To be honest, it did all seem a bit soon, but like Mum said, they loved one another and at their age why wait? Put like that, who was I to spoil things? So I was sentimental about selling my childhood home, so what? I’d moved out, moved on with my life, why shouldn’t she?
They booked the registry office for June, which was only two months away, and preparations began in earnest. Flowers, invitations, menus, cars. One day I discovered Mum’s credit-card statement and saw that everything for the wedding had been paid for by her. That’s when I got my first inkling that Ernie might not be everything he seemed. When I asked her about it, she breezily explained that Ernie didn’t use credit cards, he only had a cheque book, and so it was easier this way. ‘And anyway, like Ernie says, once we’re married, what’s mine is his and vice versa,’ she’d reasoned.
I got a bad vibe, but I tried to brush it off. I was just being over-protective; it made sense to pay by credit card rather than cheque; he hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
By this stage they were also getting ready to move into their new bungalow. Both Mum and Ernie had found buyers for their respective houses, and their solicitors were getting all the paperwork ready. All that was needed now was their ten per cent cash deposit so they could exchange contracts.
Ten per cent.
That’s thirty thousand pounds. Which, in today’s current exchange market, is nearly sixty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. And some people will do anything for that kind of money.
They’ll even break someone’s heart for it.
Unbeknown to me, the week previously, Ernie had gone over to Mum’s and told her that his buyer had pulled out at the last minute, that it might take weeks to find a new one, and what was he going to do? Apparently he was distraught they were going to lose their new bungalow and so Mum told him not to worry and wrote out a cheque for the entire deposit. Only she couldn’t remember the name of the solicitor, so Ernie told her to just leave that bit blank – he would fill it in later as he had all the paperwork back at his house.
The first we knew something was wrong was when the solicitor called Mum a week later, the day before her wedding was meant to be, asking where his money was, and several urgent phone calls to Ernie went unanswered. My mum was beside herself. She thought he must have had some terrible accident. That he was lying hurt somewhere. ‘Something awful must have happened,’ she kept saying, over and over, and I knew she was thinking of my dad, of the day she’d found him in the study, how he’d suffered a massive stroke, how it had been too late.
That’s when we got the police involved and it didn’t take long for them to discover Ernie had made the cheque payable to himself, deposited it in his bank account, calmly waited for it to clear, then left the country.
When Mum found out the truth she was actually relieved. That’s my mum for you. Jilted a day before her wedding, by a man she thought loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, who’d stolen her life savings – and yet she’s still thankful he’s not hurt. She’s such a bloody good person, my mother.
Me?
I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Not only had he destroyed her hopes and shattered her dreams. Not only had he humiliated her in front of her friends and family. Made her a laughing stock among her neighbours. Betrayed her trust, robbed her of thirty thousand pounds, run up huge debts on her credit card and left her with a huge mess of a wedding to cancel and committed to a house she no longer wanted to buy.
He’d also broken her heart.
And you want to know the worst thing? He’d done it intentionally.
You don’t know my mum, Emily, but everyone who’s ever met her will tell you she’s the kindest, most loving person you’ll ever meet. She trusted Ernie Devlin, and she was willing to give him the whole world, yet he cold-heartedly set out to destroy her with his greed and selfishness. As if she meant nothing. And to him, she didn’t. She was just a means to an end.
I wish I could say that was the end of it, but there were more shocks to come.
Six weeks later Ernie was arrested when he tried to return to the UK. Turns out that Mum wasn’t the only woman he’d duped. Dozens of women had come forward. They all told the same story – he was a widower, they were supposed to get married, they were buying a house together but he didn’t have his share of the deposit . . . Well, you can see where this is going, can’t you?
Mum didn’t attend his trial, but I did. But if I thought I was going to see some remorse, I couldn’t have been more wrong. He didn’t apologise to his victims, ask for forgiveness, or show any shame for what he’d done. As he left the court on the first day he even had the audacity to smile for the photographers.
That’s when I hit him.
