Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
‘Well, I have to say, I think it’s very romantic,’ comments Hilary, who has changed her mind about the toast and is now chewing a mouthful of cereal.
‘Romantic?’ I repeat dismissively, before I can help it. ‘Hardly.’
‘But he came to your rescue,’ whispers Maeve, her eyes shining behind her glasses. ‘He saved you.’
The ladies have been hell-bent on setting up us ‘two young ones’ since the beginning of this tour, and now they’re obviously using this turn of events to back up their theory. God, if only they knew what really happened in the early hours of this morning. It was anything but romantic.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that—’ I begin, but I’m cut off by Miss Steane, who suddenly swoops upon the table with a clipboard.
‘Yes, indeed, Miss Albright. You were very fortunate to be found by Mr Hargreaves. If it wasn’t for him, you could have caught your death of cold out there—’
‘We wanted to take you to the hospital, but with it being New Year’s Eve accident and emergency would have been packed—’
‘But luckily Spike had done a first-aid course so he checked you over—’
‘And he even offered to stay with you in your room, just to make sure—’
‘Concussion can be a funny thing, you know.’
As all the women speak at once, chiming in over one another, my feelings towards Spike wobble.
Gosh, I had no idea he did all that. I never even said thank you.
In fact, I said all those mean, horrible things instead – rude, selfish, self-obsessed, arrogant, liar – I wince as I remember a few.
God, I really went for it, didn’t I? That’s not like me at all, I sound like such an asshole.
Probably because you were such an asshole, Emily.
Guilt punches me in the stomach with a mean left hook and winds me, but I’m not going to take it lying down.
Yes, but what about Ernie? I hear myself cry in justification.
What about the abominable way he behaved towards him?
Spike deserves everything he gets. Why should you have been nice to him?
He wasn’t nice to Ernie, was he? I think indignantly.
‘Speaking of which, where is our wonderful Mr Hargreaves?’ booms Rose. ‘I haven’t seen him at breakfast this morning.’
My stomach lurches with dread. Oh, Jeez. Justified or not, I can’t face him now. I just can’t. Bracing myself for him to walk in at any moment, I bury my face in my coffee cup. Talk about awkward.
‘He’s gone back to London,’ says Miss Steane matter-of-factly.
What? My head flicks up. ‘Gone back?’ I gasp in astonishment, and then, even more astonishing, feel a stab of disappointment.
‘Yes, he had to leave early. Urgent business to attend to.’
There’s murmuring at the table – they are evidently as surprised as I am.
‘But what about the article?’ Hilary is asking, folding her arms in readiness to cross-examine Miss Steane. It’s not hard to imagine her as a partner in a top legal firm and a local magistrate.
‘It’s as good as finished. He’s done all his interviews,’ she replies simply.
‘But he never interviewed me,’ I suddenly hear myself protest.
My outburst catches me by surprise, and I see Miss Steane glance over at me.
‘Perhaps you gave him the impression that you didn’t want to be interviewed,’ she opines.
‘Yeah, perhaps.’ I nod, although I know there’s no perhaps about it.
‘In my experience, Emily, when anything concerns a man, you have to make things very clear. Women love figuring a man out, and we’re very good at it.
But men have no interest in figuring us out, isn’t that right, ladies?
’ Miss Steane looks around the table for approval and is met with chuckles of concurrence.
‘And this is never more true than when it applies to affairs of the heart. As Charlotte Lucas said in Pride and Prejudice, “It is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels.”’
As Miss Steane finishes speaking I catch her looking right at me and I get the same feeling I had last night at the ball. As our tour guide I know she’s simply quoting Jane Austen, but you’d almost think the words of advice are her own, as if she knows a lot more than she’s letting on.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ booms Rose. ‘Nice chap. I would have liked to say goodbye.’
There are nods of agreement, and as everyone begins murmuring their regret at not having wished him a Happy New Year, invited him to drop in anytime he was passing, or attempted to fix him up with their ‘single but adorable’ niece, I make my excuses and leave the table.
So that’s it, then. Spike’s gone back to London. And I catch a late flight to New York the day after tomorrow. Which means we’ll never have to see each other again. No more arguments. No more anything. It’s over. The end. Boy, what a relief.
But even as I’m telling myself that, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m trying to convince myself. That somewhere, deep inside of me, is a nagging doubt that I might have made a really big mistake. And that this isn’t relief I’m feeling, it’s regret.