Page 111 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Hmm, do you think so?’ Rose is saying, but she’s allowing a smile to creep across her face. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to overshadow her or anything.’

I have to stifle a smile. Only Rose could worry about overshadowing an Academy Award-winning actress.

‘And she does look rather old next to me, don’t you think?’

Considering that your photograph was taken probably fifty years ago that’s hardly surprising, I want to say, but of course I don’t. This is Rose’s moment, and she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. In fact, this is the happiest I’ve seen her all tour. The last thing I want to do is spoil it by giving a reality check.

‘Yes, I think she does,’ I reply, and turning to Rose, I wink.

She breaks into the broadest smile. ‘Perfect. Then let’s leave it there, shall we?’ she announces, turning to the manager.

A look of relief floods his lopsided face.

‘And as for you, Mr Geoffries . . .’

Oh, God, what now? scuds across his features.

Grabbing him by the shoulders, she plants a large kiss on his astonished cheek. ‘You are an absolute star!’

Rose’s picture draws quite a crowd. Until now, I think most of the women had secretly thought Rose boastful and her tales of her ‘renowned beauty’ and ‘theatrical prowess’ somewhat exaggerated. But now, with their memories jogged and the evidence indisputable, they’re full of admiration and questions:

‘Ooh, did you act with Sir John Gielgud?’

‘I thought I recognised you! I saw you on stage at the Old Vic in 1955.’

‘Rose Raphael? You’re the Rose Raphael?’

‘Tell me, what is Judi like?’

Rose, of course, is utterly delighted. Fielding questions like a seasoned politician, she seems to really come alive, recounting anecdotes from her theatre days to an eager audience. In fact, it takes all of Miss Steane’s skills as a tour guide to break up the crowd and chivvy everyone out of the lobby to board the waiting coach.

I hang back. The thought of seeing Ernie after everything that’s happened isn’t something I’ve been much looking forward to. After that whole made-up story he told me, all those lies about Spike, what on earth am I going to say? Anything? Nothing? Should I just ignore him? Confront him? What?

Walking across the parking lot, I go backwards and forwards, different scenarios playing in my head: Ernie’s reaction when confronted with the evidence of the newspaper cuttings. He’s angry, furious— Shit, what if he turns violent? I flinch at the thought. He might be an old man but he could still pack a punch with those forearms. Then there’s the scenario of us both pretending nothing’s happened, politely greeting each other, yet a silent look passing between us that acknowledges he knows that I know.

But whatever happens I can’t put it off any longer. I’m the last to board, and as I climb up the steps I brace myself for our confrontation. Stay calm, Emily, keep your cool, don’t go making a scene in front of everyone. I reach the top step. Hilary is in front of me, but I can see a peaked cap. OK, I’ve made a decision. I’m just going to tell him I need to speak to him privately, that there’s something we need to discuss, that—

Hang on a minute—

‘You’re not Ernie,’ I blurt in bewilderment.

The boyish figure in the peaked cap turns to me. ‘Well, I wasn’t the last time I looked,’ he quips, and cocks a smile.

I stare at him blankly. He has a goatee and pimples and looks about twenty-one. Nope, he’s definitely not Ernie.

I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s just that we . . . um . . . had a different driver before,’ I explain, trying to regain my composure, but I’m bursting with unanswered questions. Where’s Ernie gone? Was he fired? Did he leave of his own accord? What happened exactly?

‘Oh, right, yeah, so I heard,’ nods the new driver. ‘I was called in to cover. Something about him having to leave at short notice, some problem . . .’

‘What problem?’ I demand, dying to know what happened.

‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘No one tells me anything round here.’

‘Now if you’d all like to take your seats, please,’ instructs Miss Steane, charging up the aisle towards me, clipboard in hand. ‘That includes you, Miss Albright, if you would be so kind.’ She glances between me and the driver, and I can tell from her expression she knows exactly what’s happened, but she isn’t letting on. But then I often get the impression that Miss Steane knows more than she’s saying.

I sit down and look out of the window. And for the first time it dawns on me that for someone who sure knows a lot about everyone else, I don’t know the first thing about our enigmatic tour guide. Not one little thing.

Chapter Thirty-two