I couldn’t help it. Something just snapped inside of me. After everything he’d put my mum through, to see him smiling was just too much. I jumped in front of the reporters and wiped the smile of his face. I was promptly arrested, but because of the circumstances, the police let me off with just a caution. I’ve never been in trouble with the law my whole life, apart from a few parking tickets, but I still don’t regret it. I’m not defending my actions, but as far as I’m concerned, after what Ernie Devlin did, he got off lightly.
On 24 May 2003 he was found guilty and got six years for deception and theft. He was ordered to pay Mum back all that money, plus legal costs, and also had to repay the money he’d stolen from the other women. He declared himself bankrupt. Eighteen months later he was let out for good behaviour.
They say time heals, but I don’t think my mum will ever get over what Ernie did to her. And I know I’ll certainly never forgive him. When I saw him again on the tour after all this time, I admit I wanted to kill him. Or at least beat the living daylights out of him. But we know how the legal system works. I already had a caution. If I laid a finger on him I’d be the one going to jail. Personally I wouldn’t have cared, it would be worth it to wipe the smile off his face, but Mum’s had enough upset in her life. She didn’t need to see me in court, to have it all dragged up again.
So I decided to just ignore him. To avoid him. To pretend he didn’t exist.
But then, that night, I saw him with Maeve. The way he was, all laughing and jokey, showing her pictures of his grandchildren, I realised he hadn’t learned his lesson. That’s exactly how he was with Mum. (By the way, just for the record, they’re not his grandchildren. He doesn’t have any. Neither did he ever have a wife who was tragically killed in a car accident. And that engagement ring that was his mother’s? Stolen from one of his ‘ex-fiancées’.) I couldn’t bear to see him doing it again. Taking advantage of someone like Maeve.
So that morning on the coach on the way to Winchester Cathedral, I decided to tell her in confidence about my mum. She was shocked. Who wouldn’t be? She was probably disappointed and upset too, and for that I’m sorry. But the way I see it, I saved her from getting a whole lot more hurt in the long run. This way, Maeve will never have to go through what my mum and all those other women had to go through.
To this day, my mum’s never seen a penny of that thirty thousand pounds. She’s due to retire soon and it was meant to be her nest egg, but to be honest, it was never about the money. Money is just money, but you can’t put a price on a broken heart, can you?
I know what you’re thinking right now. It’s my word against his, right? And he’s the kind old man and I’m the asshole. Which is why I’ve included some press clippings from the time. I don’t expect you to believe me, Emily, but it’s there in black and white – so you decide for yourself.
But before you read them, I’ll say bye. For what it’s worth it was good meeting you. And if you’ve made it this far, thanks for listening.
Spike
Chapter Twenty-nine
I don’t know how to describe my feelings reading Spike’s email. I think I went through every emotion possible. Indignation, disbelief, anger, annoyance, horror, guilt, remorse. I do know that I sat dow
n on my bed with every intention of not believing him. As far as I was concerned, I’d already made up my mind. He was guilty of every accusation I’d thrown at him.
And yet, the more I read, the more my prejudices began to crumble. With every page I turned, the evidence became more and more overwhelming. Until there was no doubt in my mind: I’d judged him and I’d got it wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. I didn’t even need to see the newspaper articles to know that.
I read them anyway. The headlines screamed out at me. ‘LOVE RAT’, ‘THE RUNAWAY GROOM’, ‘HE STOLE HER HEART AND HER SAVINGS’.
Accompanying them were pictures of a man with dyed brown hair and moustache, but there was no mistaking it was Ernie. Sweet, defenceless Ernie. The innocent victim. Survivor of a jealous attack by Spike, a man half his age.
Shit. How did I get it so wrong?
I sit on the edge of the bed, breathing, trying to stay in control. My mind is reeling. I have no idea what to do. My first instinct is to run downstairs and send Spike an email apologising, but after everything I said, all my accusations, the way I behaved towards him, it seems pretty lame. An email, after what I’ve said and done? To be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he told me to go to hell.
