Chapter Eleven #2
I didn’t reply, my eyes fixed on his face as I felt the bus pull into the stop. If this was going to happen, then he’d disappear any moment now, and I wanted to make the most of every second I had in this wonderful man’s presence.
“Miss Knight, pray tell me what you mean?” Darcy said. “Zoe?”
“Zoe?”
I jolted as another voice said my name, and then I looked past Darcy and my heart plummeted. Walking down the bus aisle toward me was a face I knew very well. A face that had destroyed my life. A face sporting one of the most unattractive, pube-like beards I’d ever seen.
“How funny seeing you here!” my ex-boyfriend said, sliding into the newly freed seat in front of me.
Shit! I needed to get us out of here, but when I glanced toward the doors, they were already closing.
We were trapped! I gritted my teeth, praying that Darcy would keep his mouth shut.
If Crispin worked out who Darcy was, then he was exactly the kind of self-publicizing dick who would go straight to the Daily Mail and tell them he was best mates with a famous fictional character, and then I’d never be able to protect Darcy from the world.
And then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any more stressful, I saw a tall, willowy blond slide into the seat next to Crispin.
“Zoe, have you met Petra?” Crispin said casually, although he knew full well I hadn’t, the prick.
“Hiii,” Petra drawled, her voice rich with money and disinterest.
No one said anything for a moment, and I realized they were waiting for me to introduce Darcy.
“Sorry, this is Da—Will,” I stammered. “And this is Crispin Carter, my ex-boyfriend, and his new girlfriend, Petra.” How I managed to say that sentence without gagging, I still don’t know.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Darcy said. Then, to my absolute surprise, I felt his arm move behind me, not touching me but like a protective barrier around my shoulders. I pulled myself up a little taller, feeling immediately calmer.
“Dawill, that’s an unusual name,” Crispin said, and unless I was mistaken, I swear I could hear an edge of jealousy in his voice. Did he think Darcy was my boyfriend? The thought made me strangely pleased.
“Crispin is uncommon too,” Darcy said coolly. “Although I believe I have heard your name once before. Are you not the author of Shadows of Albion?”
What?! I was certain I’d never told Darcy that Crispin was an author, let alone the pretentious name of the book he’d written.
I saw a smug little smile creep across Crispin’s face, and I wanted to punch him. “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.”
“Have you read Crispin’s work?” Petra asked Darcy, and I stifled a snort. His work?!
“I confess I have not,” Darcy said. “But I have read a review of it.”
“Was it the one in The Guardian or The Telegraph?” Crispin asked. “Or maybe you read the feature on me in the New York Times?”
“Was that the piece that described your book as ‘breathtakingly original’?” Petra asked Crispin.
“No, that was the FT. The Times called it ‘profoundly compelling.’”
“I do not believe it was either of those,” Darcy said. “I think the review I read was in the Independent.”
I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but clearly Crispin and Petra did, as their faces had both gone pale.
“Yes…well, that reviewer didn’t understand the complexities of what I was trying to achieve,” Crispin mumbled.
“That woman was a bitter troll,” Petra snapped. “She’s probably a failed writer herself.”
I swallowed, trying to suppress the shocked laughter that was threatening to erupt from me. God knows how Darcy had gotten hold of this bad review, but the look of rage on Crispin’s face was the most satisfying thing I’d seen in a very long time.
“Crispin tells me you’re a writer, too, Zoe,” Petra said, and when I looked at her, her expression was ice cold.
“Not really,” I mumbled. “I haven’t written anything in—”
“What genre was it you write again?” Petra asked.
“As I said, I don’t really—”
“Zoe writes romance,” Crispin said, drawing out the o in the last word.
“How cute,” Petra said, flashing me a tight smile. “I’ve always thought that’s a smart genre to write in. It’s so formulaic and predictable, you must be able to churn out your books so quickly. How many have you had published now?”
I didn’t answer, and this time Petra’s smile was triumphant.
“Ohh, that’s a shame. Still, keep plugging away; I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.”
“That’s what I always used to tell her,” Crispin said. “Zoe was a great little writer, but she gave up too easily. And as I’ve always said, the difference between being a writer and an author comes down to commitment.”
He let out a fake little laugh, and I felt my vision start to blur, although whether it was with embarrassment or rage, I couldn’t tell you.
“It’s my belief that anyone can become a Sunday Times bestseller,” Crispin continued. “You just have to want it badly enough and be willing to put in the work, and not everyone can do that.”
OK, yeah, it was rage. I felt my skin prickle and knew that I had to get away from these two awful humans before I did something I’d regret.
“I believe this is our stop, is it not?” I heard Darcy say, and I felt his hand gently touch my shoulder as he guided me out of the seat and toward the door.
“It was lovely to meet you both,” Petra trilled after us. “And good luck with your little romances, Zoe.”
I stumbled off the bus, gasping for air.
God, I hated them! How dare Crispin suggest that I’d be a published author if I simply “wanted it more,” as if that hadn’t been the only thing I’d ever wanted since I was an eight-year-old writing Prince Caspian fan fiction in the back of my maths book.
The thing I’d devoted my whole life to, until I’d met Crispin and he’d slowly sucked the confidence out of me, so that now I couldn’t even bring myself to open a Word document on my laptop.
“Are you all right?”
I heard Darcy’s voice and looked around to see him watching me closely.
There was something about his concerned expression that made tears well up in my eyes, and I was suddenly reminded of the bit in Pride and Prejudice where Darcy stands up to Miss Bingley in Elizabeth’s defense.
He’d done the same for me just now, and I felt my heart swell with gratitude.
“Thanks for that,” I mumbled, desperate not to cry in front of him.
“I hope I do not speak out of turn when I confess that I found your former suitor to be no gentleman at all, and certainly unworthy of your esteem,” Darcy said. “And as for his companion, she reminded me of a woman I know who seems to equally revel in the discomfort of others.”
I opened my mouth to ask if he meant Miss Bingley but stopped myself just in time. I’d been so careful not to say anything that might let on to Darcy that I knew about his world from reading Pride and Prejudice, and I didn’t want to ruin that now.
“I’m sorry that experiment in getting you home didn’t work,” I said instead.
“That is quite all right. I appreciate your continued efforts to assist me despite the fact my appearance here is unconnected to you. You have been most generous.”
“It’s no problem,” I said, looking away as shame flared once again. “Shall we walk home? I could do with the fresh air.”
Darcy nodded and we began to make our way up Camden High Street.
As it was a Sunday, the pavements were busy with people on their way to the famous market, and we didn’t talk as we focused on dodging tourists taking photos and street hawkers selling knock-off Amy Winehouse memorabilia.
I kept a close eye on Darcy in case he got overwhelmed by all the crowds and different languages, but two days spent watching TV had clearly helped him adjust a little to the modern word.
Finally, we crossed the canal and turned onto a quieter side street.