I hang back. The thought of seeing Ernie after everything that’s happened isn’t something I’ve been much looking forward to. After that whole made-up story he told me, all those lies about Spike, what on earth am I going to say? Anything? Nothing? Should I just ignore him? Confront him? What?
Walking across the parking lot, I go backwards and forwards, different scenarios playing in my head: Ernie’s reaction when confronted with the evidence of the newspaper cuttings. He’s angry, furious— Shit, what if he turns violent? I flinch at the thought. He might be an old man but he could still pack a punch with those forearms. Then there’s the scenario of us both pretending nothing’s happened, politely greeting each other, yet a silent look passing between us that acknowledges he knows that I know.
But whatever happens I can’t put it off any longer. I’m the last to board, and as I climb up the steps I brace myself for our confrontation. Stay calm, Emily, keep your cool, don’t go making a scene in front of everyone. I reach the top step. Hilary is in front of me, but I can see a peaked cap. OK, I’ve made a decision. I’m just going to tell him I need to speak to him privately, that there’s something we need to discuss, that—
Hang on a minute—
‘You’re not Ernie,’ I blurt in bewilderment.
The boyish figure in the peaked cap turns to me. ‘Well, I wasn’t the last time I looked,’ he quips, and cocks a smile.
I stare at him blankly. He has a goatee and pimples and looks about twenty-one. Nope, he’s definitely not Ernie.
I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s just that we . . . um . . . had a different driver before,’ I explain, trying to regain my composure, but I’m bursting with unanswered questions. Where’s Ernie gone? Was he fired? Did he leave of his own accord? What happened exactly?
‘Oh, right, yeah, so I heard,’ nods the new driver. ‘I was called in to cover. Something about him having to leave at short notice, some problem . . .’
‘What problem?’ I demand, dying to know what happened.
‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘No one tells me anything round here.’
‘Now if you’d all like to take your seats, please,’ instructs Miss Steane, charging up the aisle towards me, clipboard in hand. ‘That includes you, Miss Albright, if you would be so kind.’ She glances between me and the driver, and I can tell from her expression she knows exactly what’s happened, but she isn’t letting on. But then I often get the impression that Miss Steane knows more than she’s saying.
I sit down and look out of the window. And for the first time it dawns on me that for someone who sure knows a lot about everyone else, I don’t know the first thing about our enigmatic tour guide. Not one little thing.
Chapter Thirty-two
Of course it soon gets round about Ernie’s disappearance and it doesn’t take long before rumours begin circulating. According to Hilary, who has it on good authority, Ernie was spotted on New Year’s Eve with a woman from the ball.
Apparently they appeared ‘deep in conversation’, is how Hilary puts it, which reminds me of those murder mysteries you get on TV, where the victims are always last seen ‘deep in conversation’ with a stranger before their untimely death. Not that I’m implying Ernie has now turned from a con man into a murderer, I’m just saying.
Credence is further added to this story by Rupinda, who, with much jangling of the dozens of thin, gold bracelets she wears on her arms, relates her visit to a newsagent’s yesterday where she’d encountered Ernie and the aforementioned mystery woman (now a blonde, with bad posture that could be dramatically improved by yoga, according to Rupinda). Ernie, however, did not see Rupinda, and he and the blonde were overheard talking about their last-minute vacation to Jamaica.
Or at least that’s what she thought she heard, admits Rupinda, when quizzed by Rose, but then perhaps it wasn’t that at all. In fact, now she’s thinking about it, she can’t be one hundred per cent sure it was Ernie after all, as she was too busy flicking through Spiritual Health Monthly. There’s a universal groan of disappointment from those on the coach who’ve been listening to all this with bated breath, and Rupinda is crossly accused of having an overactive imagination by Miss Steane, who then tells everyone to stop making idle assumptions and to look to the left as we’re passing a famous viaduct built by the Romans.
Me? I don’t know who or what to believe. Maybe Hilary and Rupinda are right, maybe Miss Steane is, or maybe none are and it’s something completely different. Either way, he’s gone.
I glance sideways at Maeve. Her face tilted to the window, she’s gazing at the scenery and smiling absently to herself, and I know that even if we never find out what happened to Ernie, one thing is certain: she’s had a lucky escape. And for that, we have Spike to thank. Because if it wasn’t for him, this story might have had a very different ending altogether.
It’s a long drive to Cheshire and an hour into our journey we’ve left the countryside far behind and are on the grey concrete monotony of an English motorway.
I think about Bath. About leaving it behind. Part of me is sad, the way you’re always sad when you’ve looked forward to visiting somewhere or doing something for so long, and now it’s over, but to be honest, I’m also rather relieved. It’s got a lot of wonderful memories, most of them revolving around Mr Darcy – our amazing first date on the lake, riding up to the moonlit Sham Castle on New Year’s Eve, the butterflies in my stomach when he turned to kiss me – but it has some pretty painful ones too.
My mind leapfrogs back to my furious row with Spike, then leapfrogs off again.
But like I said, there’s nothing I can do about that now. I’ve just got to try to forget about it.