Maybe instead I should just leave it. After all, I’ve done enough damage already. Just try to forget all about it. Pretend it never happened.
But it did.
Remorse stabs. I think about Ernie, about how I was utterly taken in by him, how I was so quick to believe his stories about Spike. Why? Because I wanted to believe them. Because they supported my opinion of him, confirmed my first impressions. I wanted to be right.
And yet you couldn’t have been more wrong, could you, Emily?
Guilt and shame wash over me – and fear. It’s a scary thought when you realise you can’t trust your own judgement. That your pride and prejudices can completely blind you to the truth. It makes me wonder how many times I’ve got it wrong before – I just never found out.
The room suddenly feels stuffy and claustrophobic. I need to go out and get some fresh air. Try and clear my head. So much has happened I can’t think straight. What with these revelations from Spike about Ernie and the email from Mr McKenzie’s wife, my head’s all over the place.
Tugging on my boots and thick winter coat, I go downstairs. You can rent bikes from the front desk and I choose a black one with a straw basket. It’s more Miss Marple than Lance Armstrong, but trying to look cool is the least of my concerns right now, and climbing on to the saddle I set off up away from the town.
It feels good to be on a bike. I fill my lungs with cold air and push down on the pedals. Soon the roads turn into lanes and the houses give way to open fields. I keep cycling. I don’t notice my sore buttocks, or the twinge of my ankle, just the regular motion of the pedals, the feeling of the cold wind ruffling through my hair. With every revolution of the wheels, I feel myself growing calmer, more steady, as I leave the city behind and climb higher and higher. None of it makes sense, but this does. Cycling is so straightforward. You pedal, you move forwards. Why can’t life be as simple?
After a while the burning in my thighs becomes too much, and I dismount and lean my bicycle against an old metal gate adjoining a stone wall. Up ahead, there’s some woods and through the clearing in the trees I can see a castle. Oh, wow, that must be the same castle I rode to last night with Mr Darcy. What was it called? Ah, yes, I remember now: Sham Castle – because it’s not actually real.
I start heading towards it. The hill’s pretty steep and by the time I enter Bathwick Woods I’m out of puff. I slow down. The going is a lot tougher here. It’s hard to make out the path and there’s plenty of exposed rock and tree roots to catch you out – God knows how I negotiated it last night on horseback – but after about five minutes I come out on the other side. The castle is to the right of me, and yet it looks completely different in the daylight. Not at all how I remember. Made of creamy-coloured Bath stone, it had looked totally genuine last night, but now up close I can clearly see it’s all a sham.
In summer this place is probably teaming with tourists, but now it’s deserted, and sitting down on the grass, I rest my head against the stonework and take in the view. Surrounded by seven hills, the city of Bath lies beneath me, its Georgian architecture, which had seemed so grand and impressive at street level, now looks like a miniature model from a town-planner’s office.
I rub my puffy eyes and tilt my head to look at the grey sky above me. It looks like it might rain. A typical New Year’s Day. Except it’s not, is it? There’s nothing typical today. That heavy feeling I had inside returns and I heave a sigh. I can’t think about it any more. I’m too tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. And what with the after-effects of the ball, the concussion, the revelations, I just want to close my eyes for a moment and block everything out.
After a few moments I feel a warmth on my face and open my eyes to discover the sun emerging from behind a cloud. Shafts of bright sunlight pierce through the gaps of blue and I have to shade my eyes with my hand to see anything. In the far distance I notice someone approaching. I squint, trying to make them out. It’s a man, I realise, as he fast approaches. And he’s on horseback.
Mr Darcy.
Overjoyed, I watch as he gallops up to me, his cheeks flushed with the January wind, his dark, heavy brows almost obscuring his eyes.
‘I was hoping I might find you here,’ he says, dismounting and striding towards me.
I smile and jump up to greet him. After everything that’s happened I have a sudden desire for a hug, for someone to hold me tightly and tell me everything’s going to be OK.
