Page 107 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘You didn’t see it was anyone,’ I gasp, coming to a standstill.

But if she hears my remonstrations, she doesn’t acknowledge them. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she’s exclaiming instead. Her voice is breathy and high and she looks agitated.

Immediately I feel a thud of dread. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I ask.

Maeve seems unable to speak.

‘What? Tell me!’ God, now I’m really worried.

Wringing her gloved hands, she bites her lip and looks at me. Oh, hell, I’m right. She’s bracing herself to tell me bad news.

‘Right, c’mon,’ I say, taking charge. ‘We need to get you a drink.’

‘OK, tell me what’s going on.’

We’re ensconced in the only place we could find open in Bath on New Year’s Day: the Gate of India, an empty, flock-wallpapered restaurant with bad lighting and delicious poppadoms, which Maeve is absently crumbling as her words tumble over themselves.

‘This morning I received a phone call.’

‘A phone call from whom?’

‘From my brother, Paddy.’

‘You mean the brother in Spain?’

‘Aye, I’ve only got the one.’ She nods furiously, making a start on demolishing a new poppadom. ‘He was in Spain with his daughter for Christmas, I think I mentioned it . . .’

‘Oh, yeah.’ I remember now. I nod. And you also mentioned he was the brother who threw you out when you were pregnant, I think coldly, remembering her story from yesterday – though it feels like days ago – and how I’d resolved to hate him ever since.

‘Well, he’s back in Ireland now, and he rang me this morning, after breakfast. At first I was worried – I thought something bad must have happened.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, Paddy never rings me, especially not on my mobile. Says it costs far too much money.’

What? Not even to wish you a Happy New Year? I want to protest, but we’re interrupted by a waiter who comes to take our order. I ask for a couple of brandies, then change it to peppermint teas at Maeve’s request. The waiter looks grumpy and tries to push some garlic naan on us before finally giving up with a weary resignation and leaving us to continue our conversation.

‘So?’ I encourage.

‘So, anyway, I knew something was up. At first I thought it was the children.’ Maeve pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘But thank goodness, no, they’re fine.’ She smiles as she thinks of them. Then, remembering herself, continues: ‘It’s to tell me I’ve had a phone call from a woman by the name of Shannon.’

I gesture her to go on.

‘She was looking for a Maeve Tumpane.’

‘How did she get your number?’

Maeve shrugs. ‘Mine’s a rare surname – there aren’t many in the directory. I suppose it was just a case of ringing them all up.’ Pushing her glasses up her nose, she peers at me uncertainly.

‘And what did your brother say?’ I prompt. Despite Maeve’s initial eagerness to tell her news, she seems somewhat dazed by it.

‘He asked what her business was.’ Maeve smiles, almost apologetically. ‘Paddy can be very brusque on the phone.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I murmur, before I can help myself.

‘He’s not a bad man, you know, Emily. He did what he thought was best.’

I look at Maeve’s pleading expression and realise that I’m doing it again. Letting my prejudice get in the way. Maeve’s right. He probably did do what was best at the time, and who am I to judge him for it now? Nearly forty years later. A girl from the noughties who lives in New York City, where men can walk down Fifth Avenue in drag and no one bats an eyelid.