‘How very fortunate,’ she says, her eyes twinkling as she looks me up and down. ‘I’m sure you will be a huge hit with the gentlemen tonight.’
‘Oh, I’m not looking to meet anybody,’ I say quickly.
She looks indignant. ‘Nonsense,’ she replies firmly. ‘To quote Jane Austen: “To you I shall say, as I have often said before, ‘Do not be in a hurry, the right man will come at last.’”’
How prophetic. Mr Darcy pops up in my head. I get butterflies just thinking about it.
‘But how will I know he’s the right man?’ I quip, smiling.
Fixing me with her hazel eyes, she takes my hands between hers. ‘Because you will meet somebody more exceptional than anyone you have yet known. Who will love you as warmly as possible. And who will so completely attract you that you will feel you never really loved before.’
Wow. Heavy. I feel myself blush.
‘But first you must be open to the possibility that the right man might not be as you expected,’ she says wisely, and for a moment I feel as if she’s almost talking directly about Mr Darcy. As if she knows about him. But of course that’s impossible. ‘Remember, don’t let pride or prejudice stand in the way of love,’ she finishes, and smiles wryly.
‘Poppycock!’ interrupts a booming voice. ‘If you ask me, love is completely overrated.’
Turning sideways, I see Rose bustling towards us in a peacock-green satin dress, with matching full-length gloves. ‘And I should know, I’ve been married more times than I care to remember.’
‘Hello, Rose,’ chorus Rupinda and Hilary, shooting each other glances and suddenly deciding it’s time to take a bathroom break and disappearing.
‘Gosh, what an amazing dress,’ gushes Maeve, her eyes nearly popping out on stalks at Rose’s impressive cleavage, which is dripping with diamonds.
‘Yeah, you look great,’ I agree distractedly, taking another mouthful of champagne. My mind is lingering over Miss Steane’s words.
‘Rubbish! I’m invisible,’ sniffs Rose. ‘Nobody sees me any more. Waiters, taxi drivers, shop assistants . . .’
For the first time I notice she’s holding a cigarette-holder, and taking a lipsticked puff, she blows a perfect smoke-ring that can only come with years of practice.
‘Nobody pays any attention to an old woman like me.’
Trust me, there’d be more chance of paying less attention to a tap-dancing monkey than Rose.
‘No way,’ I protest. ‘You’re always the centre of attention.’
‘Always,’ echoes Maeve and I catch a flash of wistfulness. Not for the first time do I wish I could share what Ernie confided in me. I have no idea what lies Spike told her, but she’d feel so much better if I could tell her the truth, if I could explain why she shouldn’t believe him. But I can’t. I promised Ernie.
‘Men are fascinated by you,’ she’s now saying.
‘Were,’ corrects Rose, waving a gloved hand dismissively. It comes to rest on my shoulder. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, my dear,’ she continues, leaning closer. ‘When I was a child I used to wish that I could be invisible. That I could go wherever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, and nobody would pay any attention to me. Oh, the freedom I believed it would bring—’ She breaks off to laugh bitterly and take a glug of champagne, leaving behind a thick magenta smudge of lipstick on the rim of her glass. ‘Well, mark my words, I got my wish, Emily, dear. It came true. That it certainly did.’ Waving her glass, she gestures around the room, across the vista of people milling around, engaged in a flurry of introductions, conversations, flirtations. ‘When you get older nobody notices you any more.’ She turns to me, her heavily powdered face close to mine. ‘You simply disappear,’ she whispers, clicking her fingers. ‘Poof.’
I open my mouth to argue, but she silences me with a painted eyebrow.
‘When I was your age I would walk into a room and everyone would notice me. Every single person would turn their head to look at me. Every man was captivated. Every woman fascinated.’ Taking a puff from her cigarette-holder, she turns from me to gaze back at the room. ‘I was quite something in those days.’ She drains her glass and waggles it in the air, wanting a refill. Being ignored, she sighs heavily. ‘Now I’m lucky if I can get the attention of a waiter.’
‘Ladies . . .’
