Chapter Thirteen #2
Aha, but it’s as I thought, I note with a sense of satisfaction.
Now I can see his bottom ones I notice they’re all crooked.
Not too bad, but definitely orthodontically challenged, I decide, trying to find some small reason not to find him attractive and realising that it’s not working.
He’s annoyingly attractive. Even with those insanely crooked bottom teeth.
‘Crikey, you don’t mince words, do you?’ he’s saying, shaking his head and scratching the patch of bristles on his chin.
‘Neither do you,’ I reply.
He looks at me, not understanding.
‘Yesterday. We were on the coach, you were on the phone,’ I begin, feeling self-righteous. ‘I was in the bathroom.’
He crinkles up his forehead, trying to think back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’ he begins, then suddenly trails off. All at once his smile crumples and he inhales loudly through his teeth. ‘Oh, fuck.’
He looks so mortified I feel an intense sense of satisfaction.
And then – I get a niggle. I thought I’d feel really triumphant, but actually, his discomfort isn’t making me feel that great.
And as for all the anger I felt towards him, it appears to have disappeared and instead I’m .
. . I flail around, trying to grab the tail of my thoughts.
To tell the truth, I’m not sure what I am.
‘I thought you were referring to the article in the Daily Times. I saw you reading it when I came in.’
I feel my cheeks tinge as he gestures towards the newspaper I’ve tried and failed to hide down the side of the armchair.
‘Listen, I know you must think I’m a complete bastard—’
‘Now we’re talking the same language,’ I cut in belligerently.
He ignores my sarcasm. ‘Look, I can explain. You’ve got me all wrong. You’re taking it all out of context. I didn’t mean it like that, I was in a shitty mood, I’d had a huge row with my girlfriend . . .’
‘You? Have a girlfriend?’ I mock, pretending to be surprised.
There’s a pause and I can tell he’s dying to retaliate, but instead he clenches his jaw and continues: ‘I was talking with a friend, just joking around, taking the piss. It’s an affectionate thing. It’s what we British do,’ he adds.
He looks desperate.
‘I might be American, but I’m not stupid,’ I retort. ‘Just pretty dull and average-looking.’
He winces.
‘Unlike your gorgeous French girlfriend,’ I blurt, unable to stop myself.
Oh, shit, where did that just spring from? Why did I just say that?
For a moment Spike looks shocked, then his face floods with realisation. ‘Oh, that’s what all this is about.’ Squaring his shoulders, he seems to reinflate.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Whoah . . .’ Stretching out my hand, I stop him right there. ‘You can’t pull the “nothing” trick on me. I’m a woman, remember. Nothing always means something.’
‘And I wonder why I’ve never understood women,’ he mutters, taking a gulp of brandy.
I shoot him one of my scary looks.
‘Look, let’s drop it, shall we?’ he suggests.
I think about it. For, like, a second.
‘No, I’m not going to drop it,’ I reply stubbornly. Even though while I’m saying it I know that I should. But that’s my biggest fault, I’m stubborn to the point of mulish.
He hesitates, as if weighing me up to see if I’m serious enough. ‘OK, have it your way.’ He shrugs in surrender. ‘You’re jealous,’ he says simply.
‘Jealous?’ I gasp, feeling little hot knives of anger pricking me all over. ‘Of what?’
‘Emmanuelle,’ he says, as if it’s obvious.
Simultaneously my brain registers two thoughts:
1) Not only does she look fabulous in bright-red lipstick, which makes my teeth look yellow; and look stylish in chic turtle-neck sweaters and knotted Hermès scarves, while I stumble around H&M like a drowning woman clinging to anything sparkly, but her name is really pretty and so much nicer than boring old Emily. (2) You arrogant fucking asshole.
I go with thought number two.
‘You arrogant asshole,’ I curse.
Spike’s head goes back, like a boxer who’s just taken a jab.
‘I am not remotely jealous of any woman that has to go out with a man who has zero personality, appalling manners and wears corduroy jackets with patches on the elbows.’
We both glance down at his jacket.
‘You don’t like the patches?’
His innocent question disarms me, pricking my anger as if it’s a balloon. I want to be angry. I’ve a right to be angry. But for some reason, I just can’t stay angry.
Surveying his jacket, I wrinkle up my nose. ‘They’re a bit Simon and Garfunkel.’
He absorbs this comment. ‘I like Simon and Garfunkel,’ he says simply.
‘I do too,’ I confess.
He meets my eye and smiles. I smile back, albeit begrudgingly.
There’s a pause.
‘So, when do I—’
‘Well, I guess—’
We both start speaking at the same time and then stop.
‘You first,’ he gestures.
‘No, it’s OK, go ahead.’
He shrugs. ‘I was just wondering when you were going to tell me about Mr Darcy.’
His question completely blindsides me. I try not to let even a flicker cross my face, but it’s like someone just dropped a ten-ton weight on my chest.
‘Me and Mr Darcy?’ I squeak. Oh, shit. What does he know? What did he see?
Spike gives me a curious look. ‘Yeah, I need to interview you, for the paper.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ I nod, feeling both relieved and a bit ridiculous.
‘Tomorrow?’
I’m all jumpy, but I try to appear casual. ‘Sure, whenever.’ I shrug, acting like a pouty teenager instead.
‘Now it’s your turn.’
‘Um, excuse me?’
‘You were saying . . .?’
That I met Mr Darcy again today and I really like him and I can’t stop thinking about him and – oh – I think I’m going mad.
‘Um . . . nothing. Just that it was getting late.’
I try to gather my thoughts. Easier said than done when your thoughts are whirling round all over the place like leaves in a storm. Spike. Emmanuelle. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Spike. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy. Mr Darcy.
Right at that moment the grandfather clock next door begins softly chiming.
Saved by the bell.
‘Wow, midnight. I should go to bed.’ Quickly releasing my knees, I hoist myself up from the snug of the leather armchair. ‘Before I turn into a pumpkin,’ I quip, making a feeble attempt at humour.
‘And I turn into Prince Charming.’ Spike smiles ruefully.
I look at him uncertainly.
‘That was a joke,’ he adds.
‘Obviously,’ I reply.
There’s a pause and he regards me for a moment as if he’s thinking about something, but I can’t read his face.
‘Well, night, then.’
‘Yeah, night.’
He sort of salutes me with his brandy and I give an awkward little wave. I came down here to clear my mind, but I’ve only made it worse.
A yawn overwhelms me and I suddenly realise how tired I am. No wonder I’m all confused. I’m so jet-lagged I can barely remember my own name. And clutching my book to my chest, I turn and head out of the drawing room. Once I’ve had a good sleep I’ll feel loads better.