Chapter Twenty-Seven
I wake up the next morning with ‘crying eyes’.
You know the ones: the horrible swollen peepers that you get when you combine crying + sleeping. Bloodshot slits with big puffy bags that refuse to respond to any of those age-old beauty tips involving teabags, cold teaspoons and Preparation H, and leave you with no option but to hide them.
Which explains why I’m going down to breakfast wearing my sunglasses. In January.
Leaving my hotel room, I let the door fall closed behind me and hobble slowly along the patterned pink carpet.
My ankle hurts and I’m still feeling a bit shaky.
Last night I must have been suffering from shock.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but that’s obviously why I burst into tears.
It had nothing to do with anything Spike said – even though it might appear like that – no, it was definitely the shock of the fall.
Plus, of course, the concussion I got from hitting my head. I rub my forehead. The lump’s still there, but it’s shrunk quite a bit. I’ll probably end up with a nasty bruise as a souvenir from my trip.
I feel a twinge of self-pity. When I booked this trip I’d had visions of myself wafting around the English countryside in various colour-coordinated outfits, my spangly scarf thrown nonchalantly over my shoulder, a copy of Pride and Prejudice in my hand.
I was going to be sexy, yet bookish. An American girl abroad, turning her back on the shallowness and disappointments of modern-day life and embracing a world steeped in history and literature.
A world filled with quaint country pubs and roaring fires – in front of which I’d be curled with my book, sampling a local custom or two and making jovial banter with the villagers, most of whom would be wearing tweed.
I wasn’t supposed to be going around getting drunk and stoned, into huge arguments and knocked off horses and nearly killed.
As if to remind me, my head begins to throb naggingly.
I’m distracted by the faint burble of my phone and, digging it out of my bag, I look at the display. Stella. I feel a wave of relief. Boy, do I need a friend right now.
‘Hey, Happy New Year. Got the message,’ she says cheerily as I answer. ‘I wanted to find out how the ball was.’
‘Oh, it was great,’ I reply with forced cheeriness in an attempt to match hers. Reaching the staircase, I pause and sort of hover near the grandfather clock.
‘So tell me all about it.’
‘Well, it was in this amazing house, and there was a string quartet and dancing and champagne and . . .’ My eyes start watering again. ‘Oh, God, Stella, I had the most awful row,’ I blurt.
‘No way.’
‘Yeah, I did. And it was a really huge one . . .’ My voice goes all wobbly and high-pitched, and I start furiously blinking back tears.
‘Aww, Em, what did you go and do that for?’ she reprimands me teasingly, trying to make me laugh. ‘My fling went and flung himself at about twenty other women, so I need to live vicariously through yours.’
I don’t laugh, and hearing nothing but a faint sniffling on the other end of the line, she gets serious. ‘Come on, tell Auntie Stella, what did you and this Fitzwilliam guy argue about?’
Suddenly I realise she thinks I’m talking about Mr Darcy.
‘Oh, it wasn’t with him.’
‘It wasn’t? Well, who was it with?’ she asks, surprised.
‘Spike.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, Em. Who on earth’s Spike?’
‘The asshole.’ I sniff.
‘Ahhhh, the cute asshole,’ says Stella. And there’s something in the way she says it that makes me feel defensive.
‘I never said he was cute,’ I protest.
‘You didn’t have to,’ she replies knowingly.
‘What are you, some kind of psychic?’ I snap, annoyed.
‘Oh, so he is cute.’
‘OK, OK, so he’s cute,’ I admit under pressure. ‘Now will you stop going on about it?’ I’m starting to feel very frustrated that this phone conversation is not going the way I wanted. You know, lots of female support, the ‘Yes, he is a dickhead; no, of course none of it’s your fault’ kind of thing.
Instead, I’m being badgered and insinuated at.
There’s a triumphant silence on the other end of the line.
See what I mean?
‘So what did you guys argue about?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I sigh wearily.
‘Well, I’m not going anywhere,’ offers Stella kindly.
I hesitate, then before I can stop it, the floodgates open and it all comes pouring out.
‘Well, first I discovered he’d told lies about our driver, Ernie, to Maeve, this sweet Irish lady who I think really liked him, and then yesterday Ernie told me himself that Spike had punched him for going out with his mom . . .’
‘What!’
‘. . . and then last night at the ball we were dancing and his girlfriend called him, and he just ignored me so I ended up smoking a joint . . .’
‘You smoked a joint?’
‘. . . and went horse-riding . . .’
‘In a ball gown?’
‘. . . but then I must have hit my head and blacked out because the next thing I know I’m waking up naked in bed and Spike’s there . . .’
‘No way!’
‘. . . and he tells me he’s crazy about me . . .’
‘Holy shit.’
‘. . . and then we have this huge argument and he storms off.’
There’s a stunned silence on the other end of the line.