Half an hour of fidgeting later, my sweater screwed up underneath my chin in a makeshift pillow, I give up trying to snooze like everyone else is doing. It’s impossible. There’s too much going on in my head. Sitting upright, I dig around in my bag, pull out my copy of Pride and Prejudice and turn to my book-marked page.
With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t got very far in – I’m still only near the beginning. Saying that, this is one of my favourite scenes in the book. It’s where Elizabeth and Mr Darcy are at Netherfield Ball, and Mr Darcy has just asked her for the next dance. Taken by surprise she says yes, but when he walks away, she wonders what on earth she was thinking. Her friend Charlotte tries to console her:
‘I dare say you will find him agreeable.’
‘Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.’
God, I totally know how she feels, I muse, thinking about Spike, then quickly trying not to. Remember your decision, Emily? I tell myself firmly. Turning over the page, I continue reading about what happens when they actually get on the dance floor: I always feel a bit sorry for Elizabeth here. She’s so earnest in her defence of Wickham and yet she totally gets it wrong.
‘I remember hearing you once say, Mr Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.’
‘I am,’ said he, with a firm voice.
‘And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?’
‘I hope not.’
‘It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.’
Saying that, she’s such a hypocrite. If anyone’s blinded by prejudice, it’s Elizabeth! I think, my mind flicking back over the earlier scenes. She’s been totally against Mr Darcy from the very beginning, ever since he hurt her pride by calling her ‘pretty dull’ and ‘average-looking’.
I catch myself.
What? No, I’ve got that wrong – it was Spike who called me that. Mr Darcy called Elizabeth ‘tolerable’ and ‘not pretty enough’. I shake my head. How weird. Where did that just come from? Brushing it aside, I turn back to the page.
‘May I ask to what these questions tend?’<
br />
‘Merely to the illustration of your character,’ said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. ‘I am trying to make it out.’
But she’s not really, is she? I tell myself. It’s pretty obvious Elizabeth has already made her mind up about Mr Darcy, and she’s using this to have a dig. I mean, let’s face it, the only reason Elizabeth was so quick to believe Wickham’s story, and without even a scrap of evidence to support it, was because it backed up her opinion of Mr Darcy as a total bastard. It made her feel right. It justified her dislike of him.
And the only reason I know this for certain, is because I felt exactly the same that day in the café when Ernie told me his story, I think regretfully. Honestly, talk about a coincidence.
Except—
Suddenly the parallels are too many to ignore and it’s like a light goes on in my head. Hang on a minute. This could be written about me and Spike, just replace the names and it’s us.
No sooner has the thought struck than I can’t believe I haven’t noticed this before. I start flicking through the pages in the book. In fact, the more I’m thinking about it, the more similarities are jumping out at me, I realise, my memory simultaneously flicking through a rollerdeck of past conversations, arguments, glances, emotions . . .
There was the time we met and he insulted me, our awkward dance at the ball, believing Ernie when he told me all those terrible things about Spike, his letter in the form of an email showing me I’d completely misjudged him, his declaration of love, my awful reaction—
Oh, God. I feel slightly sick.
Because now I’m thinking about it, I realise that, just like Lizzy Bennet, I’ve got it all wrong. And not just about Spike, but about Mr Darcy too . . .
There. I’ve admitted it. And as I do it’s as if a lid bursts open on a box I’ve kept tucked away inside myself and all those nagging doubts I’ve had for the last few days are released and come rushing to the surface. The long, awkward silences, his views about women working, his zero sense of humour and inability to laugh at himself . . .
What was it Spike said that day in Bath? ‘The reality is always more disappointing than the fantasy.’ He was talking about Betty Blue, but he could just as well have been talking about Mr Darcy. In Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen describes Mr Darcy as ‘brooding’, which sounds so attractive, but in truth it turns out it just means he’s sulky; ‘proud’, I’ve fast come to realise, means sexist, and as for him appearing ‘arrogant’, in reality, what it really means is he’s actually quite snobbish.
And finally it hits me. I’m not in love with Mr Darcy. Not even remotely. And you know what? I never was. I was in love with the idea of him and what he represented, but not the reality. Of course that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to him, who wouldn’t be? As Stella said back in the bookstore, the man’s a female wet dream. But how can anything live up to the airbrushed vision I’ve created in my head all these years? He can’t. And he shouldn’t be made to. Because that’s the thing about Mr Darcy – he’s a female fantasy. But that’s all he is, a fantasy. And that’s what he should remain.
‘Emily?’
A voice right next to my ear snaps me back and I look to see Maeve peering at me.
‘My, my, you were away with the fairies, weren’t you?’ she’s chuckling, pushing her glasses up her nose to peer at me even closer. ‘Haven’t you noticed? Look! We’ve arrived.’
She gestures out of the window, and as I turn sideways I see everyone milling about in the parking lot full of excited chatter and anticipation, and I realise the coach is empty.
‘Sorry. I was engrossed in my book,’ I say, making my excuses, and getting up. ‘You go ahead, I’ll follow you.’
‘Okey-dokey,’ nods Maeve, and then throws me a smile. ‘Gosh, isn’t this exciting? Home of the famous lake scene. Perhaps we’ll see our very own Mr Darcy,’ she says, and raises her eyebrows.
