‘You see, first you need to loosen up your hips . . .’
‘Um . . .’ Uncertainly, he begins bending one knee and then the other.
‘No, you need to shake them more,’ I instruct.
God, I can be evil when I want to be.
‘Like this?’ Brow furrowed in concentration, Spike begins earnestly wiggling his hips.
‘Exactly.’ I nod solemnly. ‘But you need to take your hands out of your pockets.’
‘Oh . . . right . . .’ Obediently pulling out his hands, he holds them out to the sides as if they’re a pair of ornaments he doesn’t know where to put and continues jiggling his hips even faster.
Ha, ha, ha, he looks like such an idiot, I think, feeling a sense of satisfaction.
I stand back as if I’m a teacher observing their student. Like in Fame, I think to myself, wishing I was like Miss Grant and had a little cane so I could hit the floor and cry, ‘Fame costs, and here’s where you start paying for it.’ God, I loved that show.
‘Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this,’ Spike is enthusing. Grabbing a strand of shiny pink tinsel from a nearby holly wreath, he tosses it flamboyantly round his shoulders like a feather boa. ‘Well, might as well get into the festive spirit, hey?’ He grins.
I watch, dumbfounded. I thought he’d fall for the joke, but I never thought he’d fall for it quite so hard. Not only is Spike gyrating his pelvis like Elvis on acid, but he’s concentrating so hard he’s doing the white man’s underbite. Sweating profusely he’s causing such a commotion people are starting to stare. I stifle a laugh. He looks so ridiculous. That’ll teach him to always make fun of other people.
Only the thing is, he doesn’t even realise the joke’s on him, I think, feeling a tad disappointed. Instead, he just seems to be obliviously enjoying himself, which wasn’t the idea.
‘It’s actually really quite easy when you know,’ he’s panting.
Just at that moment a waiter passes behind me with a tray of champagne and Spike pauses to reach out and take two glasses.
‘All that dancing’s thirsty work.’ He grins, passing me one. He begins mopping his brow with a napkin. ‘So tell me, when do I get to interview you?’
‘Aren’t you going to misquote me, anyway?’ I say archly.
‘Only if you want me to,’ he laughs, taking a swig of champagne.
‘Well, I know how you like to play with the truth,’ I reply, thinking about Ernie.
But if he knows what I’m talking about I don’t get a reaction.
‘Journalists call it artistic licence,’ he corrects, smiling.
‘How convenient,’ I remark. I can feel myself getting more and more annoyed. I know I’m not supposed to say anything, I know I promised, but it’s proving impossible. He’s just so smug.
‘I’ll have to take you to lunch and do it.’
‘Talking of lunch, I had lunch with Ernie yesterday.’
I’m sorry, but I tried biting my tongue.
The effect of mentioning his name is immediate. Spike stiffens and his face suddenly whitens.
‘He’s such a sweet old man,’ I continue pointedly.
‘Well, you know what they say about first impressions,’ he mutters gruffly.
I can’t contain it any longer.
‘Well, mine were right about you,’ I snap back, my anger bubbling up to the surface.
Spike looks shocked. ‘Meaning?’ he demands.
But before I have a chance to answer, a phone suddenly starts ringing, its tone loud and warbling.
‘Shit, that’s me,’ he curses. ‘Hold this –’ Shoving his glass of champagne at me before I can refuse, he begins frantically checking all his pockets, until finally he finds it.
Well, at least now he’s going to turn the darned thing off.
He glances at the screen.
Doubt twinges. Surely he’s not going to answer it. We’re in the middle of an argument.
He answers it.
‘Yeah, hi, it’s Spike . . . yeah . . . Spike . . . Can you hear me?’ He frowns into the earpiece, shaking head. ‘Christ, the reception in here’s terrible.’
Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I turn to leave.
‘Hold on. Don’t move,’ he hisses, pressing his BlackBerry to his chest and flinging out his hand in a sort of ‘Stop’ sign. ‘This is only going to take a moment.’
I hesitate. I suppose this could be some kind of emergency. Something to do with work. A breaking story or something. I hold on.