We’re both distracted by the sound of a voice. Being held aloft above the crowd are a pair of hands, two full champagne glasses in each, and as they approach I see their owner, Spike. At least I think it’s Spike. He looks so different. Unlike the rest of the men, who are either in tuxedos or full Regency costume, he’s wearing a black moleskin suit, black shirt and black tie, which make his hair look even blonder and his eyes even bluer. Reaching us, he begins passing around the drinks to appreciative noises. He reaches me last.
I haven’t spoken to him since Ernie’s shock revelations yesterday. He wasn’t on the sightseeing tour earlier, and to be honest, I’d been relieved as I’ve got nothing to say to him. I’m still angry at how he treated Ernie, how he’s upset Maeve, but I can’t break Ernie’s confidence. And so I’ve got to just pretend everything is normal and be civil. Cold but civil, cold but civil, cold but—
‘Would you like some champagne?’
He offers me a glass, but I shake my head.
‘No thanks, I’m not really drinking tonight,’ I reply stiffly.
‘Fair enough.’ He nods, then adds appreciatively, ‘Nice dress.’
‘Nice suit.’ I nod back, my voice tight. Although his shirt is slightly creased and his jacket bears evidence of a hairy pet, he looks much more groomed than usual, though he still hasn’t shaved and what was once stubble is now definitely a beard.
There’s a pause and I’m painfully aware of Maeve, Rose and Miss Steane, all standing around with their drinks, watching with interest. Honestly, they’ll be breaking out the popcorn next.
I fidget uncomfortably. Talk about a stilted conversation.
It limps along painfully.
‘You did something to your hair,’ I remark. Usually it’s an unruly mess with bits sticking out all over the place, but tonight he’s gelled it into submission. In fact, it actually looks quite stylish. Well, apart from the tufty bit he’s missed at the back, I notice.
‘So did you,’ he replies, and gestures to the tiny little butterfly clips I used to clip up my hair.
I touch it self-consciously. ‘Um . . . yeah.’
I got the idea from Stella. I’ve seen her wear her hair like this and it always looks really pretty and casual, with all these little tendrils hanging loosely down at the sides. Only have you any idea how hard it is to make tendrils look tendrily? And not as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and you have clumps of hair sticking out all over the place?
But of course I don’t want Spike knowing I’ve made a really big effort, so I reply nonchalantly, ‘Yeah, I couldn’t be bothered washing it.’
And then immediately regret it. Shit. Why did I just say that? I now look like trailer trash. I cringe. Great. Britney in a balldress.
For a brief moment Spike seems taken aback, and then his mouth twitches with amusement. ‘Is that so?’
Annoyance rankles. I’m trying to be cold but civil, not make him laugh. ‘It’s the shower,’ I snap. ‘The attachment thing on the tub doesn’t work properly. I can’t get the shampoo out. It goes hot, then cold, then scalding hot again . . .’
I can hear myself prattling like an idiot and I’m furious with myself. Just shut up, Emily. Shut up.
‘You need to turn on the hot first, then add the cold,’ suggests Maeve helpfully from the sidelines.
I shoot her a look. ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, feeling my face flushing bright red. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘So, Spike, young man,’ begins Rose, puffing on her cigarette-holder, ‘I see Emily here doesn’t have a partner. Do you dance?’
Now it’s Rose’s turn to be shot a look. Honestly, these women.
‘Not if I can help it,’ he replies.<
br />
I feel a sting of rejection.
Huh! As if I want to dance with you. Old-man-basher.
‘Me neither,’ I reply quickly. ‘Not in these shoes.’ And picking up my hem, I wave a three-inch stiletto at him for further evidence. Except I’m not used to wearing heels, and wobbling dangerously, I grip the nearest thing to balance.
The nearest thing being Spike’s chest.
It all happens so quickly I don’t have time to think about it. One minute there we all are, having a polite conversation of sorts. The next, my right hand is grasping at the thin cotton of his shirt and I’m squeezing his left pec as if it’s a ripe melon.
‘Oops, sorry,’ I stammer, taken aback even further by the realisation that instead of it being soft and squidgy, it’s surprisingly firm. Mortified, I snatch my hand away and regain my balance. How embarrassing. ‘It’s these heels,’ I fluster, trying to explain.
‘You want to be careful with those, they look dangerous,’ he warns, throwing me a wicked look.
