Chapter Fourteen #2
Not that I have a garden, and they’re probably crazily overpriced like designer-type shops always are. But still, they are really cute . . .
That’s the thing about me. I might not shop for clothes, but I sure as well make up for it by shopping for other things.
Wandering aimlessly around the gift shop, I feel an itch to spend some money.
This is my third day on vacation and I still haven’t bought anything and my credit card is burning a hole in my pocket.
I flick through a couple of guidebooks and cast my eye wide across the various shelves and compartments.
Needlepoint cushions, cross-stitch sampler sets, ostrich-feather quills, Mr Darcy soaps (can you believe it?), cameo brooches .
. . I toy vaguely with the idea of buying a cameo brooch for Stella as I’m sure I read somewhere that Victoriana is the new boho.
Or was that boho is the new Victoriana? Oh, God, I can’t remember.
I spot a carousel of postcards. Ah, that’s a much safer option.
I start turning it slowly around, looking at all the different cards.
Oh, look, there’s a good one. I think about sending it to my parents, then catch myself.
They won’t be there, will they? I feel a twinge of something that feels like disappointment, but I quickly dismiss it.
Mom’s never been the kind of mom to stick postcards on the fridge, anyway, or even our drawings when we were kids.
No doubt it would just get lost under the pile of mail they’ll have to open when they get back from their trip.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I’ll send it to Mr McKenzie instead – I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.
And I’ll get one for Auntie Jean, too, I muse, turning the rack of postcards.
It turns right back.
What?
I turn it again. It stays like that for a few seconds, but then revolves slowly to the right. Huh. There must be someone on the other side. Gently, but firmly, I move it back to where it was and continue looking at the postcards. Hmm, this one is quite nice . . . It twirls round again.
This time I feel a pinch of annoyance. I push it back, only harder this time.
Right, that should do it, I think, feeling triumphant.
Immediately it swings back. I glare at it, infuriated.
Honestly, sometimes people are so rude. I grab hold of it, but now it won’t move.
There’s sort of a tussle. ‘Excuse me . . .’ I gasp, giving it a sharp tug ‘. . . but I happened to be looking at these first . . . Yeowwwikes.’
Suddenly it’s released and it twirls round furiously, nearly rattling off its pedestal.
I jump back as a face appears. It’s Spike.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ I scowl.
He’s wearing a woolly beanie hat and chewing on a red liquorice twirl. He looks at me for a moment, then holds up a postcard and waves it like a little white flag. ‘This is a good one.’
I glance at it. It’s a picture of Matthew Macfadyen playing Mr Darcy. He’s gorgeous, but even so, he’s not a patch on my Mr Darcy.
‘You know, I have to say, I just don’t see what all the fuss is about,’ tuts Spike, wrinkling up his brow and peering at the postcard.
I smile. Is that a twinge of jealousy I can detect in his voice? ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you. You’re a guy.’ I shrug.
‘What? You mean you agree with all those women in the poll? He’s your ideal date too?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod. I feel as if I’m bursting with this great big secret that I can’t tell anyone. ‘I’ve had a crush on him since I can remember.’
‘A tough act to follow, huh?’
‘Meaning?’
‘For us regular blokes,’ he says, sucking on his liquorice. ‘We’re never going to be able to live up to him, are we? It’s like everything. The reality is always more disappointing than the fantasy.’
I look at Spike’s shambolic figure. In his case it’s most definitely true.
‘I’m the same. My first love was Wonder Woman. I adored her. Normal girls didn’t match up. How could they? But in reality, do I really want to go out with a comic book super hero?’ he laughs.
I smile, despite myself.
‘No, what I really want is someone I can have a proper conversation with, who’s going to help me get the clues in the Daily Times crossword that I can’t, who’ll laugh at my corny jokes and share my passion for spaghetti Westerns.’
I get a flashback of him arguing with his girlfriend in the parking lot. Something tells me she’s not laughing at his jokes.
‘So why don’t you go out with a girl like that?’ I probe.
‘Now there’s a thought,’ he says, cocking his head on one side as if he’s only just considering the idea.
‘I dunno. Maybe because a girl like that is real. And that would mean being in a real relationship,’ he says, emphasising the words and rolling his eyes in mock horror.
‘I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. To be honest, I think it scares me. ’
He smiles sheepishly and looks at me in a way that makes me feel I should say something, but his honesty about his relationship has thrown me. I wasn’t expecting it.
A pause opens up and, feeling awkward, I turn back to the rack of postcards and resume choosing. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Spike studying me thoughtfully.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ he asks after a moment.
I glance up at him warily. ‘Is this for your article?’
‘No, I’m just curious.’ Having difficulty biting off a piece of twirl, he clamps it between his back molars and tugs hard.
‘About what?’
‘About why a girl like you is spending New Year by herself on a book tour.’ He begins gnashing the red liquorice between his teeth.
‘Who’s a girl like me?’
OK, so I’m being defensive, but do you blame me? So far I’ve already had ‘pretty dull’ and ‘average-looking’.
‘No, I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . .’ He gives up and sighs. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re a reporter and you’re writing an article too.’
I eye him warily, then decide to let him off the hook. ‘I manage a bookstore in New York,’ I say, trying to keep the pride out of my voice.
‘Crikey, that’s great,’ says Spike in admiration.
I feel a beat of pleasure, but don’t let him see.
‘And I saw an ad and . . .’ I trail off.
Actually, now I come to think of it, I don’t really want to admit how this trip came about.
How I’d sworn off men after my last disastrous date and booked this tour on an impulsive whim to avoid being coerced onto a vacation where I’d no doubt have to meet lots of men.
‘I thought it sounded interesting,’ I say simply.
He gives me the same look that Stella gave me.
‘Blame my parents. They’re total bookworms. Hence my name: Emily Bronte Hemingway Albright.’
‘Blimey,’ he says, aghast.
‘I know. It’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s not as bad as mine.’
I look at him curiously.
‘Napoleon Caesar Nelson Hargreaves,’ he rattles off, his face serious. ‘My father was in the navy. He’s obsessed by military leaders.’ He rips off another chunk of liquorice.
‘Naturally.’ I nod, trying to stop my mouth from twisting into a smile. ‘He’d have to be, with a name like that.’
‘Uh-huh,’ chews Spike.
‘So tell me. How did you get the nickname Spike?’ I ask, busting him.
‘Actually, it’s funny you should ask that,’ he replies, unfazed.
‘Isn’t it?’ I stifle a giggle.
‘It’s, um . . . the name of a battle,’ he replies, keeping a completely straight face. ‘The Battle of Spike.’
‘Oh, you mean the famous Battle of Spike.’ I nod, playing along.
‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asks, his eyes twinkling.
‘Oh, yeah, it’s very well known in America.’ I nod gravely. There’s a pause and then, ‘Tell me, what were they fighting over again?’
‘Um . . .’ He scrunches up one eye as if thinking hard. ‘I think it was postcards.’
‘Ah, yes, of course, I’d forgotten.’ I tut. ‘Postcards.’
Our eyes meet briefly and despite our straight faces amusement flashes between us.
‘Talking of which. You’re right.’
‘I am?’ He looks surprised.
‘Yep, that is a good one.’ And plucking the postcard out of his fingers, I turn and head towards the cash register. Battle of Spike, indeed. With my back to him I break into a smile. That’s the annoying thing about Spike. He can be kind of cute when he wants to be.