He turns back to his BlackBerry. ‘Oh, c’mon, don’t be angry at me, sugarplum.’
‘Sugarplum?’ I gasp.
He shoots me an apologetic look. ‘I know, I know . . .’ he continues pacifying, then quickly covering the mouthpiece hisses, ‘It’s Emmanuelle.’
For a split second my chest tightens, but I quickly put it down to anger. I mean, honestly. I don’t frigging believe it. Does he think I’m just going to stand here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend?
Actually, yes, Emily, seeing as you are standing here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend.
Argghhh.
Furious with myself and Spike, I shoot him one of my scariest looks, then turn on my stiletto heel and, still holding a glass of champagne in each hand, march off the dance floor. Anger is swishing around inside of me like hot lava and I’m in serious danger of erupting all over some poor, unsuspecting person.
At the far end of the dance floor French windows lead on to a large balcony, but no one is allowed out there. I make a beeline for them. They’re not locked. And nobody’s looking. I slip through and step outside.
Chapter Twenty-three
OK, now just chill out, Emily. Chill.
The balcony is empty, and apart from the muted strains of the string quarter playing softly inside, it’s also still and quiet. It’s a welcome relief after the noise and chatter of the ballroom. Pacing over to the edge, I place both champagne flutes on the balustrade, spread my arms far apart and, gripping the cold stone beneath my fingertips, stare out into the darkness.
I take a deep breath.
I’m fuming about Spike. I was right the first moment I ever laid eyes on him. He really is an asshole of the first degree. The way he behaved towards Ernie is despicable. As is telling lies about him to Maeve.
And as for shoving his drink in my face and answering his phone like that and then just ignoring me!
I exhale, watching my breath escaping in large white clouds. It’s freezing out here and I’m shivering like crazy in my flimsy dress, but I’m too angry to go back inside. It’s times like this I wish I smoked. That’s what people always do in movies when they’re pissed about something, isn’t it? They drag heavily on cigarettes and somehow it seems to make them feel better.
A peal of laughter disturbs my thoughts and I look over to see a group of twenty-somethings who have snuck outside too. They’re huddled together at the far end of the balcony, laughing at some joke or other. But what interests me most is one of them appears to be smoking.
Emboldened by my shitty mood and the numerous glasses of champagne I’ve consumed during the course of the evening, I walk over to them.
‘Erm, excuse me . . .’
They turn towards me. Up close I see they’re all really young, probably in their late teens and early twenties: three lanky guys in novelty ties, and two girls wearing matching feather boas who Stella would describe as ‘sturdy’. They’re drinking straight from a bottle of Moët, its gold tinfoil neck glinting mischievously in the moonlight as it’s passed around them. I watch each of them taking a swig. They remind me of when I was in college.
‘Hi.’ I greet them with a sort of little wave. ‘I was wondering if I could steal a cigarette.’ Then I add the classic non-smoker’s line: ‘I’m supposed to have given up, but, hey . . .’
‘Are you American?’ slurs one of the guys who, with a floppy brown fringe and go
ofy smile, would be indistinguishable from the others, had it not been for his tie: black-and-white zebra print.
‘Um, yeah.’ I nod, and then as if to prove it I flash them the smile that cost my parents twenty thousand dollars in orthodontist’s fees.
‘And you wanna bum a fag?’ grins one of the other guys whose tie appears to be made from a Union Jack flag.
Now obviously here in the UK this must mean something very different than it does back in the States. ‘Um . . .’ I falter, but I’m saved from answering as all the boys burst into hysterical laughter, slapping their knees and giggling hilariously.
I’m a bit taken aback. Wow, talk about high-spirited.
‘Shut up, Henry,’ scolds one of the girls, punching him on the shoulder. She looks at me and smiles. ‘Ignore him, he’s an idiot,’ she confides, taking a long drag of her roll-up cigarette. I get a pungent whiff of something and it’s not tobacco.
And that’s not a roll-up, I suddenly realise. It’s a joint.
Oh, God, I’m such a dope, I think, no pun intended. Cringing inwardly, I kick myself. No wonder they’re all giggling their asses off out here. They’re all completely stoned.
