Page 92 of Me and Mr. Darcy

‘. . . I always swore I could never go out with an American – you know I always had this thing about French girls . . .’

Very angry.

‘. . . but you’re different . . .’

Fucking furious. Damn right I’m different, you fucking asshole, I want to scream.

‘. . . and so, well, I just wanted to tell you how I feel and I was wondering . . . well, hoping, really, that you might feel the same way. About me, that is. And that maybe you’d have dinner with me tonight, if you’re not doing anything.’

He stops talking – finally – and, evidently pleased with his monologue, looks at me expectantly. I survey him with every drop of restraint holding my anger tight inside me.

He says ‘hoping’, but there’s no doubting he’s pretty confident he’s going to get a positive reaction. That I’m going to suddenly swoon into his arms with grateful relief. Now, more than ever, I want to slap him.

Instead, I fold my arms and look at him coldly. ‘And what about Emmanuelle?’

Not only is he a liar, love-wrecker and an old-man-basher. It would now appear he’s also a potential cheat. God, how can I resist?

‘Oh, didn’t I mention it? We broke up last night,’ he says as if to reassure me.

I feel a twinge of something that could be mistaken as pleasure, but I quickly reject it.

‘It was never right between us. We fought like cat and dog. You were right the other day when you said I needed to go out with a normal girl’

‘And I’m normal, am I?’

‘Yeah,’ he enthuses, pulling his chair closer. ‘Absolutely.’

I feel stung. No girl ever wants to be called ‘normal’, do they? You want to be called ‘special’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘sexy’ and ‘passionate’ and a million other words that mean you’re unique. ‘Normal’ is just another word for ‘boring’.

‘Jeez, I’m flattered,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Thanks.’

He looks at me uncertainly. It’s the first flicker that things might not be going the way he’d planned.

‘I can’t think what I’ve done to inspire such love and affection,’ I continue calmly. ‘Truly, I’m very flattered. Privileged, even.’ With the anger building inside, I discard the flannel and gather myself up as best I can in a sheet. Sticking out my chin, I say determinedly, ‘But if you even think I might feel the same way about you, you’re very much mistaken.’

Spike seems to take a moment to register what I’ve just said. And then his smile seems to freeze and he goes a funny colour. For once he’s lost for words. This is obviously not the reaction he was expecting.

‘And even if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t go out to dinner with you,’ I declare ferociously.

A whole range of emotions flit over his features. Shock, anger, disbelief, incredulity, hurt. In fact, he looks really hurt, but then he quickly buries it and, composing himself, says stiffly, ‘You know, I find it really hard to talk about emotional stuff, and it took me a lot of balls to tell you how I feel about you.’

For a second regret stabs. Determinedly I push it aside.

‘So you don’t feel the same way. Clearly,’ he adds, grim-faced. ‘But you didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. I do have feelings, you know.’

He stands up, the injured party, and turns to leave.

Which is when I lose it.

‘You have feelings?’ I exclaim, my face flushing. Jumping out of bed, my sheet wrapped round me, I grab my bathrobe and – while trying to cover myself fully – tug it on. ‘What about my feelings?’ I demand. ‘You stand there and tell me that you thought I was this, that and the other when you met me, but that you’ve decided to like me against all your better judgement, and that it’s so out of character for you, but you’ve struggled against it!’ I break off, panting, my chest heaving up and down. ‘And then you expect me to be nice to you?’

‘Oh, come on, I didn’t mean it like that,’ he retorts. If he thinks he’s going to start talking he’s got another thing coming. It’s my turn now.

‘Yes, you did,’ I cry, cutting him dead. ‘And who do you think you are? Criticising me! Insulting me! You’re not so perfect, you know. Far from it.’

‘OK, so I thought those things then, but I’m just being honest, isn’t that what you’re supposed to be with each other? Totally honest?’

‘Oh, you want us both to be brutally honest, do you?’ I’m shouting now, my voice high and hoarse, but I don’t care. ‘Well, in that case, let me be honest with you about a thing or two . . .’