Chapter Twenty-Six
Where am I?
I wake up lying face down. Slowly I roll my head to the side. It thuds dully. Ugghh. Next I curl my fingertips into the palms of my hands, feeling crisp, starched cotton beneath them. I’m in a bed. I peel open my eyes a crack. My bed.
I experience a lurch of relief, swiftly followed by confusion. How did I get here? I don’t remember going to bed. In fact, I don’t remember anything since— I feel a slight panic – I can’t remember.
I try focusing, but my head doesn’t seem to want to work properly. Not the memory bit, anyway. Befuddled, I peer blearily through my eyelashes. My room is still in darkness but for a lamp casting a glow in the far corner.
For a few seconds I don’t move. I just lie here, doing nothing but breathing in and breathing out, cocooned in a snug of blankets and praying for this fog of sleep and amnesia to lift.
And now, slowly, my eyes are starting to adjust. Fuzzy shapes are appearing out of the Anaglypta shadows and coming into focus: in the corner, the nylon jaws of my suitcase lie wide open, and there are items of clothing strewn everywhere – T-shirts, jeans, sweaters – a swathe of chocolate satin slung across the full-length mirror.
Of course. The dress. The New Year’s Eve ball. It’s all coming back to me now. Dancing with Spike, smoking that joint, bumping into Mr Darcy—
Mr Darcy.
Tentatively I roll my head across the pillow to the other side. My eyes follow like those in a haunted-house painting. My hangover starts thumping like a bongo drum. Slowly, slowly, slow-lee . . .
The pillow next to me is empty.
I stare distrustfully at it for a moment, almost expecting Mr Darcy’s dark head to materialise on the paisley cotton, then indignantly shove the thought aside. Of course I didn’t sleep with him! I’m not that kind of girl, and he’s not that kind of guy.
More’s the pity, whispers the lustful little voice inside me.
Ignoring it, I try recollecting the evening’s events. We were talking on the balcony, I remember that, and how sexy he looked, yup, I definitely remember that bit and— Ouch – my butt gives a painful twinge – of course, we went horse-riding and my horse bolted and then . . .
Blank.
‘You’re awake.’
A voice startles me and I take a sharp breath as I see a figure looming over me.
A face coming into close-up.
Spike.
Make that two Spikes.
Woozily I look up at him and try focusing. For a horrible moment there’s not just one selfish lying pig of a journalist, there’s another selfish lying pig of a journalist until, squinting hard, both blurry images merge into one.
‘What time is it?’ I mumble groggily.
He glances at his watch. ‘Nearly four a.m.’
I try to sit up, but he stops me with a wet flannel.
‘No, you need to lie still.’
‘Huh?’ I groan, then, realising my head is killing me, I flop back down onto the pillow.
‘You’ve got a bit of a nasty bump on your head, but don’t worry, you’re going to be OK,’ he soothes, pressing the cold flannel to my forehead.
Tentatively I touch my forehead. ‘Ouch,’ I whimper, flinching as my fingertips brush against a lump the size of an egg. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I went looking for you – after the phone call,’ he adds, looking sheepish. ‘When I found you, you’d completely passed out.’
‘Where did you find me?’ I murmur, still desperately trying to piece everything together.
‘Near the stables.’
‘Oh . . .’
My mind starts whirring. I must have hit my head on something and blacked out, and yet somehow managed to stay in the saddle until Lightning found her way back to the stables .
. . Or maybe I rode back to the stables but I just can’t remember because I fell off as I was dismounting and hit my head on the floor and it’s made me lose my memory . . . Or maybe—
‘I bumped into some kids when I was looking for you.’ Spike interrupts my confused cerebral ramblings. ‘They said they’d last seen you smoking a joint with them.’
‘Oh . . . right, yeah.’
Now that might explain my amnesia.
‘And drinking two glasses of champagne.’
That as well.
‘One of them was yours,’ I point out weakly.
Spike sighs and scratches self-consciously at his burgeoning beard.
I notice he’s taken off his jacket and tie, undone his collar and rolled up his sleeves to reveal two thick, hairy forearms, one of which is now disappearing into the neck of his shirt.
He starts awkwardly scratching his collarbone.
He’s obviously feeling guilty about the whole thing. Either that or he’s got fleas.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he begins self-consciously. ‘I feel somehow responsible – that’s why I offered to watch you – make sure you were OK. Someone had to stay. You were pretty out of it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say stiffly. How embarrassing.
Why did it have to be Spike who found me?
Talk about bad luck. He must be crowing right now.
‘But I’m fine now, so you can go,’ I add, and pull up the bedcovers in a ‘closed for business’ kind of metaphor.