‘Yeah, sorry, no offence meant,’ chimes in Henry, throwing me a sheepish grin and taking a generous swig from the champagne bottle.
‘Want some?’ The girl holds out the joint to me.
Now considering the last time I smoked pot was at college and I threw up all over the back seat of Johnny Rosenbaum’s new VW Rabbit (embarrassing enough in itself, but made worse by the fact both Johnny and I were lying spreadeagled on it having sex), I should probably say no.
Saying that, it would be kind of fun to get high, wouldn’t it?
‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do.’ I smile, reaching out and taking it from her.
Plus, like I said, I need to chill out.
Have you ever noticed how beautiful the stars are? They’re all twinkly and glittery, like millions of little diamonds on a big, big, big, big cushion of black velvet . . . a million celestial engagement rings stretching away into infinity . . . for ever and ever and ever . . . Wow, it’s so romantic . . .
The group have gone back inside and I’m resting my elbows on the balustrade staring up at the sky. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here – ten minutes, half an hour maybe, who cares? It’s as if everything has stopped, and I’m in this big, warm, fuzzy bubble that’s sort of floating. I’m not even cold any more. All I can think about is the sky, this big, beautiful black sky. I swear I don’t remember it ever being so amazing. I’m totally mesmerised . . .
I’m also, of course, as high as a frigging kite.
Smiling contentedly at nothing in particular, I take a sip of champagne. That joint really hit the spot. I don’t feel sick or anything, just totally chilled – or stoned, depending how you want to look at it – in which case, maybe now’s the time to go back inside and rejoin the party. If I bump into Spike, who cares? It’s not as if I have to talk to him. I’ll just be totally cool and ignore him, like he did to me. Not that I’m being petty or anything. Like I said, I’m totally chilled now. And draining the rest of the glass, I pick up the second glass and turn to walk back inside.
And bump slap bang into Mr Darcy.
‘Shit.’ Still clutching the two glasses, I bounce off him, spilling champagne.
Startled, he looks at me. ‘Emily?’
‘Jeez, sorry, I had my hands full and I didn’t see you there and . . .’ I’m babbling. Meanwhile Mr Darcy is here. On the balcony. Right in front of me.
Holy shit.
I go from chilled to Code Red in less than a second.
‘. . . um . . . hi,’ I manage to croak, trying to regain my composure while my stomach thinks it’s in the Cirque du Soleil and starts doing all kinds of acrobatics.
‘Good evening,’ he replies, bowing his head politely.
He looks up, and as we both take each other in I can feel the whole world around me melting away into the cold evening air.
‘Am I intruding?’
I snap back to see him frowning at the two champagne flutes in my hands.
‘Er, no . . . no, not at all,’ I mumble, looking for somewhere to put them. Spotting a small table over by a pillar, I hurry over and plonk both glasses down. ‘I was just a bit, er, thirsty,’ I say lightly, turning round to face him.
Only I turn round a bit too quickly and everything starts spinning. Oh, dear. I get a flashback of me projectile-vomiting on the back of that VW Rabbit and feel a stabbing terror. No. Please, God. No. Anything but that. I grab on to the balustrade to steady myself and look up to see Mr Darcy striding towards me.
Everything freezes.
Men these days don’t stride. They shuffle and trail like Spike, hands slung low in their pockets, shoulders hunched, feet dragging. But not Mr Darcy. I’m staring at him now and it’s like watching one of those slow-motion movie sequences. With his chest out, chin up, jaw set determinedly. If you had to look up ‘dashing’ in the dictionary, I swear you’d see a picture of Mr Darcy.
Involuntarily my body gives a little shudder of pleasure. And while you’ve got that dictionary out, look up ‘smitten’ and you’ll see a picture of me.
He pauses a few feet away and looks at me intently. Unlike many of my dates who have no concept of personal space, Mr Darcy keeps a respectful distance.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he replies, his face serious.
‘You have?’ I squeak.
OK, so I’m excited to see him again, but sounding like I just inhaled a helium balloon is neither cool nor sexy. And I’m aiming for both.
