Page 81 of Me and Mr. Darcy

I hesitate. I suppose this could be some kind of emergency. Something to do with work. A breaking story or something. I hold on.

He turns back to his BlackBerry. ‘Oh, c’mon, don’t be angry at me, sugarplum.’

‘Sugarplum?’ I gasp.

He shoots me an apologetic look. ‘I know, I know . . .’ he continues pacifying, then quickly covering the mouthpiece hisses, ‘It’s Emmanuelle.’

For a split second my chest tightens, but I quickly put it down to anger. I mean, honestly. I don’t frigging believe it. Does he think I’m just going to stand here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend?

Actually, yes, Emily, seeing as you are standing here like a lemon, holding his drink, while he whispers sweet nothings to his girlfriend.

Argghhh.

Furious with myself and Spike, I shoot him one of my scariest looks, then turn on my stiletto heel and, still holding a glass of champagne in each hand, march off the dance floor. Anger is swishing around inside of me like hot lava and I’m in serious danger of erupting all over some poor, unsuspecting person.

At the far end of the dance floor French windows lead on to a large balcony, but no one is allowed out there. I make a beeline for them. They’re not locked. And nobody’s looking. I slip through and step outside.

Chapter Twenty-three

OK, now just chill out, Emily. Chill.

The balcony is empty, and apart from the muted strains of the string quarter playing softly inside, it’s also still and quiet. It’s a welcome relief after the noise and chatter of the ballroom. Pacing over to the edge, I place both champagne flutes on the balustrade, spread my arms far apart and, gripping the cold stone beneath my fingertips, stare out into the darkness.

I take a deep breath.

I’m fuming about Spike. I was right the first moment I ever laid eyes on him. He really is an asshole of the first degree. The way he behaved towards Ernie is despicable. As is telling lies about him to Maeve.

And as for shoving his drink in my face and answering his phone like that and then just ignoring me!

I exhale, watching my breath escaping in large white clouds. It’s freezing out here and I’m shivering like crazy in my flimsy dress, but I’m too angry to go back inside. It’s times like this I wish I smoked. That’s what people always do in movies when they’re pissed about something, isn’t it? They drag heavily on cigarettes and somehow it seems to make them feel better.

A peal of laughter disturbs my thoughts and I look over to see a group of twenty-somethings who have snuck outside too. They’re huddled together at the far end of the balcony, laughing at some joke or other. But what interests me most is one of them appears to be smoking.

Emboldened by my shitty mood and the numerous glasses of champagne I’ve consumed during the course of the evening, I walk over to them.

‘Erm, excuse me . . .’

They turn towards me. Up close I see they’re all really young, probably in their late teens and early twenties: three lanky guys in novelty ties, and two girls wearing matching feather boas who Stella would describe as ‘sturdy’. They’re drinking straight from a bottle of Moët, its gold tinfoil neck glinting mischievously in the moonlight as it’s passed around them. I watch each of them taking a swig. They remind me of when I was in college.

‘Hi.’ I greet them with a sort of little wave. ‘I was wondering if I could steal a cigarette.’ Then I add the classic non-smoker’s line: ‘I’m supposed to have given up, but, hey . . .’

‘Are you American?’ slurs one of the guys who, with a floppy brown fringe and goofy smile, would be indistinguishable from the others, had it not been for his tie: black-and-white zebra print.

‘Um, yeah.’ I nod, and then as if to prove it I flash them the smile that cost my parents twenty thousand dollars in orthodontist’s fees.

‘And you wanna bum a fag?’ grins one of the other guys whose tie appears to be made from a Union Jack flag.

Now obviously here in the UK this must mean something very different than it does back in the States. ‘Um . . .’ I falter, but I’m saved from answering as all the boys burst into hysterical laughter, slapping their knees and giggling hilariously.

I’m a bit taken aback. Wow, talk about high-spirited.

‘Shut up, Henry,’ scolds one of the girls, punching him on the shoulder. She looks at me and smiles. ‘Ignore him, he’s an idiot,’ she confides, taking a long drag of her roll-up cigarette. I get a pungent whiff of something and it’s not tobacco.

And that’s not a roll-up, I suddenly realise. It’s a joint.

Oh, God, I’m such a dope, I think, no pun intended. Cringing inwardly, I kick myself. No wonder they’re all giggling their asses off out here. They’re all completely stoned.

‘Yeah, sorry, no offence meant,’ chimes in Henry, throwing me a sheepish grin and taking a generous swig from the champagne bottle.