“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 writesromance,” Crispin said, drawing out theoin 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’sa 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 awriterand anauthorcomes 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 aSunday Timesbestseller,” 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 inPride and Prejudicewhere 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 readingPride 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 assistme 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.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said as Darcy fell into step beside me. “How did you know about that bad review of Crispin’s book?”
I saw his cheeks color in the most adorable way.
“Yesterday, when I was at Mrs. Atallah’s residence, I happened to inquire if she knew anything of a Crispin Carter,” Darcy said. “You had mentioned your former paramour’s name, and I must confess I was curious about the scoundrel who had clearly treated you so abominably. Mrs. Atallah knew nothing of the man, but I believe her own curiosity was piqued, for she then proceeded to research the fellow on her electronic device. It is she who found the poor review of his book, which I must admit we took some pleasure in reading.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m very glad you did, as it was immensely satisfying to see Crispin squirm like that.”
