Mr Darcy come to life.
‘ There you are.’
Stepping out of the room, I walk into the darkened hallway and crash headfirst into the warm armpit of a corduroy jacket.
‘Mumph.’ I give a muffled yelp and jump backwards.
Of course. It had to be, didn’t it? Spike Hargreaves’s corduroy jacket.
‘Oh . . . hi,’ I mumble, hurriedly smoothing down my mussed-up hair.
‘Jesus, where the hell have you been?’
I feel a snap of irritation at his belligerent mood. ‘None of your goddamn business,’ I reply archly.
He throws me a filthy look. ‘Yeah, well, unfortunately for me, it is. I was sent to look for you.’ His voice is laden with impatience. ‘The museum’s about to close. Everyone’s waiting for you on the coach.’
Shit. I feel really guilty. I don’t care what Spike thinks, but I do care about everyone else. ‘I got lost,’ I say defensively.
‘ Lost? ’ repeats Spike, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘Bloody hell. Women ,’ he mutters, shaking his head.
As if I’m totally useless, I think, feeling annoyed at both myself and Spike.
‘And I got talking to Mr Darcy,’ I can’t resist adding.
Spike looks at me as if I’ve just gone mad. ‘Yeah, right. Pull the other one.’
‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.’ I shrug. ‘But the museum has obviously got someone to dress up as him. Maybe you should interview him. For your article,’ I add, smiling serenely. ‘Ask him a few questions about what it’s like being every woman’s fantasy,’ I say, my eyes flicking to Spike’s belly, which is pressing against his crumpled shirt. Automatically he sucks it in. ‘He’s back there, in the parlour.’
I can see Spike is interested, but he’d never admit it. I start walking away.
‘Are you winding me up?’ he calls after me.
I turn and catch him tucking in his shirt tails. He stops immediately.
‘Me?’ I gasp, pretending to look shocked. ‘As if I’d do such a thing.’ Turning back round, I keep walking.
One. Two. Three.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Spike tugging his notebook out of his pocket and retrieving a pen from behind his ear. He doesn’t see me, and switching back into confident-journalist mode, he strides into the room.
I tip-toe down the hallway and wait outside the dining parlour, ready to eavesdrop.
Except—
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ huffs Spike, suddenly reappearing and catching me hiding out in the corridor. I jump back as he fires me a condescending look.
‘What do you mean? What’s funny?’ I snap.
‘We obviously don’t share the same sense of humour,’ he continues, not answering my question. ‘But that’s probably because the British actually have one.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Your famous sense of irony,’ I retort. I tell you, I’m really beginning to lose my patience with this guy.
‘Well, it’s slightly more sophisticated than playing a somewhat childish practical joke,’ he fires back.
‘Who’s playing a practical joke?’ I gasp, annoyed.
‘You,’ he accuses. ‘Saying some bloke calling himself Mr Darcy is in there.’ He stabs a finger towards the parlour.
‘But he is,’ I cry, my temper ignited. And grabbing him by his corduroy elbow, I march him back through the doorway.
Oh.
My indignation caves in as I take in the scene before me. Dammit. He’s right. There is no Mr Darcy. How frigging annoying. I can’t think of anything worse than being proved wrong by some sanctimonious know-all—
Something makes me stop my internal rant. Wait a moment. It’s not just that . . . My eyes flick quickly around the room. Now I’m thinking about it, everything looks different, or should that be the same? The plastic barrier is back by the window, and the fire seems to have gone out in the grate. Puzzled, I glance out of the window and am surprised to see how dark it’s become. And it’s raining, I notice. Well, I guess that explains why the wallpaper is looking all dingy and faded again . . .
‘Like
‘ There you are.’
Stepping out of the room, I walk into the darkened hallway and crash headfirst into the warm armpit of a corduroy jacket.
‘Mumph.’ I give a muffled yelp and jump backwards.
Of course. It had to be, didn’t it? Spike Hargreaves’s corduroy jacket.
‘Oh . . . hi,’ I mumble, hurriedly smoothing down my mussed-up hair.
‘Jesus, where the hell have you been?’
I feel a snap of irritation at his belligerent mood. ‘None of your goddamn business,’ I reply archly.
He throws me a filthy look. ‘Yeah, well, unfortunately for me, it is. I was sent to look for you.’ His voice is laden with impatience. ‘The museum’s about to close. Everyone’s waiting for you on the coach.’
Shit. I feel really guilty. I don’t care what Spike thinks, but I do care about everyone else. ‘I got lost,’ I say defensively.
‘ Lost? ’ repeats Spike, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘Bloody hell. Women ,’ he mutters, shaking his head.
As if I’m totally useless, I think, feeling annoyed at both myself and Spike.
‘And I got talking to Mr Darcy,’ I can’t resist adding.
Spike looks at me as if I’ve just gone mad. ‘Yeah, right. Pull the other one.’
‘Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.’ I shrug. ‘But the museum has obviously got someone to dress up as him. Maybe you should interview him. For your article,’ I add, smiling serenely. ‘Ask him a few questions about what it’s like being every woman’s fantasy,’ I say, my eyes flicking to Spike’s belly, which is pressing against his crumpled shirt. Automatically he sucks it in. ‘He’s back there, in the parlour.’
I can see Spike is interested, but he’d never admit it. I start walking away.
‘Are you winding me up?’ he calls after me.
I turn and catch him tucking in his shirt tails. He stops immediately.
‘Me?’ I gasp, pretending to look shocked. ‘As if I’d do such a thing.’ Turning back round, I keep walking.
One. Two. Three.
I glance over my shoulder and catch Spike tugging his notebook out of his pocket and retrieving a pen from behind his ear. He doesn’t see me, and switching back into confident-journalist mode, he strides into the room.
I tip-toe down the hallway and wait outside the dining parlour, ready to eavesdrop.
Except—
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ huffs Spike, suddenly reappearing and catching me hiding out in the corridor. I jump back as he fires me a condescending look.
‘What do you mean? What’s funny?’ I snap.
‘We obviously don’t share the same sense of humour,’ he continues, not answering my question. ‘But that’s probably because the British actually have one.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Your famous sense of irony,’ I retort. I tell you, I’m really beginning to lose my patience with this guy.
‘Well, it’s slightly more sophisticated than playing a somewhat childish practical joke,’ he fires back.
‘Who’s playing a practical joke?’ I gasp, annoyed.
‘You,’ he accuses. ‘Saying some bloke calling himself Mr Darcy is in there.’ He stabs a finger towards the parlour.
‘But he is,’ I cry, my temper ignited. And grabbing him by his corduroy elbow, I march him back through the doorway.
Oh.
My indignation caves in as I take in the scene before me. Dammit. He’s right. There is no Mr Darcy. How frigging annoying. I can’t think of anything worse than being proved wrong by some sanctimonious know-all—
Something makes me stop my internal rant. Wait a moment. It’s not just that . . . My eyes flick quickly around the room. Now I’m thinking about it, everything looks different, or should that be the same? The plastic barrier is back by the window, and the fire seems to have gone out in the grate. Puzzled, I glance out of the window and am surprised to see how dark it’s become. And it’s raining, I notice. Well, I guess that explains why the wallpaper is looking all dingy and faded again . . .
‘Like
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