Shit. I’ve done it again. Thinking about Spike when I promised myself I wouldn’t. Right, that’s it. No more of this dress nonsense. I’ll have to get to the bottom of that mystery later. Firmly I turn my attention back to Stella, who’s still hanging on the line with bated breath. ‘OK, so what size are you in a cape?’ I ask her.
Theres a squeak, and then she launches into, ‘Well, actually, I’m a size zero, but that’s in the US. In the UK they have an entirely different sizing chart . . .’
I end up buying Stella the cape and three pairs of Union Jack G-strings. I also buy myself a few things. But I don’t even
try
trusting my own judgement. Even without Stella’s reminder that I am a fashion flunky, I know better. Instead, I get myself one of the store’s personal shoppers. A personal shopper! I didn’t even know there was such a thing!
And now look at me! I think, staring happily at my reflection as I ride back up the escalator. I have a neck. A waist too. And all these wonderful clothes that mix and match. I’m wearing one of the outfits my personal shopper picked out for me, a pair of skinny jeans (yes, me, in skinny jeans!), a pewter-coloured
jumper
(see, I’m practically British now. I’m not going to use the word ‘sweater’ ever again), a pair of cute black ankle boots with these little cuffs that sort of turn over and the most adorable bright canary-yellow pea-jacket. I would never in a million years have chosen it, but it looks really cool and I’ve already had a few admiring glances. I think about Stella and smile to myself as I imagine her reaction. She is going to
freak out.
She’s going to think I’ve had a brain transplant, not a vacation.
I emerge into Oxford Street a new – albeit poorer – woman. OK, so now what? I hesitate. I could grab something to eat, except I ate all those cucumber sandwiches and I’m not really hungry. Or maybe I could go to an art gallery, but then, like I said, I’m not really in the mood to look at paintings.
Or you could go see Spike.
My stomach doubles over and I feel a sort of tugging in my chest. I’ve been trying not to think about him all day, but the voice pops into my head loud and clear. I ignore it. Alternatively there’s always having a mooch around some bookstores. Maybe Charing Cross is near here somewhere and I’ve always wanted to go, ever since I saw that movie with Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft.
He works in London. The offices of the
Daily Times
can’t be far. You could jump in a cab.
Stop it. I am
not
going to see Spike. There’s no point. Like I said, I’m just going to forget about him.
Except my memory has other ideas. Pressing play on the tape recorder in my head, I hear Miss Steane’s voice: ‘
Prejudice can be a terrible thing, Emily. As can pride. You know, Jane Austen always made her heroines feisty. They stuck by their principles, went after what they wanted, were not afraid to admit when they were wrong. Not doing anything can be worse than doing the wrong thing.
’
Up ahead I can see a black cab heading towards me, its yellow light on. I watch as it gets closer and closer. Any minute now and it’s going to whizz right past me.
I stick out my arm. At the very last moment the cab swerves deftly to the kerb, and quickly tugging open the door, I scramble inside.
‘Where to, love?’
The driver looks at me in his rear-view mirror.
My heart is thumping. I feel almost sick with nerves.
‘The
Daily Times
, please.’
Chapter Thirty-six
I
t’s one of those modern metal signs that doesn’t have the words written
on
it but instead has them inconspicuously engraved
into
it: THE DAILY TIMES. If it wasn’t for the cabbie I would never have noticed it, but the newspaper has probably been here for years and it’s their way of saying, ‘We’re so famous we don’t need a
proper
sign as you’d have to be moron not to know this is the
Daily Times
building.’
Which takes me from nervous to borderline panic.
Checking my reflection (again), I take a deep breath and push open the steel and glass doors. Inside, the foyer is all black marble and the heels of my new boots make a loud clip-clopping as I walk across to the front desk.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
The overly made-up desk clerk smiles at me politely.
‘Um . . . yeah. Could you tell Spike Hargreaves that Emily Albright is here to see him?’
My heart is beating so hard in my chest right now I feel as if it’s going to burst open.
‘And what should I say it’s regarding?’
I swallow hard and force a smile.
