Page 50 of Me and Mr. Darcy

Remember: new leaf, Emily. New leaf.

‘Isn’t it?’ agrees Spike, seeming not to notice my sarcasm. ‘I think that’s partly why I became a journalist—’ He breaks off, and smiles self-consciously. ‘Sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I? I can see the glazed look in your eyes and you’re thinking, What is this bloke going on about? But once I get started I just can’t help it. I find the English language fascinating. Don’t you?’

Staying mad at him is proving harder than I thought. I’m beginning to realise that Spike and I are much more similar than I would like. Feeling my defences rapidly melting, I fleetingly consider diving into a discussion about literature and authors and writing. Then I remember, ‘pretty dull . . . average-looking . . . and she’s American.’

Immediately, my defences go back up again.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I reply tartly. ‘After all, I’m an American.’

If he’s got any idea what I’m referring to he doesn’t show it. ‘You don’t think we speak the same language?’ he asks with interest.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Really? Why?’

OK, now would be a good time to change the subject, advises the little voice inside my head. Except the thing is, I’ve never really been one to listen to advice, not even my own.

‘I don’t say mean things about people,’ I blurt.

Spike flinches and a deep crevice splits his brow. I brace myself for an angry, defensive outburst. Well, he started it, I think to myself, somewhat childishly.

But it never happens. Instead, the storm passes and his offence dissolves into an astonishingly wide smile. The kind of smile I had no idea he had in him. It hugs the corners of his eyes, flares his nostrils and stretches out his mouth to show off those straight white teeth of his.

Aha, but it’s as I thought, I note with a sense of satisfaction. Now I can see his bottom ones I notice they’re all crooked. Not too bad, but definitely orthodontically challenged, I decide, trying to find some small reason not to find him attractive and realising that it’s not working. He’s annoyingly attractive. Even with those insanely crooked bottom teeth.

‘Crikey, you don’t mince words, do you?’ he’s saying, shaking his head and scratching the patch of bristles on his chin.

‘Neither do you,’ I reply.

He looks at me, not understanding.

‘Yesterday. We were on the coach, you were on the phone,’ I begin, feeling self-righteous. ‘I was in the bathroom.’

He crinkles up his forehead, trying to think back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .’ he begins, then suddenly trails off. All at once his smile crumples and he inhales loudly through his teeth. ‘Oh, fuck.’

He looks so mortified I feel an intense sense of satisfaction. And then – I get a niggle. I thought I’d feel really triumphant, but actually, his discomfort isn’t making me feel that great. And as for all the anger I felt towards him, it appears to have disappeared and instead I’m . . . I flail around, trying to grab the tail of my thoughts. To tell the truth, I’m not sure what I am.

‘I thought you were referring to the article in the Daily Times. I saw you reading it when I came in.’

I feel my cheeks tinge as he gestures towards the newspaper I’ve tried and failed to hide down the side of the armchair.

‘Listen, I know you must think I’m a complete bastard—’

‘Now we’re talking the same language,’ I cut in belligerently.

He ignores my sarcasm. ‘Look, I can explain. You’ve got me all wrong. You’re taking it all out of context. I didn’t mean it like that, I was in a shitty mood, I’d had a huge row with my girlfriend . . .’

‘You? Have a girlfriend?’ I mock, pretending to be surprised.

There’s a pause and I can tell he’s dying to retaliate, but instead he clenches his jaw and continues: ‘I was talking with a friend, just joking around, taking the piss. It’s an affectionate thing. It’s what we British do,’ he adds.

He looks desperate.

‘I might be American, but I’m not stupid,’ I retort. ‘Just pretty dull and average-looking.’

He winces.

‘Unlike your hot French girlfriend,’ I blurt, unable to stop myself.