Page 80 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this,’ Spike is enthusing. Grabbing a strand of shiny pink tinsel from a nearby holly wreath, he tosses it flamboyantly round his shoulders like a feather boa. ‘Well, might as well get into the festive spirit, hey?’ He grins.

I watch, dumbfounded. I thought he’d fall for the joke, but I never thought he’d fall for it quite so hard. Not only is Spike gyrating his pelvis like Elvis on acid, but he’s concentrating so hard he’s doing the white man’s underbite. Sweating profusely he’s causing such a commotion people are starting to stare. I stifle a laugh. He looks so ridiculous. That’ll teach him to always make fun of other people.

Only the thing is, he doesn’t even realise the joke’s on him, I think, feeling a tad disappointed. Instead, he just seems to be obliviously enjoying himself, which wasn’t the idea.

‘It’s actually really quite easy when you know,’ he’s panting.

Just at that moment a waiter passes behind me with a tray of champagne and Spike pauses to reach out and take two glasses.

‘All that dancing’s thirsty work.’ He grins, passing me one. He begins mopping his brow with a napkin. ‘So tell me, when do I get to interview you?’

‘Aren’t you going to misquote me, anyway?’ I say archly.

‘Only if you want me to,’ he laughs, taking a swig of champagne.

‘Well, I know how you like to play with the truth,’ I reply, thinking about Ernie.

But if he knows what I’m talking about I don’t get a reaction.

‘Journalists call it artistic licence,’ he corrects, smiling.

‘How convenient,’ I remark. I can feel myself getting more and more annoyed. I know I’m not supposed to say anything, I know I promised, but it’s proving impossible. He’s just so smug.

‘I’ll have to take you to lunch and do it.’

‘Talking of lunch, I had lunch with Ernie yesterday.’

I’m sorry, but I tried biting my tongue.

The effect of mentioning his name is immediate. Spike stiffens and his face suddenly whitens.

‘He’s such a sweet old man,’ I continue pointedly.

‘Well, you know what they say about first impressions,’ he mutters gruffly.

I can’t contain it any longer.

‘Well, mine were right about you,’ I snap back, my anger bubbling up to the surface.

Spike looks shocked. ‘Meaning?’ he demands.

But before I have a chance to answer, a phone suddenly starts ringing, its tone loud and warbling.

‘Shit, that’s me,’ he curses. ‘Hold this –’ Shoving his glass of champagne at me before I can refuse, he begins frantically checking all his pockets, until finally he finds it.

Well, at least now he’s going to turn the darned thing off.

He glances at the screen.

Doubt twinges. Surely he’s not going to answer it. We’re in the middle of an argument.

He answers it.

‘Yeah, hi, it’s Spike . . . yeah . . . Spike . . . Can you hear me?’ He frowns into the earpiece, shaking head. ‘Christ, the reception in here’s terrible.’

Right, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I turn to leave.

‘Hold on. Don’t move,’ he hisses, pressing his BlackBerry to his chest and flinging out his hand in a sort of ‘Stop’ sign. ‘This is only going to take a moment.’