‘Just tell him I’m here for my interview.’
Ten minutes later I’m still waiting. Well, OK, looking at my watch, it’s not exactly ten minutes, it’s more like six and a bit, but it feels like he’s keeping me waiting. It’s probably his way of punishing me, I decide, nervously tapping the heels of my new boots against the marble floor. This is probably a really bad idea. Like, a really,
really
bad idea. Like I should just pick up my bags and wheel myself and my suitcase out of the
Daily Times
and never come back again.
In fact, you know what—
‘Miss Albright?’
I snap back to see the desk clerk looking over at me.
‘Mr Hargreaves is ready for you now. If you’d like to take the lift to the third floor, someone will meet you.’
For a brief moment I consider not going through with my plan, gabbling some excuse about having to be somewhere and dashing out of that black marble foyer as quickly as my new Top Shop boots can take me. But something stops me. I’d like to think it was Miss Steane’s voice in my head about not being afraid to admit I was wrong, or my innate desire to do the right thing and apologise for my appallingly shitty behaviour.
But I’d be lying. You want to know the real reason why I don’t leave? Because I think –
I hope
– that I’ve actually met someone I give a stuff about and who gives a stuff about me, and if I go now I’m always going to wonder what could have happened.
‘Sure . . . Thanks.’ I smile back at the desk clerk, and picking up my bags I walk across to the elevator and press the button.
Plus, let’s face it, to use another phrase I learned from Cat, I fancy the bloody pants off him.
‘Emily!’
As the elevator doors slide open Spike is waiting there in all his crumply, dishevelled Spikeness. My stomach lurches. I expected to feel something when I saw him again, I was
hoping
I was going to feel something. That’s the reason I came all this way: that ‘something’. But I hadn’t expected it to be
quite
so intense. Forget butterflies, I’ve got frigging rhinos stampeding around in my stomach.
And now it’s that awkward bit where we don’t know how to greet each other. Having spent the last three floors running through this very moment, I abandon all thoughts of grand gestures and decide to go with pretending it’s perfectly normal to be showing up at the office of someone who only a couple of days ago I was calling a lying bastard, and revert to my default greeting of ‘Hi’ and a smile.
Spike, meanwhile, who I thought for a brief, hopeful moment looked pleased to see me, has now firmly pulled down the shutters on any show of emotion and is nodding ‘Hello’ and stuffing his hands resolutely in the pockets of his old cords.
I feel a crush of disappointment. Well, what did you expect, Emily? For him to greet you with open arms? Quite honestly, you should be grateful he’s even talking to you.
I step out of the elevator. My legs wobble. I try telling myself it’s the new heels.
‘I have to say, you’re the last person I expected to see here,’ Spike is saying now as he leads me across the bustling news floor, filled with dozens of journalists all busily bashing away at their keyboards, and into a small office tucked away in the corner. Closing the door behind him, he gestures to a chair.
‘No, I bet,’ I laugh nervously, as I plonk myself down and glance around the office. It’s small, and it’s one hell of a mess, but it’s cosy, with all these interesting pictures on the walls and shelves crammed with books.
Lots and lots of books.
Not only are they lined up in rows, but they’re piled on top too, to fill every available inch of shelf, spines jostling against spines, big hardback books, small paperbacks, dog-eared old favourites with their covers missing . . .
I swear I feel like reaching across his desk, grabbing hold of him and demanding we get married right now.
‘So, how’s things? How was the rest of the tour?’
Leaning back in his chair, he plonks his feet on his desk, his frayed laces plopping into his coffee mug. I notice he has blackened chewing gum on one of his soles. I also notice that whereas before I would have thought, Pig, now I think, Adorable.
Shit, I have got it bad.
‘Oh, great, great.’ I nod, wondering when I can launch into my speech, which I’ve been rehearsing all the way up in the elevator. ‘Lyme Park was awesome. Apparently they’ve got one of the finest collections of clocks and they have some really interesting paintings . . .’
I can hear myself prattling on like a tour guide and I cringe. ‘Oh, and Rose got her photo up on the wall,’ I add, remembering.