Which is when I suddenly realise that I’m not wearing my pyjamas. In fact, I am not wearing anything.
I am totally butt naked.
Mortified, I sharply tug the eiderdown even tighter to my chest. I don’t even want to think about who took off my clothes. ‘If you could close the door behind you,’ I prompt.
Spike looks at me as if he’s going to say something, but then picks up his jacket and tie and snatches at the door.
He opens it, hisses, ‘Fuck,’ then slams it shut again.
I jump.
He turns to me, his face flushed, his jaw set hard. ‘Look, it’s no good, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to say to you, but there’s never been the right time and – well – I’m just going to come out and say it . . .’ He steps towards me.
Bracing myself for an angry outburst, I mentally start frantically stacking up ammunition to retaliate.
‘I’m crazy about you.’
I stop stacking and look at him in total astonishment – and confusion. His hands are held stiffly down by his sides and his body is rigid.
‘Is this supposed to be one of your jokes?’ I manage to stammer.
‘No, not at all,’ he replies quickly. ‘I’m totally serious.’ He pulls up a chair and sits down, straddling it with his legs and hugging the back. He looks at me, waiting for my reaction.
Now, when I say I’m totally speechless, I mean it. I stare at him incredulously. He’s got to be joking, right? We hate each other’s guts.
Only he’s not smiling or winking or doing any of the stuff he usually does, which means—
Oh, shit. He’s really serious.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Emily,’ he’s now saying, his words coming out even faster than normal, falling over themselves in their haste, ‘and I know this is all probably coming as a bit of a surprise, but I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re amazing . . .’
Someone please tell me I’m still out cold and this is some bizarre nightmare. This cannot be happening. It just can’t.
‘. . . Really amazing.’
But it is.
Oh, God.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
All this time I thought Spike hated me, and yet all along he was really into me.
I almost feel myself blushing. Despite the fact that I hate Spike I can’t help feeling just the teensiest bit delighted. Flattered even. I mean, who doesn’t like being showered with compliments? Even if they are from a liar/love-wrecker/old-man-basher.
‘Even though you know that when I first saw you I didn’t fancy you in the slightest . . .’
Hang on, what was that?
‘. . . far from it. Blondes are usually my type. In fact, I’m a total sucker when it comes to the whole glamorous red-lipstick thing.’ He smiles with embarrassment. ‘And you didn’t have any of that going on . . .’
Excuse me? My delight is suddenly taking a U-turn.
‘. . . and if I’m honest, I thought you were a bit dull . . .’ He laughs ruefully.
Stunned. There’s no other word for it. STUNNED.
‘. . . but these past few days I’ve really got to know you as a person, and even though I tried to dislike you, and trust me I’ve tried, I can’t.
I mean, I’m mad about you, Emily. I’ve even managed to overlook the fact you’re an American .
. .’ Having obviously warmed up now, he emits another chuckle at what he obviously thinks is a joke.
But I’m not laughing. I’m angry.
‘. . . I always swore I could never go out with an American . . .’
Very angry.
‘. . . but you’re different . . .’
Fucking furious. Damn right I’m different, you fucking asshole, I want to scream.
‘. . . and so, well, I just wanted to tell you how I feel and I was wondering . . . well, hoping, really, that you might feel the same way. About me, that is. And that maybe you’d have dinner with me tonight, if you’re not doing anything.’
He stops talking – finally – and, evidently pleased with his monologue, looks at me expectantly. I survey him with every drop of restraint holding my anger tight inside me.
He says ‘hoping’, but there’s no doubting he’s pretty confident he’s going to get a positive reaction. That I’m going to suddenly swoon into his arms with grateful relief. Now, more than ever, I want to slap him.
Instead, I fold my arms and look at him coldly. ‘And what about Emmanuelle?’
Not only is he a liar, love-wrecker and an old-man-basher. It would now appear he’s also a potential cheat. Seriously, how can I resist?
‘Oh, didn’t I mention it? We broke up last night,’ he says as if to reassure me.
I feel a twinge of something that could be mistaken as pleasure, but I quickly reject it.
‘It was never right between us. We fought like cat and dog. Plus, let’s be honest, she was totally out of my league. You were right the other day when you said I needed to go out with a normal girl.’
‘And I’m normal, am I?’
‘Yeah,’ he enthuses, pulling his chair closer. ‘Absolutely.’
I feel stung. No girl ever wants to be called ‘normal’, do they? You want to be called ‘special’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘sexy’ and ‘passionate’ and a million other words that mean you’re unique. ‘Normal’ is just another word for ‘ordinary’.