Page 123 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘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.