‘I hope so,’ I reply, watching as she turns and begins making her way down the tourbus.
And I really do hope I see him, I think, as I start quickly gathering together my things. Because I’ve also realised something else. Mr Darcy and I can never make this work. And ironically it’s got nothing to do with the weirdness, absurdity and implausibility of it all, and everything to do with something a lot more mundane: irreconcilable differences. Or, to put it in layman’s terms, we’re just too different.
We have views which are, quite literally, worlds apart. And I need to tell him this. But since I don’t have a number I can call him on, a mobile I can text or an email address I can write to, I’m going to have to do it the hard way and tell him face to face.
I feel my resolve falter.
The only problem is, how on earth do you break up with Mr Darcy?
Chapter Thirty-three
‘As most of you probably already know, Lyme Park was turned into one of television’s iconic backdrops when it was used by the BBC in their adaptation of Pride and Prejudice as the setting for Pemberley, the home of our beloved Mr Darcy. It wasn’t entirely loyal to the original novel. Indeed, it’s actually Chatsworth House in Derbyshire that is believed to have been Jane Austen’s inspiration for Pemberley. However, for all you Colin Firth fans, it is here that the famous scene with Mr Firth emerging dripping from the lake was filmed . . .’
There are a few phwoars and whoops of approval from the ladies who have gathered inside the grand entrance of the house to listen to Miss Steane’s introductory speech.
‘. . . and today we are very lucky indeed to be allowed this opportunity. Usually the hall is closed to the general public at this time, but for us Jane Austen fans, the powers that be have made an exception and opened it up to us for a private tour. Bravo!’
Finishing with a flourish, she brings her hands together and sets off a little round of applause. I join in though I wasn’t really listening. I’m too busy thinking about Mr Darcy. About how I have to tell him it’s over, that I can’t see him any more. And how on earth do I find him to tell him?
Wondering where I was going to bump into him again has always seemed so romantic and exciting, but suddenly it isn’t fun any more. I feel a flash of frustration. I don’t want a man who’s mysterious and enigmatic – I want a man I can text. Me, who hates all this constant texting, who’s always complaining it’s so unromantic and takes away the mystery. Now I’d do anything to be able to text “Where R U?!” and press ‘send’.
‘Though Chatsworth House, which Jane Austen visited in 1811, may have been the real background for Pemberley, I think you will probably all agree, ladies, that Lyme Hall would probably be of a more manageable size for Elizabeth when she becomes lady of the house . . .’
A couple of hours later and Miss Steane’s coming to the end of her guided tour. As she leads the way into the last and final room, I glance quickly around, as I’ve done with every room in the house, hoping to catch sight of Mr Darcy. Hoping that he’ll just turn up unexpectedly as he always does. That any minute now I’m going to step into a room or walk through a doorway or turn to the side and he’ll be there. That tall, dark, instantly recognisable figure, the familiar brooding expression, the unmistakable voice with its gravity and perfect vowels.
Yet I’ve looked around every marble bust, behind every stick of furniture and out of every window and I haven’t seen him. Now, with our visit soon to be over, I’m fast losing hope that he’s going to show up. And beginning to think that I might, in fact, never see him again.
At the thought, I feel a strange mixture of sadness and relief. I guess it solves the problem of having to break up with him, and yet somehow it doesn’t feel right – after everything that’s happened, I feel I need to say goodbye properly. I need, to use a dreadful Americanism, to have closure.
After the tour has finished, everyone makes their way to the café and souvenir shop, but instead I go outside and take a look at the view. It really is beautiful here. I hadn’t noticed just how stunning this place is. I was too busy with my head in my book whe
n we first arrived to even notice the impressive drive through the deer park, the hall itself which resembles a sumptuous Italianate palace, surrounded by gardens and fronted by the most incredible reflection in the lake. But now, as I stand here drinking it all in, it fairly takes your breath away.
The hall itself is magnificent, if a little overwhelming and stuffed with clocks, tapestries and woodcarvings, while the seventeen acres of Victorian garden, including an Edwardian rose garden, deer park and woodland, stretch out for ever. But it’s not just the aesthetics, it’s the feel of the place. Lyme Park has got that magical quality to it. I can tell why the BBC chose it. It has a serenity. It’s timeless. You could imagine that nothing has changed in a hundred years – it’s like time has stood still.
I draw in a long breath and stuff my gloved hands further into my pockets. Alone in the clear, fresh January air, I remain here, gazing out at the lake, absently watching the birds in the distance, squawking and swooping across the water and over the branches of the bare trees.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Broken from my reverie, I turn to see Miss Steane walking across the path to join me. I feel a beat of regret. I don’t feel much up to talking. I want to be alone.
‘Oh, yeah, very.’ I nod. ‘We don’t get views like this in New York,’ I add, for something to say. My knack for small talk seems to have deserted me.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she enthuses. Joining me, she stares straight ahead out at the view.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, at her delicate features, the curls of hair escaping from her fur hat, which matches her muffler. You know, she really does remind me of someone. I’ve been wracking my brains all week, but I just can’t think who.