The Accidental Proposal (16 page)

Nothing, in Jane’s case, obviously. Not even a ten-year relationship. Although as I think about it, it does make me feel a little better. Unless . . . Unless Sam was feeling so frustrated that I hadn’t asked her to marry me that she decided to do the asking – maybe even as a drunken mistake, and in turn, those feelings of frustration maybe had already led her to look for someone else. Or maybe she was just starting the affair, while at the same time trying to sound me out as to whether I was ever going to ask her to marry me, hoping my answer would be no, which would give her a reason to leave, and instead, I’ve – as Dan first thought – mistaken her question for a proposal, in which case she finds herself in a rather awkward situation with me and him – whoever ‘him’ is. But that still doesn’t answer the question as to why she felt the need to start seeing someone else in the first place.

‘So all those excuses about women feeling so unloved, or having such low self-esteem that they simply wanted to go and find out whether someone else found them attractive are just that? Excuses?’

Natasha lets out a short laugh. ‘That’s such rubbish, Edward. Any time a woman wants to feel attractive she just has to undo a couple of buttons on her blouse and walk past a building site. An affair? That’s different. Because what you’re actually doing is testing what it’s like to be with someone else. And don’t forget, the fact that you’re already with someone means you can dip a toe in the water without the new person having too many expectations.’

‘So fundamentally, people have affairs because they’re not sure about the relationship they’re in, and want to see whether the grass is greener?’

‘Sometimes. Or sometimes they just want a little excitement. But also, perversely, they might just want to find out what they really feel about the person they’re already with.’

I think back to Dan telling me the same thing while trying to justify his bad dating reputation a while ago, and shake my head slowly. There are times when he and Natasha seem to be singing from the same hymn book.

‘And that’s . . .okay?’

‘Well, not usually if you ask the person who’s being cheated on.’

I’m still a little confused. ‘But Jane said it was a cry for help,’ I say, as the office phone starts ringing. ‘To get some attention.’

‘Aha!’ says Natasha, picking up the receiver. ‘And maybe it was. Trouble was, in her case, it was someone else’s attention she really wanted.’

As Natasha takes the call, I realize the problem I have is this: if Sam
is
actually having an affair then, according to Natasha – and if I extrapolate from the Jane situation – it might just be to make sure she wants to be with me, and while that’s not necessarily okay, I can kind of see how it works.

Jane, on the other hand, was probably testing the water from the security of our situation, in that, having been with me for ten years, she wanted to see what life was like on the outside. And I’m afraid if
that’s
what Sam’s doing, then in my book, it’s just not the done thing.

But the biggest problem I have in all of this, and why I can’t work it out, is how I’ve let this happen. Jane leaving me was such a harsh lesson in how not to be a boyfriend, that I kind of think I know what I’m doing now, as though I’ve graduated from some kind of intensive course, and I’m determined to remember what I’ve learned. Plus I’ve got Dan as a role model in terms of how not to behave.

Plus I know Sam, and she just doesn’t give in to temptation. That second biscuit or third glass of wine isn’t something she allows herself to have. So why should this be different? Unless . . . Perhaps it
is
the marriage thing. Maybe she does feel someone’s said to her, ‘Here, these rice cakes are the only kind you’re going to be able to have. Ever.’ And surely it’s natural to want to sample a different type just before you commit to that.

It could, of course, simply be that she and I are coming at it from completely different angles. Even though I’m crazy about her, I’m also so relieved to be settling down with her after my Jane experience that I can’t wait for it to happen. But Sam’s not the same. She’s not had the kind of nightmare loneliness I’ve experienced, so she’s maybe not as desperate as me to be with someone. And if that is true, then maybe she does just need to be sure about what she’s doing.

But I do know one thing. If I’m going to challenge her about it, I need to be sure about what she’s doing too.

7.01 p.m.

When I get home and flop down on the sofa, I’m a little surprised to see Sam’s not in, especially since I don’t seem to have received a text from her telling me she’s going to be late.

