Page 49 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Hmmm. Actually, the introduction isn’t bad. But no matter, I’m sure it’s going to get worse.

Only it doesn’t. It just gets better. By the third paragraph I’m seriously impressed. Spike certainly has a distinctive voice. He’s neither effusive about his subject nor over-descriptive in his style; instead, it’s just good writing. Insightful, respectful and rather charming.

Damn. How disappointing. I really wanted to rip him to shreds.

Even worse, he’s really very funny in parts, I realise, giggling to myself at a comment he makes about men looking better than women in high heels. Who would have thought it? Alert the media. Spike Hargreaves has a good sense of humour.

‘Something funny?’

I look up to see the writer himself appear from behind my chair, nursing what looks like a large brandy.

‘Umm, no. Not really,’ I reply stiffly, furious with myself for being caught actually laughing at something he’s written.

‘Is that the Daily Times?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’ I fib, pretending I hadn’t noticed. With a loud crunching of pages, I hurriedly shut the newspaper and stuff it down the side of the leather seat cushion in an attempt to get rid of the evidence.

Spike’s eyes glance from me to the newspaper. Then, without saying anything, he walks over to the fireplace, leans against the mantelpiece and, cradling the bowl of the glass, studies his brandy with careful consideration.

God, is he just going to stand there? Annoyed at the intrusion, I’m half tempted to get up and leave. But my pride stops me. I was here first, so why should I? And anyway, like I said, I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m not going to let him get to me any more. I’m just going to carry on as if he’s not even here. Tra-la-la . . .

Nonchalantly I pick up Pride and Prejudice. Right, where am I? I scan the paragraphs. Oh, yes, here, where Darcy is beginning to pay attention to Elizabeth:

Occupied in observing Mr Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise.

Hmm, like some others I could mention. I’m still piqued by Spike’s comments about me on the coach yesterday.

But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness.

Spike clears his throat as if to say something, but I don’t look up. If he thinks he’s going to engage me in conversation with him, he can think again.

Resolutely, I keep reading.

Of this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.

‘You and I have got off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’

For a stubborn moment I think about pretending I haven’t heard him, then I remember my new leaf. My mature, composed and infinitely cool new leaf.

Casually marking my page by turning over the corner, I close my book and look up.

Resting his chin on the rim of his glass, Spike’s fixed me with his pale blue eyes. I fidget under the spotlight of his attention.

‘The wrong foot?’ I repeat coolly.

‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ he explains.

‘I know what it is,’ I say crossly.

Watching me, he breaks into an amused smile, revealing a surprisingly neat row of white teeth.

For an English man, that is.

‘Apparently, it originates from the old days when people believed it was unlucky to put your left foot on the floor when you got out of bed. Incredible, huh? How all these phrases and words we use today have all this history attached.’

I look at him blankly. Is he being nice? I mean, he seems genuine, but I can’t be sure.

‘How interesting,’ I say tightly.