Page 124 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘. . . 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.

‘Yes. I had a personal shopper,’ I inform him stiffly. Huh, that’ll show him.

‘Wow.’ He leans back in his chair and surveys me with amusement. ‘And what exactly does this personal shopper do?’

I bristle. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say breezily, trying to sound as if I’m used to having personal shoppers all the time. ‘Inform you about new trends, show you how to put together different looks, pick out clothes . . .’ My eyes wander across Spike’s outfit. He’s wearing ancient-looking cords, an unidentifiable pair of sneakers and an old Smiths’ T-shirt, which still has what looks like the remnants of this morning’s toothpaste down the front.

‘You know, maybe you should try one, one day,’ I can’t help adding. Well, I’m sorry, I know I’m supposed to be here declaring my undying love among other things, but still.