Page 41 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Long before I became a famous actress in the theatre, I met Larry, my first husband . . .’

I feel a blip of surprise. Her first husband? How many husbands has Rose had? I wonder.

‘. . . He was a US serviceman based here during the war . . .’

Ah, you see. That explains it. He probably died in action and she was left heartbroken for years. No doubt she only married again later in life for companionship, but she never forgot her first love, their tender moments shared, their slow, sweet courtship.

‘. . . I was only nineteen years old . . .’

See. I knew it.

‘. . . and I’d never even seen a penis . . .’

My reverie screeches to an abrupt halt. Hang on a minute. Did she just say penis?

‘. . . I was somewhat of a late bloomer. Tilly, my best friend, had already done it with her young chap . . .’

No. Please. No. There must be some mistake. What happened to handwritten love letters?

‘. . . several times in fact. Both missionary and from behind . . .’

Arrrggh.

‘. . . It all came as quite a shock, I can tell you . . .’

For the love of Christ. Make this stop. I’ve got a hangover.

‘. . . In those days all I was interested in was getting my hands on a pair of nylons, but Larry was interested in getting those great big Ohio hands of his on my—’

‘Full English breakfast?’ Like a white frilly angel, the waitress suddenly reappears at the table.

I almost cry with relief. Thank God. Another second and I don’t think I would have made it.

‘Yes, please . . . Oh, thank you.’ I smile gratefully as the waitress puts a huge plate in front of me.

And I mean huge.

My stomach balks. Wow, that’s a lot of food for one person. I stare nervously at the glistening mound of eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and some kind of patty. Not to mention the slices of toast. And they say Americans eat huge portions.

‘Well, don’t just sit there looking at it. Tuck in,’ scolds Rose, who thankfully seems to have been steered off course from telling me all about her sex life. ‘You need to get some meat on those bones.’

Trust me, I have enough meat on these bones to last more than one series of Survivor, but I’m not going to argue with Rose. Picking up a fork, I cautiously survey my plate. Hmm, I wonder what this patty thing is?

Shaving off a slither, I tentatively taste it.

I get a very pleasant surprise. ‘Wow, this is delicious,’ I enthuse, taken aback. I cut a bigger slice. ‘What is it?’ I ask, savouring the juicy, salty taste. My hangover’s starting to feel better already.

‘Black pudding,’ beams Rose. ‘It’s always been a favourite of mine, too.’

‘Pudding?’ I mumble, as I chew hungrily. Those crazy Brits, I think fondly. A savoury dessert for breakfast. What will they think of next? ‘Mmm, yum, what’s it made of?’

‘Dried cow’s blood,’ says a male voice next to me, and I turn sideways to see Spike pulling out a chair and sitting down.

My jaws freeze mid-chew. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Black pudding’s made of cow’s blood,’ he says matter-of-factly, plonking down his tatty old notebook on to the table and helping himself to a cup of tea.

For a second I’m almost about to heave all over the table. Then I get it. Of course. Spike and his hilarious English sense of humour.