Impulsively I throw my arms round him and bury my face in his broad shoulder. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you,’ I gasp, closing my eyes and breathing in his familiar cologne.
Happiness mixes with relief. Gosh, he really does have the best shoulders to cry on, I think, feeling all the tension in my body release with his embrace.
Although, hang on, he’s not actually embracing me, I notice, suddenly realising how stiff he is. In fact, I’m the one hugging him. He’s just standing here with his back ramrod straight and his hands held firmly down by his sides.
I pull away self-consciously.
‘Um . . . Happy New Year,’ I say lamely.
‘Yes. Indeed.’ Mr Darcy coughs awkwardly and stares at the ground. For the first time I get a glimpse of what it would be like to go out with someone who’s brooding and dark and has all these repressed emotions. I mean, it all sounds very attractive and sexy in the book, but in real life I want someone who can give me a bear hug.
‘I have been looking for you,’ he begins, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that doesn’t need a body-language expert to tell me he’s obviously extremely uncomfortable with my public outburst of affection.
But then it’s not his fault, is it? I tell myself, feeling a bit sorry for him. I suppose the ladies of his day didn’t go around flinging their arms round men and expecting bear hugs. They just made a sampler or something.
Swallowing hard, he looks up at me and meets my eyes. ‘I was very worried about you, Emily. I went back to the stables last night in the hope that you would have made it back safely. When I found Lightning but no sign of you, I rode to your hotel. However, there was no light at your window, and by then it was very late and . . .’ He takes a breath and composes himself. ‘It gives me great relief to find that you are not hurt.’
Oh, God. With everything that’s been happening, I’d completely forgotten that the last time I saw him he had been knocked off his horse. But now, listening to him speaking, I suddenly realise I haven’t even asked him if he’s OK. Even worse, I hadn’t even thought about it until this very moment.
‘Thanks.’ I smile gratefully. ‘But what about you? I saw you fall—’
‘Thrown,’ he bristles.
‘Oh, right, thrown,’ I repeat, feeling a little piqued by the way he just corrected me.
‘Fortunatel
y, I am a skilled equestrian and therefore I escaped injury.’
‘Phew, that’s lucky.’
‘Oh, it had nothing to do with luck,’ he says arrogantly.
That told you, Emily.
A line from Pride and Prejudice about Mr Darcy suddenly springs to mind: ‘One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man with family, fortune, every thing in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.’
Yeah, well, I don’t, I think irritably.
‘So, have you eaten lunch?’ he asks.
His tone is once more polite, but I’m half inclined to fib and say yes, as I’m still feeling a bit rankled. My pet peeve is arrogance. Saying that, I haven’t eaten anything at all today, just the coffee at breakfast. As if on cue my stomach gives a faint gurgle of complaint.
‘No, not yet,’ I mumble.
‘Excellent. I brought us a little something.’ He nods, and strides over to his horse.
Trepidation stabs. Oh, no, not that again. I don’t think my buttocks can take another horseride. This time I’m just going to come out and say no.
‘No need to look so worried,’ he adds, catching my expression. ‘It is not like the last surprise.’
Unfastening something from behind his saddle, he lifts down a small wicker picnic hamper and a thick woollen blanket from one of the side panniers. He unfolds it and lays it down on the ground, meticulously making sure it’s straight. Then, unfastening the leather straps of the hamper, he begins pulling out various things.
‘We have some bread, grapes, cheeses, goose-liver pâté, a bottle of vintage Bordeaux to wash it all down with . . .’
‘Oh, wow,’ I gasp, somewhat taken aback.
‘. . . and here are the cutlery and plates . . .’ he continues.
Forget the paper and plastic variety. He’s brought real silver knives and forks, and white china plates.
‘. . . and I brought you a little something to keep you warm,’ he adds, unrolling a large fur.
‘That’s so sweet of you.’ I smile. I feel a wave of affection. So he can be a bit arrogant. So what? He’s also really thoughtful, I tell myself, as he sits down next to me on the blanket and places the fur over my legs.
Me and Mr. Darcy Page 26
