase 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.