‘She did? That’s great.’ Spikes grins broadly, and I feel a rush of pleasure.
Maybe there is a chance. Maybe he does still like me. Just a little bit.
He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses uncertainly, and just as I think he’s going to refer to our last ‘conversation’, he asks, ‘And how’s Maeve?’
My disappointment is tempered by my excitement at telling him the good news.
‘Amazing,’ I enthuse. ‘She got a phone call from her daughter out of the blue—’
‘So she spoke to Shannon?’
‘Yeah, apparently she’s a nurse and she’s married and – oh, guess what? – Maeve is going to be a
grandma
!’ I gasp, and then break off as it suddenly registers. ‘You said Shannon,’ I say quietly, my mind turning. ‘How did you know she was called Shannon?’
For the first time ever I see Spike having difficulty articulating what he wants to say. Rubbing his beard with the flat of his hand, he stares down at his keyboard for a few moments, deep in thought, then, looking up, says, ‘That morning, after the ball, when we spoke about Ernie . . .’
I feel my cheeks redden with shame.
‘. . . you told me about Maeve having to give up her baby for adoption, and how she’d always felt terrible about it, and I remembered we’d done a story about that a few months ago. About reuniting adopted children with their birth parents. There’s these great agencies that can help you trace a person, so when I came back to the office I dug around a little, put in a few phone calls . . .’
Suddenly I have a vague memory of Maeve saying something about how someone had made an enquiry about her to the same agency Shannon had.
‘It was you who got in touch with the agency?’ I ask, starting to fit it all together.
‘Hey, I wasn’t trying to interfere,’ protests Spike quickly.
‘No, I didn’t mean—’ I break off. ‘Maeve is like a different person,’ I say quietly.
‘That’s great, really great.’ He nods, and I can tell he’s genuinely pleased.
‘Thank you.’ I smile.
‘Hey, don’t thank me. I just made a couple of enquiries.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s what I do. I’m a journalist, remember?’
Our eyes seek each other out across the desk and I can’t help thinking how I didn’t see this humble side of him before. How could I have been so blinded? More than ever I want to say all the things I came here to say, but my nerve fails me.
‘So, the receptionist said you were here for your interview?’ says Spike, breaking the silence.
‘Er, yeah . . . yeah, that’s right.’
‘Blimey, I didn’t know you were so keen to give one – you never seemed that interested before.’
He throws me a look as if to say, ‘You never seemed that interested in
me
before,’ and I feel a thudding regret. But maybe I’m just reading too much into it.
‘Well, no, I wasn’t . . .’ I flounder around for words. ‘But, well, you see, I’ve thought about it and I think it’s very important that you get both the old and young perspective on Mr Darcy.’
Shit. Emily.
Old and young perspective?
What on earth are you going on about?
‘Right, I see.’ Spike raises his eyebrows as if he’s impressed. Then again, it’s also a look that could be interpreted as him thinking, What kind of nutcase have I got here?
There’s another one of those pauses. I fiddle with my hair. He starts tapping a plastic ruler backwards and forwards against his keyboard.
‘Is it me or is it really hot in here?’ I blurt.
‘It would probably help if you took your coat off.’ He gestures towards it.
‘Oh, yeah, right,
duh
!’
Arggh. Fucking hell. If wearing my coat in a central-heated office and then complaining I’m hot doesn’t make me look like a complete moron, sounding like something from
South Park
certainly does.
Duh?
I’ve never said ‘duh’ in my life! Ever. And now,
here
, is where I decide to use it for the first time?
Self-consciously tugging off my coat, I fold it over on my lap. And then, not knowing what to do next, I sort of stroke the yellow bundle as if it’s a pet. ‘I just bought it,’ I hear myself saying brightly. ‘From Topshop.’
Oh, my God. What’s got into me? I am
digging
a grave. And I want to throw myself in it, I think desperately.
Spike’s mouth twitches and I’m sure I see a glimmer of a smile.
‘Is that so?’
And now he’s laughing at me. I feel the familiar stirrings of irritation.