I said. Fucking hilarious,’ snaps Spike.
His voice pulls me back, and I look at him. ‘But he was here a minute ago,’ I protest in confusion.
Spike throws me a filthy glare, shakes his head and pushes past me. ‘I’ll see you back on the coach,’ he mutters, stalking back down the corridor. ‘After you’ve said goodbye to your imaginary friend,’ he adds sarcastically.
God, he really is a dick. Listening to his footsteps retreating, I flop back against the wall and stare into space. Still, that is weird about the guy disappearing. I glance across at a small doorway in the corner of the room. I wonder if that leads somewhere? Somewhere restricted to the public? I guess he must have left through there. Although I only left a moment ago and he was writing a letter over on the other side of the room, I recollect, glancing across at the empty chair.
Hmm, what a shame. He was really nice too.
Wandering over to the writing table, I take a look. Everything is as it was before: the desk with the letter, the feather quill and delicate, square-cut glass bottle of purpley-black ink. Only now there’s a letter.
Wow, he wrote that quickly. I take a closer look at it. Addressed to ‘Dearest sister’ and signed ‘Darcy’, the handwriting is typically old-fashioned, all swirls and loops and difficult to read, and yet . . . No, but that can’t be right. The paper’s gone all yellow and the ink is faded. It looks really old.
I rub my dry eyes and stare at it for a moment. Nope, he can’t have written that. It’s impossible. It must be one of Jane Austen’s original letters that’s been moved. It was probably displayed on the dining table or something, and I just didn’t notice it. Which isn’t surprising, seeing as I was so tired. Am so tired, I think, yawning. God, why do I feel so groggy?
I turn to leave and then, suddenly, a thought strikes. Why would Jane Austen write a letter pretending to be from one of her characters?
I think about it for a moment. It doesn’t make sense. I know there must be a simple explanation, but I can’t figure it out. And right now I don’t have time to, I tell myself, zoning back in and throwing my bag over my shoulder. If I don’t leave now I’m going to miss the coach and then Spike will never let me hear the last of it. He’ll be even more unbearable than he is already. If that’s possible.
And you know what? From what I’ve seen so far of Spike I-think-I’m-so-great Hargreaves, I think it probably is.
Chapter Nine
B y seven o’clock that evening I’m feeling so much more with it.
God, a bath and a fresh change of clothes make all the difference, don’t they?
OK, so it’s probably got a lot more to do with this Jack Daniels and Coke, I muse, crunching on a mouthful of ice, but still, I feel loads better.
I’m downstairs in the hotel bar getting to know everyone. Stella is right, everyone on the tour is a lot older than me. But whereas I was assuming this would mean lots of cosy chats about knitting patterns and cupcake recipes with a bunch of old dears, I’m fast realising I was mistaken.
‘. . . so I joined match.com after the divorce and that’s how I met Sebastian,’ announces Hilary, a local magistrate who recently retired from her post as the partner of a top legal firm in London. ‘We’ve been together six months and he’s like a breath of fresh air.’ She smiles delightedly and takes a sip of her red wine.
Wow. Internet dating? At her age? I’m impressed.
‘Although my sons aren’t too happy.’
‘Oh, is it a protective thing?’ I ask politely. ‘I know girls are like that with their fathers.’
‘No, I think it’s because Sebastian is younger,’ she says, heaving a sigh. ‘They have a bit of a problem with it.’
‘But why? Lots of women date younger guys these days,’ I cry supportively. ‘Look at Demi and Ashton.’
Hilary throws me a puzzled look as if to say, ‘Who and who?’ and then shakes her head.
‘No,
His voice pulls me back, and I look at him. ‘But he was here a minute ago,’ I protest in confusion.
Spike throws me a filthy glare, shakes his head and pushes past me. ‘I’ll see you back on the coach,’ he mutters, stalking back down the corridor. ‘After you’ve said goodbye to your imaginary friend,’ he adds sarcastically.
God, he really is a dick. Listening to his footsteps retreating, I flop back against the wall and stare into space. Still, that is weird about the guy disappearing. I glance across at a small doorway in the corner of the room. I wonder if that leads somewhere? Somewhere restricted to the public? I guess he must have left through there. Although I only left a moment ago and he was writing a letter over on the other side of the room, I recollect, glancing across at the empty chair.
Hmm, what a shame. He was really nice too.
Wandering over to the writing table, I take a look. Everything is as it was before: the desk with the letter, the feather quill and delicate, square-cut glass bottle of purpley-black ink. Only now there’s a letter.
Wow, he wrote that quickly. I take a closer look at it. Addressed to ‘Dearest sister’ and signed ‘Darcy’, the handwriting is typically old-fashioned, all swirls and loops and difficult to read, and yet . . . No, but that can’t be right. The paper’s gone all yellow and the ink is faded. It looks really old.
I rub my dry eyes and stare at it for a moment. Nope, he can’t have written that. It’s impossible. It must be one of Jane Austen’s original letters that’s been moved. It was probably displayed on the dining table or something, and I just didn’t notice it. Which isn’t surprising, seeing as I was so tired. Am so tired, I think, yawning. God, why do I feel so groggy?
I turn to leave and then, suddenly, a thought strikes. Why would Jane Austen write a letter pretending to be from one of her characters?
I think about it for a moment. It doesn’t make sense. I know there must be a simple explanation, but I can’t figure it out. And right now I don’t have time to, I tell myself, zoning back in and throwing my bag over my shoulder. If I don’t leave now I’m going to miss the coach and then Spike will never let me hear the last of it. He’ll be even more unbearable than he is already. If that’s possible.
And you know what? From what I’ve seen so far of Spike I-think-I’m-so-great Hargreaves, I think it probably is.
Chapter Nine
B y seven o’clock that evening I’m feeling so much more with it.
God, a bath and a fresh change of clothes make all the difference, don’t they?
OK, so it’s probably got a lot more to do with this Jack Daniels and Coke, I muse, crunching on a mouthful of ice, but still, I feel loads better.
I’m downstairs in the hotel bar getting to know everyone. Stella is right, everyone on the tour is a lot older than me. But whereas I was assuming this would mean lots of cosy chats about knitting patterns and cupcake recipes with a bunch of old dears, I’m fast realising I was mistaken.
‘. . . so I joined match.com after the divorce and that’s how I met Sebastian,’ announces Hilary, a local magistrate who recently retired from her post as the partner of a top legal firm in London. ‘We’ve been together six months and he’s like a breath of fresh air.’ She smiles delightedly and takes a sip of her red wine.
Wow. Internet dating? At her age? I’m impressed.
‘Although my sons aren’t too happy.’
‘Oh, is it a protective thing?’ I ask politely. ‘I know girls are like that with their fathers.’
‘No, I think it’s because Sebastian is younger,’ she says, heaving a sigh. ‘They have a bit of a problem with it.’
‘But why? Lots of women date younger guys these days,’ I cry supportively. ‘Look at Demi and Ashton.’
Hilary throws me a puzzled look as if to say, ‘Who and who?’ and then shakes her head.
‘No,
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