Page 77 of Stuck

“I described it to him.”

“I wouldn’t have thought they even manufactured these anymore. He must have got it on Vinted or something. It must have taken him hours to find!”

I took it back off her and shook up the snow, watching it dance about and feeling overwhelmed with the memory of sitting on my bed in Longbourn, a lifetime ago, doing the same thing.

“He really wants you to forgive him, Lizzy.”

“Oh, he’s so forgiven. I just need to get up the courage to let him know.”

34

DARCY

I said goodnight to Bingley and returned to my own room. It had been a hell of a day, with a surprising change of direction in negotiations that had seen us scrabbling all evening to prepare for tomorrow’s talks. It was a hopeful alteration. Concluding after two-and-a-half days of discussions that Sørensen Gårde weren’t going to back us, and knowing that King’s investment alone wouldn’t be enough for the buyout, we’d decided to throw Elizabeth’s licensing proposal into the ring. It was a last-ditch offering and far from fully developed, but they’d gone for it. With a lot of fine tuning and some exclusivity caveats, it looked like we might pull a completely different victory out of this mess.

It wasn’t the victory I’d been praying for the most. I was relieved for Bingley, but while his wishes were being answered, my hopes were circling the toilet bowl. Elizabeth still hadn’t replied to my text; she hadn’t called, she hadn’t sent a message via her sister and Bingley. I’d heard nothing.

It wasn’t that I’d sent any of my peace offerings to force her hand, and certainly I didn’t expect anything in return—but I was only human, and I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t hoping for… something. Some indication that she understood how sorry I was, an acceptance of my apology. I’d take absolutely anything at this point.

At a knock at my door, I withdrew my thumb from hovering over the text thread with Elizabeth and tossed my phone on the bed. I’d been battling with myself for hours over whether to message her again. The universe had evidently decided I shouldn’t.

“Yes?” I asked, yanking the door open to find a woman with a trolley full of food.

“Room service,” she said, her accent thick.

“I didn’t order room service.”

She shook her head and said something in Danish that I assumed meant she didn’t speak English.

“Ikke min,” I replied with what little of the language I’d picked up, hoping it meant what I thought it did—not mine.

She checked her clipboard then pointed to the number on my door and nodded. “Værelse halvfjerds. Room service. Yes.”

I gave up and held out my hand to accept whatever it was her clipboard said I wanted for dinner. She removed one of several cloches and passed me a solitary plate. I practically snatched it out of her hand when I saw what was on it, my heart jump-starting into an all-out tachycardic sprint. I thanked her and closed the door, taking the food that I definitely had not ordered to the table in the corner, where I sat down and let out a single, exultant breath of laughter.

I was thirty years old, I had a net worth of nine figures, and I was grinning like a lunatic at a slightly sad-looking tuna and cucumber sandwich as though it was the best gift I’d ever been given. Because it was. Here was my reply; Elizabeth had noticed my favourite sandwich filling too. I could finally breathe again, and I needed to be back in London yesterday.

35

ELIZABETH

I’d never been particularly afflicted with nerves, but by Friday evening, I was a wreck and starting to feel some serious sympathy for my mum. Whether Darcy had even received my “message” remained a mystery, because he hadn’t texted. I hadn’t expected him to—our method of communication this week had been decidedly unorthodox—but I was on tenterhooks waiting to see what, if anything, would happen when he got home.

Knowing from Jane that he and Bingley were flying back today, I told myself the best-case scenario was that I’d hear from him over the weekend. Worst case, I wouldn’t hear anything. I might not even see him at work on Monday if he was finished in London and returning to Derbyshire. I hadn’t asked; I didn’t want to know.

My plan was that if I hadn’t heard from him by Saturday night, I would phone him. I’d formulated at least thirty alternative plans over the last day—and resolved to stick to all of them—but this was the current plan, and I was duly determined to adhere to it. It terrified me so much that when Fiona asked if I was going to the Wig and Gavel after work, I may have accepted with a little too much alacrity, eager for something to distract me from my anxiety.

“You seem on edge,” she said, eyeing me warily as we neared the pub. “No one’s said anything unkind about what happened on Monday, have they?”

“No. Well, Vanessa made a snide comment, but that’s no great surprise.”

“Ugh, why does she always have to be such a bitch? What did she say? Elizabeth? Hello, Earth to Elizabeth?”

I’d stopped paying attention—I’d stopped moving, in fact, because my feet had forgotten how to walk and my synapses had started misfiring at the sight before me. Evening had fallen, but there was enough light spilling from every window, billboard, streetlamp, and passing car to show me the man standing outside the pub. Impeccable in his suit as usual, tall and intense and staring directly at me.

“Is that Mr Darcy? Elizabeth, why is he looking at you like that? I thought you said you weren’t in trouble anymore? Oh fudge, he’s coming over. Don’t panic!”

Fiona very much panicked and grabbed my hand, but it was my sore one, and I instinctively yanked it away from her.