‘I will,’ I say coldly, furious at myself.
There’s a pause, and just to make things even more awkward, the quartet strikes up and people begin moving to the sides to make way for the couples lining up on the dance floor. Women on one side, men on the other.
‘Oh, splendid,’ remarks Miss Steane, who this whole time has been a silent observer. Clapping her hands together in girlish excitement, she smiles broadly. ‘This is an original Regency dance, popular in Jane Austen’s day. The perfect opportunity for ladies and gentlemen to get to know one another.’ She looks at Spike and me pointedly.
‘How fun,’ murmurs Maeve, hugging her elbows even tighter and looking longingly at the dance floor.
‘Not for us wallflowers,’ remarks Rose, taking a drag on her cigarette-holder.
Maeve’s face drops and she buries it in her champagne flute.
Indignation stabs. Right now she could be dancing with Ernie if Spike hadn’t deliberately put her off him by saying God knows what. I shoot him an icy look. Love-wrecker.
‘Did Mr Darcy dance?’ asks Spike, switching into journalist mode.
I feel my stomach flip. At the mention of his name, I try covertly glancing around the room. I wonder if he’s going to turn up? Damn, it’s hard to see in here, it’s so frigging busy.
‘Reluctantly,’ Miss Steane answers authoritatively. ‘He didn’t like to, but he was a good dancer. One of the finest.’
‘Not like me, eh?’ laughs Spike.
My attention snaps back. ‘No, he’s not like you at all,’ I reply quickly.
Too quickly, it seems, as I’m thrown a few curious looks.
‘You sound like you know him,’ says Spike amiably.
‘In the book, I mean,’ I qualify, nervously. ‘Not in real life. Obviously.’
Shit. Me and my big mouth.
There’s a pause and I’m aware of glances flying around me. I can see Miss Steane studying me with a strange expression on her face, but just as the conversation is about to turn even more awkward, a short man wearing a kilt interrupts.
‘Ahem, excuse me . . .’
We all turn to face him.
‘Would you care to dance?’ he asks, directing his question at me. He’s sweating slightly and is all pink in the face. He blots his forehead with a tissue and smiles eagerly. He has bad teeth.
‘Like I said. Invisible,’ mutters Rose into her champagne flute.
I hesitate. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The hard place being staying here, answering Spike’s awkward questions about Mr Darcy. The rock being the guy in the skirt. I glance at Spike. He’s still got that investigative journalist look on his face.
I go for the rock.
‘That would be great.’ I smile, turning back to him. ‘Lead the way.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Barry, my dancing partner, turns out to be a marketing manager for a large pharmaceutical firm in Aberdeen, and for the next twenty minutes he leads me around the dance floor while telling me all about a new breakthrough drug for indigestion. I ask him all the pertinent questions, smile at all the right junctures, and I say ‘wow’ a lot. Men, I’ve learned from my many dates, like to hear the word ‘wow’ a lot when they’re talking about their career.
But what I really want to do is ask him what the new breakthroughs are for boredom, as I’m about to die of it quite shortly.
‘. . . but the most exciting thing about this drug is how it works on your acid reflux. It neutralises the bile in a whole new way,’ he’s saying brightly.
‘Wow.’ I force a smile, but I’m not really listening. Instead, my mind is tied up with thoughts of Mr Darcy. As Barry launches into a monologue about an exciting new development in fungal creams, I glance wistfully around the ballroom for a dark, handsome figure, wondering when he’s going to turn up.
That’s ‘when’, not ‘if’. Because I’m confident I am going to see him again. After all, this isn’t some flaky guy I’ve met in a bar; this is Mr Darcy.
‘May I interrupt?’
My heart jumps into my mouth. Is that . . . ? I twirl round excitedly.
And get a thud of disappointment.
Spike.
‘Well, actually, me and this bonnie lassie were in the middle of a conversation—’ begins Barry.
And usually I would have agreed. After all, the last thing I want to do is dance with Spike. Except that’s not strictly true. I might hate Spike, but I hate the idea of spending any more time with Barry and his fungal remedies more. So, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat and seeing his chance of being rescued about to pass him by, I cut in, ‘But now we’ve finished,’ and quickly untangle myself from Barry’s grip.