I clear my throat. ‘You have?’ I say it again, forcing my voice deeper.
‘I wanted to tell you I very much enjoyed your company last night.’
‘Me too.’ I nod, and feel myself blushing.
God, talk about the understatement of the year.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, and what began as a pause is now being drawn out like a long breath and I’m thinking I should say something, but my mind has just gone completely blank, like a floppy disk wiped clean, and I’m just staring at him and wondering how long before we do it.
Emily Albright! What did you just say?
I feel a slap of recrimination. Oh, God, I’d forgotten, but now I remember why I came to end up in the back of the VW Rabbit. I always get unbelievably horny when I’m stoned.
‘So, how is the ball?’
Finally he speaks.
‘Oh . . . you know,’ I say vaguely, trying to drag my mind away from my raging libido.
‘Have you danced?’ he continues.
I think about Barry and Spike. ‘I don’t know if you’d actually call it dancing.’ I smile ruefully.
But Mr Darcy doesn’t smile; instead, his expression remains serious. ‘I was afraid that because I had arrived so late I was going to have to steal you away from another.’
I have a flashback of Spike on his BlackBerry. Steal me away? Spike wouldn’t have noticed if I’d been tied up and kidnapped right under his nose. ‘Don’t worry. I’m all yours,’ I joke.
Mr Darcy looks slightly taken aback. ‘You are?’ he replies, and I realise he’s taken me literally.
‘Oh, no, it’s a saying,’ I say quickly. ‘Sort of like a joke,’ I try explaining.
‘I see,’ nods Mr Darcy, although I’m not sure he does really, but I’m no longer thinking about it, as his eyes are sweeping over me like searchlights and my heartbeat is quickening. Wow. I’ve gone from being ignored to being the focus of someone’s full attention. It’s as if he can’t take his eyes off me. Which is incredibly flattering. I’m just not used to it.
But you can get used to it, Emily.
We both fall silent again. With no drink to sip, I fiddle with the tendrils of my hair. ‘Well, this is nice,’ I say after a moment.
Nice? Did I just say, nice?
‘Indeed,’ nods Mr Darcy and stares at me gravely.
Th
e conversation stalls again, and not knowing what to say, I peer down into the inky darkness. It’s New Year’s Eve and in the distance I can see fairylights glittering, someone’s Christmas tree in a faraway bay window, a party taking place in a house across the communal gardens. I drum my fingers against the balcony. Gosh, it’s so quiet. I can actually hear myself breathing.
I rummage around in my mind for something to say that doesn’t involve some quip. I know I won’t be able to joke around with Mr Darcy like I did with Spike, which might bother some people, but I’m totally fine with that. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think a good sense of humour is totally overrated. I want a real man, not some idiot, I decide, picturing Spike doing the funky chicken on the dance floor.
I stifle a smile at the memory. OK, so I admit it was very funny, but if I wanted to date someone funny I’d go out with a comedian, I tell myself firmly.
‘I love this time of year, don’t you?’ I blurt finally, breaking the silence.
Wow, I never thought I’d be so pleased to hear the sound of my own voice. In books it always sounds so profound and romantic when the characters spend hours staring into each other’s eyes without speaking. In reality, however, you’d have to be a Benedictine monk.
‘It’s bearable,’ he replies shortly. ‘If you like silliness and fripperies.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling shot down. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a bit silly,’ I agree, that same image of Spike twirling round with his tinsel feather boa springing to mind. ‘But being silly can be kind of fun sometimes.’
Mr Darcy frowns as if he’s never heard of the concept. ‘And are you having fun now?’
‘Of course,’ I reply over-brightly.
Well, I wouldn’t call it fun exactly, but that’s hardly surprising. I’m too nervous. And anyway, like I said, I’m not here to have fun, I think, sneaking a peak at Mr Darcy and feeling a swell of lust and pheromones at all that repressed passion I know is bubbling under moody arrogance. In fact, I could have sworn I just caught him glancing at my cleavage.
I send up a silent thank you to Stella, thanking her for sending me this gorgeous dress. For once I feel sexy, instead of frumpy.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 21
