Chapter Twenty-Eight
Being New Year’s Day, we’re given a break from our busy itinerary.
Instead, a whole day of screen adaptations of Jane Austen books are going to be shown in the drawing room, followed by a series of discussions.
First up on the list, and scheduled for right after breakfast, is the movie adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen.
I decide to pass. It’s a great movie, and Matthew Macfadyen is a babe, but I’ve seen it twice already.
And anyway, I don’t feel in the mood for watching a movie.
To be honest, I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on anything for thinking about last night.
But not the parts I want to think about.
Like, for example, my moonlight ride with Darcy, how he recited poetry to me, that delicious moment when everything sort of stopped and he was about to kiss me, Spike calling me horrible—
See! It’s done it again. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. As soon as I try to think about my evening with Mr Darcy my mind veers off course and snaps back to what happened with Spike.
Stop it, a loud voice barks inside my head. I don’t care, OK? I don’t care about Spike, or what he had to say. Like I said, it’s over. I’m never going to see him again, so what does it matter?
Walking into the lobby, I’m about to just go back to my room and catch up on some more sleep, when I spy a computer tucked away in the corner.
Actually, maybe I should check my emails while I’m here.
Not that I’ll have many, what with it being over the holidays and everyone being away.
Plus, all my friends and family have my phone number, so if there was anything important, they’d call or text.
But you never know. And anyhow, it will only take a few minutes.
Clicking on to Internet Explorer, I access my web server and type in my address and password.
I watch the little egg-timer as the page waits to download.
The hotel is big on its miniature soaps and showercaps, but modern technologies such as high-speed internet or wireless are still light years away and instead it’s good old-fashioned dial-up.
Finally it connects, and I move the mouse onto my inbox.
It opens up, showing me I’ve received twenty-four junk emails offering me scam prizes and thirty per cent off books at some book club.
That’s my mom for you. I told her the last thing I needed was to buy books online, but she signed me up anyway, and now I get all these emails cluttering up my inbox.
Highlighting them all, I delete them and continue down.
The first one I see is from Freddy – he emails me occasionally, usually around Stella’s birthday, though sometimes it’s just to see how I am.
He’s sweet like that. I open it. Sure enough, he’s saying it was nice to talk to me yesterday, apologising for not enquiring after my trip and hoping I’m having a lovely time, and then there’s something else:
As Stella’s best friend, I want your advice on something.
I know you’ve always been aware of my true feelings for her – and yesterday you made me face up to those feelings.
I love Stella, I always have, but I guess I’ve just been burying my head in the sand as I know she’s not in love with me.
But while she’s been away I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.
(Don’t panic, I’d already made this decision before our conversation, so don’t feel responsible!)
Anyway, I decided that, you know what, perhaps she’s right.
We can only ever be friends. So with that in mind I’ve been on a couple of dates this past week.
Nothing serious, but I’m not sure how to tell Stella, which is why I haven’t returned her calls.
I don’t think she’s gonna be upset – knowing Stella, she’ll probably be really pleased for me – but it still feels a bit weird.
That was partly the reason I called you yesterday, I wanted your take on it, but we didn’t have time to talk properly.
Anyway, I thought I’d send you an email instead.
She texted me just this morning asking me if I was OK, so I feel I have to say something. Any suggestions how to break the news?
Wow. So Freddy’s finally got fed up with waiting for Stella.
I knew it was going to happen eventually, but I can’t help feeling disappointed.
I really wanted those guys to get it together.
Saying that, I’ve got a feeling that Freddy’s got it wrong about Stella being pleased for him.
Despite all her protestations to the contrary, I’ve got a sneaky feeling that when she discovers he’s dating again, Stella might just realise her feelings are not as platonic as she thought.
A thought strikes. Immediately I dismiss it. No, I can’t. That would be wrong. Freddy told me in confidence. Then again . . . maybe he was secretly hoping I would . . .
Would what, Emily? Hit ‘forward’ and type in Stella’s email address?