‘Thought so,’ smiles Spike.
I throw him a frosty look. So what if he’s rescuing me? I still don’t have to like him.
Meanwhile Barry hovers blinking in the middle of the dance floor, not quite sure what just happened. Guilt twinges. I feel mean abandoning him.
‘I actually have some free samples in the car,’ he says hopefully.
On second thoughts I don’t feel that mean.
‘Wow. Maybe I could look at them later?’ I smile and, without further hesitation, move quickly away and clamp my hand on Spike’s shoulder. Sometimes in life you just have to put yourself first.
We start dancing – well, it’s not really dancing, it’s more holding your partner and shuffling around the room. The awkward, clumsy type that needs conversation and jokes and witty observations about the party, otherwise you end up feeling like a self-conscious idiot and all you can think about is the fact you’ve got your boobs pressed up against a man’s chest, and the only thing between you is a flimsy bit of satin and a cotton shirt.
‘I thought you didn’t like dancing,’ I blurt, saying the first thing that comes into my head.
‘I don’t,’ he agrees, and, as if to prove it, promptly steps on my foot.
‘Ouch,’ I yelp.
‘Bloody hell, sorry,’ he apologises. ‘Are you OK?’
Crouching down to rub my sore toes, I glare up at him suspiciously. ‘Did you do that on purpose?’
‘On purpose?’ he repeats in astonishment. ‘Why would I stomp on your foot on purpose?’
‘Because you think it’s funny,’ I accuse, making a big fuss of rubbing my toes all the more, even though, to be honest, they’re not that bruised.
‘Trust me, there’s nothing funny about having two left feet,’ he replies, reaching out his hand.
Ignoring it, I pull myself upright and wordlessly he slips his arm round my waist. We resume dancing. This time I make sure to keep my feet firmly away from his. Neither of us speaks. Deliberately refusing to catch his eye, I glance around the ballroom. All the other couples are laughing and chatting, emphasising the silence between us. Even so, I’m determined not to be the one to break it. Why should I? I don’t want to talk to him anyway.
‘Picture this. I’m eighteen. In a nightclub. And it’s tw
o a.m. . . .’
Spike, however, appears to have no such problem breaking it. Seemingly oblivious to my stony expression, he starts telling his story. ‘You know what that means, don’t you? The last slow dance.’ With a woeful expression he shakes his head. ‘Nobody ever wanted to slow-dance with me.’
I try picturing him as his eighteen-year-old self, with teenage acne and a floppy blond fringe, and find it surprisingly easy.
‘I’m the worst dancer,’ he continues. ‘I have no rhythm, zero moves and was once compared to a pregnant duck.’
He smiles sheepishly, but I refuse to smile back. I keep getting the image of Ernie, sitting across from me at the table, his eyes brimming with tears as he talked about Iris. If Spike thinks he can charm me with a few funny comments, he’s got another thing coming.
‘I bet even your dad is a better dancer than I am.’
‘Now that I find hard to believe,’ I reply sarcastically, prompted to say something about the image that has popped into my head of my father jigging around at a cousin’s wedding. ‘My father thinks hip hop is a Dr Seuss children’s book.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he asks innocently.
I’m amused, but quickly hide it.
‘No, that’s Hop on Pop,’ I snap, instead.
Spike’s straight face crinkles into a mischievous grin and I realise this is his famous English sense of humour and he’s joking with me. Again. I feel a wave of irritation.
Followed by an idea.
‘In that case, how about I give you your first dance lesson?’ I suggest over-brightly.
Well, if he wants to joke around, it would be churlish of me not to play along, wouldn’t it?
Spike’s smile fades and he looks at me doubtfully. ‘What? Here? Now? Are you being serious?’
‘Totally.’ I nod. ‘I’m a good teacher. I studied dance until I was in freshman. Modern, classical, tap, ballet.’
‘Wow, I’m impressed,’ he says in admiration.
Me too, I tell myself. My entire dance knowledge comes from watching Fame as a kid and wearing leg warmers, but that’s not going to stop me having some fun. Spike has been having a laugh at my expense for too long. It’s about time he got a taste of his own medicine.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 20
