Chapter Thirty-Six #2
‘Yes. I had a personal shopper,’ I inform him stiffly. Huh, that’ll show him.
‘Wow.’ He leans back in his chair and surveys me with amusement. ‘And what exactly does this personal shopper do?’
I bristle. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say breezily, trying to sound as if I’m used to having personal shoppers all the time.
‘Inform you about new trends, show you how to put together different looks, pick out clothes . . .’ My eyes wander across Spike’s outfit.
He’s wearing ancient-looking cords, an unidentifiable pair of sneakers and an old Smiths’ T-shirt, which still has what looks like the remnants of this morning’s toothpaste down the front.
‘You know, maybe you should try one, one day,’ I can’t help adding. Well, I’m sorry, I know I’m supposed to be here declaring my undying love among other things, but still.
‘You don’t like the Smiths?’ he pleads, tugging at Morrissey’s face.
Instantly I feel myself melt. God, how does he do that? How does he manage to look so adorable with Oral B all down his front?
‘I love the Smiths,’ I admit, twisting my mouth up into a smile.
‘Good girl.’ He nods with satisfaction.
Disarmed again, I look tentatively at Spike, searching for the right way to start saying what I came here to say. But there’s no easy segue into ‘Sorry, I fucked up’, is there?
‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me about Mr Darcy?’ Spike asks.
Since yesterday my mind’s been full of so many things that I haven’t thought about Mr Darcy, but now, just the mention of him makes my chest tighten.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me questions?’ I reply.
Damn. I didn’t come here to talk about Mr Darcy.
‘Well, no, not really,’ frowns Spike, shaking his head. ‘It’s more of a freeform chat.’
Just the way he says ‘freeform chat’ sends a shiver down my spine. How come I never noticed how wonderful his accent is before? I could listen to it all day.
‘Just tell me anything you want to share with my readers,’ he continues, ‘about why he would be so many women’s ideal date.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ I retort.
Spike’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Oh? And why do you say that?’
‘Well, he’s very self-absorbed, and he can be really intense,’ I confide, leaning towards him.
Spike stares at me, and I suddenly realise what I’ve just said.
‘I mean, I can imagine he could be quite intense,’ I correct myself quickly.
‘But I thought that’s what you wanted,’ he says, leaning towards me and making those rhinos start charging around in my stomach again. ‘Didn’t you once say that to me when we were choosing postcards?’ he reminds me.
I feel my cheeks prickle. ‘Um . . . possibly,’ I nod. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You have?’
‘Uh-uh.’ I nod again. ‘I was wrong.’
Spike looks astounded. ‘You? Are admitting you’re wrong?’
God, I didn’t think I was that bad.
‘Yep,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, actually.’
Spike’s face is serious. ‘Such as?’
I take a deep breath. It’s now or never.
‘You.’
He looks at me and makes a sort of ‘mmm’ sound as if to say, ‘Go ahead, I’m listening.’
‘Ernie.’
‘Mmm . . .’
I screw up my courage and lay my heart wide open.
‘Us.’
There. I’ve said it.
For a moment Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he just stares at me across the desk, his face expressionless, his eyes unblinking. Every millisecond feels like an hour. Just say something, I think urgently. Anything.
‘I see,’ he says finally, and steeples his fingers.
My heart constricts. Oh, God. This is dreadful.
When I said ‘anything’, I didn’t mean anything.
It suddenly dawns on me that the big romantic moment that I’d hoped for, the one where Spike was going to grasp me in some big corny embrace and kiss the living daylights out of me, is not going to happen. I feel like a complete idiot.
‘You know, I should be going, perhaps we can do this interview on email,’ I gabble hastily, standing up, the humiliation pouring all over me. Clutching my coat to my chest as a sort of shield, I head for the door.
Spike stands up and follows me. ‘When’s your flight?’
‘Oh, erm . . .’ I glance at my watch gratefully. Anything not to have to look at him. ‘Not for a few hours, but you know, the traffic might be bad . . .’ I’m desperate to get out of the door, but now Spike’s standing in the way and blocking it with his huge frame.
‘Really?’ he’s saying. ‘You know, you can do a lot in a few hours . . .’
Something in his tone makes me look up. His eyes are flashing with amusement. Suddenly the penny drops. Of course. The British sense of humour. He was winding me up. How could he do that to me! I feel a white-hot flash of annoyance, followed by total and utter relief.
‘And my flat’s just round the corner,’ he’s saying.
Well, I guess I did deserve it, I muse, then ask, ‘What are you suggesting?’ pretending to be shocked, while feeling a thumping beat of excitement.
I’d be fibbing if the thought hadn’t already crossed my mind.
I didn’t come here hoping just to apologise.
Well, I am human, and his chest did feel very firm that night at the ball when I squeezed his pec by accident.
‘Oh, I dunno, we could watch a spaghetti Western, do a crossword . . .’ He moves closer.
‘You know, I’m pretty darned good at the cryptic ones. I get all the clues,’ I tease, leaning my body towards him.
‘You are?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Great,’ he whispers, and I can feel his breath on my cheek. ‘But before we go any further, I think I should tell you something.’
I look at him. A flutter of nerves.
‘Don’t look so worried.’ He smiles. ‘I’m not going to tell you I’m crazy about you, I’ve told you that already.’
And wrapping his arms round me, he pulls me to his chest and gives me a great big bear hug. I feel a whoosh of happiness. There’s nothing quite like being hugged by a big strong guy you’re crazy about.
‘No, there’s something else,’ he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.
‘What?’ I gasp, a quiver running all the way down to my toes.
‘My name’s not really Napoleon Caesar—’
‘Nelson Hargreaves,’ I finish off, smiling. ‘I kind of figured that. So tell me – what does the B stand for?’
He looks at me, surprised.
‘I saw your email address, remember?’
Now it’s his turn to smile. Scrunching up his nose, he winces. ‘Bryan. With a y.’
‘Bryan with a y?’ I giggle. ‘Damn, and I thought the name Napoleon was really sexy.’
‘What? Are you telling me you don’t find me sexy any more?’ He pretends to look affronted.
‘Hmmm, I’m not sure,’ I murmur. ‘I think I might have to do a bit more investigative reporting . . .’ And slipping my hands up the back of his T-shirt and onto bare skin, I tilt my face up to his and he bends down and kisses me.