‘Stella?’
‘Wow, Em, I’m supposed to be the one on the wild vacation. Jeez, if I’d known a book tour could be that wild, I’d have come with you!’
I smile. ‘I guess it does all sound a bit crazy.’
‘Crazy? It sounds fantastic!’ gushes Stella, enviously.
‘Trust me, Mexico is totally dull in comparison. All that’s happened here is a couple of pathetic water sports competitions and a few all-night margarita parties.
I never thought I’d say it, but believe me, I don’t want to see another margarita again.
In fact, to tell the truth, I’m really looking forward to going home .
. . Talking of which, have you heard from Freddy? He hasn’t returned any of my texts.’
I think about my conversation with Freddy last night. Him telling me how much being in love sucked. All at once I feel very emotional again.
‘Hey, are you OK?’ asks Stella, suddenly aware of my silence.
‘Not really,’ I reply feebly.
‘Sorry, there’s me prattling away. So. How do you feel about him?’
‘Who? Spike?’
‘Well, you’ve barely mentioned the other guy,’ says Stella pointedly.
I bristle. ‘I still think he’s an asshole. Even more so now,’ I say defiantly. ‘In fact, now I also think he’s a liar and a bully.’
‘So what are you gonna do?’
‘I don’t know. What did you do about Scott?’ I ask, remembering our last conversation.
‘You mean after I threw a pitcher over him?’ laughs Stella. ‘Simple. I ignored him. If you do that, he’ll soon get the message.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do,’ I decide firmly, pulling myself together. It’s the lack of sleep that’s making me emotional. Nothing more.
‘What? You’re going to take my advice?’ she gasps in disbelief. ‘Wow, that’s a first. What’s come over you?’
Leaning back against the wall, I think about this last week, about everything that’s happened. I’m still struggling to get my head round it all. ‘I’m not sure exactly,’ I say finally. ‘I’m really not sure.’
We say our goodbyes, and of course as soon as we hang up I remember the dress. Damn, I meant to mention it again. Though I wonder why she didn’t. I guess it must have slipped her mind, I decide, descending the staircase; after all, Stella’s not exactly renowned for having the best memory.
Entering the dining room, I try to appear as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to be wearing sunglasses at 9 a.m., on New Year’s Day. Hopefully no one will pay any attention and I can just slip in and out.
‘So you’re alive!’
On second thoughts, perhaps not.
I glance over to see Rose, Maeve, Hilary and Rupinda. Sitting round a table, they’ve all stopped what they’re doing to stare at me. Now I know how it must feel to be famous.
And not in a good way.
‘Well, good morning, Emily,’ Rose is barking. ‘And a Happy New Year.’
Her voice slices right through me and I smile weakly.
‘Got a little bit of a hangover, have we?’ she chortles loudly, waving a thickly buttered English muffin at me.
‘A little bit.’ I nod, sitting down at the empty chair they’ve pulled up for me. Smiling gratefully, I reach for the coffeepot. My hand trembles. This morning I think I’m allowed to dispense with the English traditions and forgo the Earl Grey.
‘We were all very worried about you,’ whispers Maeve, leaning close and placing her hand reassuringly upon mine.
‘What happened exactly?’ demands Hilary, reaching for a slice of toast.
Oh, God, questions, questions. I feel a flurry of panic. This is what I was dreading.
‘I’m not sure . . .’ I reply, feeling my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. ‘I hit my head.’
‘You were gabbling all kinds of nonsense,’ chimes in Rose.
‘I was?’ I feel a beat of alarm. Hurriedly I take a sip of coffee. I need the caffeine urgently.
‘Romantic horse-rides, moonlit castles, poetry . . .’
‘Mr Darcy,’ adds Hilary, raising an eyebrow.
I freeze, my mouth filled with coffee. It’s lukewarm and slightly bitter. Hilary looks at me suspiciously. Or maybe that’s just me being paranoid. I try thinking of an excuse.
‘Well . . . er . . . you see . . .’ I start my sentence not having a clue where it’s going.
Fortunately, I’m rescued by Rupinda. ‘No need to explain, we all have our fantasies about Mr Darcy.’ She winks, taking a sip of her usual hot water and lemon. ‘Though I must say, yours are a lot more inventive than mine.’
‘Oh, I’ve always had an overactive imagination,’ I joke. ‘Ever since I was a little girl.’ I smile gratefully at Rupinda, relieved to have escaped what was no doubt going to be a very awkward conversation.
‘Thank goodness Spike found you, hey?’ says Hilary.
Only to find myself slap bang in the middle of another.
‘Um . . . yeah . . .’ I murmur vaguely. I really don’t want to talk about Spike.
The ladies, however, obviously have other ideas.
‘Ah, yes, the wonderful Mr Hargreaves,’ smiles Rupinda dreamily.