As I press ‘send’ and I watch the email disappear from my screen into cyberspace, I feel a touch guilty. Who do I think I am? A modern-day Cupid? Firing emails instead of arrows?
But I get over that pretty quickly. Maybe this will finally make Stella see sense. Maybe it won’t. Maybe they’re both going to kill me. But I think it’s still worth a shot. Just because I’ve made a total mess of my love life, it doesn’t mean everyone should.
I turn back to my inbox. OK. Now, what else?
Hmm, there’s an ecard from a friend in Chicago, a couple from my bank .
. . Oh, there’s one from Mr McKenzie. Automatically I feel a stab of worry.
I hope there’s no problem with the figures for the stock orders, I think, clicking on it anxiously.
Oh, hang on, maybe we’ve had some complaints from customers about those copies of Pride and Prejudice we just got in, the ones with all those blank pages.
I meant to email Mr McKenzie about that, but it slipped my mind. Kicking myself, I start reading:
Dearest Emily,
This is Audrey McKenzie here, and I’m writing on behalf of my husband, William.
Only this email isn’t about incorrect stock orders or complaints about misprints. I only wish it was.
Two days ago he suffered a slight stroke and had to be admitted to hospital.
It was all a bit of a worry, but fortunately we were very lucky.
William is a tough old boot and he’s going to be absolutely fine.
I’m not sure I will be, though! He’s currently recuperating at home and is already complaining he’s bored and badgering the doctors to let him go back to work!
However, in the meantime I’ve got him under lock and key. We’ve currently closed the store until your return, at which point we’ll need to arrange a meeting to discuss the store’s future, and obviously your position.
But I would like to use this opportunity to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for all the hard work and dedication you’ve shown for McKenzie’s over these past five years.
And to apologize for bringing you such news over the holiday season, but William and I felt it was better that you were kept informed about everything, at all times.
Safe trip back and let’s speak on your return.
Best wishes,
Audrey and William McKenzie
Of course my initial reaction is to thank God he’s OK. Mr McKenzie is more than just a boss to me. If anything happened to him, I’d be so upset.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my thoughts then immediately turn to myself.
This doesn’t bode well for the store. Ever since Mr McKenzie stopped working in the store, his wife has been pushing him to officially retire and sell the business, but he’s always managed to persuade her to keep it on.
But now? I feel a pang of dread. Who knows what will happen.
I send a cheerful reply, wishing him a full recovery and telling them both not to worry, that I will be back soon and can’t wait to take over things again.
I try to make myself sound as positive and capable as ever, but the worry is there.
I know I can always get another job in a bookstore, but to work anywhere else just wouldn’t be the same.
And what about Stella? What would happen to her?
I try to calm myself. No need to panic just yet. Nothing is going to happen right away. I’ve got a few weeks to think of something. Maybe I could borrow the money to buy him out?
Yeah, right. And maybe you’ll win the lottery, Emily.
I feel a wave of tiredness as I look at the flickering glare of the computer screen.
So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, right now all I want to do is curl up under my bedcovers and catch up on my sleep.
I go to log off but a new email pops into my inbox.
I don’t recognise the sender and the subject line is ‘Please read’.
I peer at it suspiciously. It’s probably junk.
I move my mouse over it to delete, then pause as I read the address: somebody with the initials SBH and it’s from the Daily Times? Isn’t that Spike’s newspaper?
Then I realise. Of course. I don’t remember one of his middle names beginning with B, but these must be Spike’s initials.
My heart thuds. Immediately two thoughts hit me: (1) How’s he got my email address? (2) What’s he going to say?
I click on it with slight trepidation. I’m not sure what I’m expecting – a few sharp lines, an apology, a bitchy PS – but as I watch the email opening up I’m taken aback to see it’s a letter. I move my mouse downwards. One that runs into three, four, five, six whole pages.
I stare at them for a moment. Each page is filled with text, but at the bottom are pasted what appear to be extracts from newspapers.
‘Excuse me, have you nearly finished?’
Someone is talking to me and I look up sharply to see a few people hovering in the lobby, obviously waiting to use the computer.