Page 76 of Stuck

My heart and my head warred to understand why he’d done it. There was no legal requirement for him to publicly retract accusations that most of the board hadn’t known about in the first place, and he obviously hadn’t been trying to curry my favour because I was never supposed to see the email. All I could think was that he cared about my reputation more than his own.

I was still reeling from that notion when another email popped up, this one a reply from Mark.

The request came from Mr Darcy. He said it was an occupational health thing—that you have a problem with your eyes that means you need more natural light? Asked me to move you nearer to a window but not directly next to one because you’re a wimp about heights (not his words). That was the only space with available sockets, but I set you up with your screen facing away from the view if that helps. LMK if it works for you.

Mark.

I stared at the email until the words blurred on the screen, and still I couldn’t make sense of what I was feeling. I didn’t remember telling Darcy that my eyes hurt when I worked for too long in dim light, but I must have, because it was true. And he’d remembered. That meant something. As must a year’s supply of chocolate, a new window seat, and a public retraction. If only I knew what.

Even more confusing was trying to work out what I wanted it to mean. Part of me would have liked to wash my hands of Darcy and his hurtful accusations. He’d made me feel so small and helpless—and so disappointed in him for not being the man I thought he was.

A much larger part of me was relieved that the silence which had left me feeling so adrift evidently hadn’t signalled the end of whatever it was we’d started. He was a man of few words, so instead, he was showing me how sorry he was. With a small smile, I admitted to myself that I welcomed his efforts. Because if he was sorry, then it meant he cared. And if he cared, then it was infinitely less pitiful that I did too.

I dismissed the idea of messaging him to say thank you, concerned that it would invite a discussion of everything that had happened and preferring not to do that over text. Instead, I did what Don had asked and got on with my job.

Heading down to Quick Bite for lunch reminded me of Darcy—of the times we’d eaten together, of his accusation that I’d used our conversations to drill him for information. It still rankled—but there was no hiding from the fact that I’d given him good cause to distrust me, and I believed him when he said he was sorry. As I put my sandwich on the counter, I wondered whether he’d rethought those tête-à-têtes since Monday—whether he’d learnt to enjoy the memory of them again yet.

“What’s your name?”

I looked at the man behind the till in confusion. “Pardon?”

“We’re asking everyone’s name today.”

“Why?”

He pulled the sort of face I was more used to seeing on Lydia or Kitty when they were asked to do their homework. “This gig was not worth the bribe. I’ll make this easy. Are you Elizabeth Bennet?”

“I am, yes.”

His entire demeanour changed. “Really?” When I confirmed it, he shouted, “Jackpot!” and all his colleagues groaned. Before I could ask what was happening, he snatched away the sandwich I was trying to buy and turned to retrieve a paper bag from a fridge behind the counter. “This is your lunch. Already paid for.”

“What? Who by?”

“Didn’t get a name.” He shrugged and turned to serve the next person in line, apparently done with me.

Dumbfounded but intrigued, and with a small but thrilling inkling, I sat at a table and pulled out the contents of the bag—a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper with a logo on I didn’t recognise. It looked posh, though. Unwrapped, it was revealed to be a sort of cheese and pickle, but one unlike any other cheese and pickle sandwich I’d ever eaten. I counted at least three different but complementary types of cheese. The pickle appeared to be homemade—or at least, not Branston’s—and when I tasted it, I groaned aloud, it was that good. The bread was to die for, and there were other ingredients I couldn’t even name. The whole thing was like a gourmet meal that was all the more delicious for knowing where it came from.

Because it must have been Darcy’s doing. That he’d even noticed this was my preferred filling, let alone arranged from another country for this to be done for me, was mind-boggling. I was fairly sure it was safe to assume this was no longer merely an apology. We were most definitely entering grovelling territory, and in my experience, people didn’t grovel unless they hoped to repair something.

If that was his intention—not just to show me he was sorry, but to try and fix what we’d been so close to finding—I couldn’t say that I minded. He’d said some horrible things to me on Monday, and I was still upset about that, but if I shunned everyone who’d ever said stupid things to me in anger, I’d be completely alone in this world. Besides, the notion of being romanced with a cheese and pickle sandwich had me smiling so widely my face hurt.

There was another sandwich waiting for me at Quick Bite on Thursday. I couldn’t work out who Darcy had delivering them, but I didn’t waste too much time thinking about it. If he wanted to spoil me, who was I to stop him?

I did, however, start to feel guilty about not contacting him. At first, I hadn’t texted him back because I was still upset. Then I’d had too much to say to want to do it over the phone. Now, it simply felt awkward; too much time had passed, I was too embarrassed to call, and I couldn’t think what to say that wouldn’t be cheapened by the medium of text.

My reservations went out of the window when I got home that evening to find a parcel waiting for me. I didn’t suspect it was from him until I opened the flaps of the cardboard box and removed a layer of packing peanuts to see the top of a glass dome peeking through. My eyes had already filled with tears by the time I pulled out an exact replica of the snow globe Dad had smashed—tacky plastic Winnie the Pooh and all.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jane asked, appearing behind the sofa and peering over my shoulder.

I nodded; words had utterly failed me.

“Did you order a new one?” She knew mine had been destroyed—she just didn’t know who by. She assumed I’d done it, and I hadn’t corrected her.

“No,” I whispered. “I think this is from Darcy.”

I heard her suck in a small breath then felt the cushions dip as she came to sit next to me. She took it gently from my hands, turning it over in hers as she inspected it.

“How did he know? It’s exactly the same.”