Marrying Mr. Darcy (Love Manor #2) - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,44

bowl, used for…what you do in the, err, bathroom,” I begin, my mind racing around, trying in vain to land on the artist’s thought process behind sticking something like this in the middle of a gallery. I hope it’s brand new and not—ugh. I can’t even.

I swallow, my mouth dry. Remembering the gin and tonic in my hand, I take a large swig, stalling for time. I wrack my brain for some of the expressions Jilly had used moments ago. “It’s a conceptualization,” I begin, excited I remembered one of Jilly’s words, “of the way in which humanity has ah, developed.” My wobbly smile firms up.

Yup, that’s good.

Well, not good, exactly, but it’s better than what I really think.

“What do you mean by that, exactly? Developed in what way?” someone I haven’t met asks, and if I could make him shut the heck up right now, I so would.

“Developed to, ah…use toilets.” I scrunch up my face, hold my breath, and await the response.

“As opposed to not using toilets?” the man asks.

Who is this guy, and what is he trying to do to me?!

“Mmm, yes. Yes, that’s right.”

Zara nudges me. I’m sure she knows I pulled that out of a hat. “Well said, Emma. You clearly understand this piece extremely well.”

I don’t look at her for fear of giggling. I’ve already had one giggling fit in front of Geraldine. I don’t want a repeat performance.

“Oh, absolutely,” Jilly adds, and I could collect both of them up in a grateful hug.

And then leave. I would very much like to leave.

“Although you did leave out the fact it’s an homage to Marcel Duchamp’s 1917 work, Fountain,” Jilly continues, “and the way in which he altered the meaning of a urinal by placing it in an exhibition space as a piece of art. But I’m sure you meant to mention that.”

“Well, of course I was going to say that,” I reply. “I just hadn’t got to it yet. Marcel Marceau—”

“Duchamp,” Jilly corrects.

“Duchamp,” I repeat. “Thank you for that Jilly. Marcel Duchamp deserves as many homages as he can get.” Did I use that word right? “In fact, he is—”

“Was.”

“—was a great artist. One of the best, particularly when it came to…toilets.” I finish with a broad smile, hoping to dazzle them all with my straight teeth. You see, this is England. Orthodontists don’t seem to feature much in their requirements for a good life here.

Jilly winks at me. “Quite.”

“Well, thank you, Emma, for that enlightening soliloquy,” Geraldine says. It feels like a compliment until she adds, “And thank you, Jilly, for filling in all the gaps.”

I let out a defeated huff of air. I know I messed up. I know I came across as a bumbling idiot.

Geraldine turns to leave, and I’m gripped by a sudden panic. I need her to see me as Sebastian’s equal, not some dithering philistine who doesn’t know the differences between a couple of guys called Marcel.

“Please! Wait!” I call out as I dash toward her. I’ve got no clue what I’m going say, but I know I’ve got to say something. And it needs to be now.

I don’t get the chance. The next thing I know, I walk smack into something in my way. On my uncharacteristically high heels, I begin to lose my balance, my arms flailing as I search desperately for something to hold onto. All I find is thin air, and the next thing I know, I’ve spun around and have landed heavily on my butt, cool liquid spraying out around me.

The room falls quiet as everyone gawps at me.

“What have you done!” Rasmus comes pushing his way through the crowd in his silver puffer jacket. He lifts his eyepatch and blinks with both perfectly functioning eyes at me in astonishment. “You have utterly soiled my masterpiece!”

I don’t need to look. I know exactly what I landed on.

Humiliation seeps through every pore as my belly drops.

I’m sitting on a toilet, covered in pink goop, in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by all of my future in-laws.

Chapter 12

Mr. Darcy’s Emma makes a splash in the loo!

I clutch my phone tightly as I gaze at an image of me from last night, my butt firmly sunk into Rasmus’s toilet. There’s pink goop splattered all over me, the floor, and some of the bystanders, too. The look on my face says a bewildered “what the bleep just happened?” the very moment before the truth came crashing down.

Not content with simply fading away, Dating Mr. Darcy’s