I switch on the TV and flick through the channels in an attempt to stop my imagination running wild, but even a particularly funny episode of
You’ve Been Framed
doesn’t stop me from wondering exactly where she is. I still don’t want to believe she’s cheating on me, but seeing as I’m unable to come up with any other explanation for what I saw earlier, and of course was too much of a chicken to actually ask her about it when I spoke to her on the phone this afternoon, I don’t seem to have any choice. What’s more, I can’t think how else I can find out what she’s been up to. That is, until I switch the TV off and gaze forlornly round the room, and spot Sam’s laptop on the dining table. Where she has her email account.

I sit up quickly, wondering whether I shouldn’t take a little peek just to put my mind at rest, then get up and walk nonchalantly past the dining table, casually glancing at the laptop screen. Her aquarium screen saver is running, so I ‘accidentally’ bump against the table in an effort to jog the mouse, but end up just banging my hip painfully.

For some reason, I can’t quite bring myself to do it, so head into the kitchen instead and switch on the kettle, wondering why I feel so nervous. After all, I’ve used Sam’s laptop a hundred times – so she’s hardly going to be suspicious if she comes in and finds me and, anyway, I’m used to the odd quick ‘screen close’ from the office. Besides, this should take no more than a few seconds.

I flick the kettle off, then go and sit down at the dining table, grabbing the mouse purposefully and giving it a quick jiggle. Once the fish have disappeared, I click on the Internet Explorer icon, then the Hotmail bookmark, and as the page loads in front of me, take a series of slow, deep breaths, trying to calm what feels like an angry fist thumping the inside of my chest.

Sam’s email address is already entered in the log-in box, though for some reason, the remember my password box is unchecked. And while this immediately strikes me as suspicious, glancing up at the photo of Ollie, Sam’s recently run-over collie, on the mantelpiece, I realize I know her password, .

Like a cowboy practising his quick-draw skills, I try clicking on the close program button a couple of times, just so I’m sure I can do it if Sam arrives home. Then, and when I can’t put it off any longer, I move the cursor to the enter password box, type ‘o-l-l-i-e’ and hit return.

For some reason, I’ve shut my eyes, but when I open them again, instead of all of Sam’s secrets, there’s a message telling me my password’s wrong. More than a little frustrated, I try again, concentrating hard on the keyboard to make sure I don’t make any mistakes, but despite me actually mouthing the letters as I type them – a bit like Dan does when he reads – I get exactly the same result.

I stare at the screen in astonishment. This can only mean one thing: Sam’s changed her password. And if she’s changed her password, then that must mean there
are
things she doesn’t want me to see.

I stand up and start to pace anxiously round the room. This is worse than I thought, particularly since we’re not supposed to have
any
secrets. But as I glare back down at the laptop, I notice a small green light shining back at me from the bottom left-hand corner: the caps lock indicator. Of course! Passwords are case-sensitive – though perhaps not as sensitive as I am at the moment. Reaching over to hit the caps lock button, I type Sam’s password again, hit enter, and wait what seems like the longest few seconds of my life until I’m in.

As the front page loads, I almost don’t want to look at the screen. What am I going to do if I
do
see something incriminating – confront Sam as soon as she walks through the door? That would mean me admitting I’ve been reading her email. And even though her ‘sin’ would be much worse than mine, I can see how that would put me on the back foot.

My hand is shaking slightly as I click on inbox and read anxiously through her new messages, but as far as I can tell, there’s nothing out of the ordinary; a couple from her mum, some work ones, one from Madeleine, and the usual spam asking her if she needs some female Viagra.

Guiltily, I click on the mark as unread tab to cover my tracks, then scan quickly through the rest of her Inbox, breathing a sigh of relief when I don’t see anything incriminating, and I’m just about to switch off when I spot a folder in the list on the left-hand side named ‘wedding stuff’. For a moment, I just stare at it. Where’s the best place to hide messages from your lover? In a folder about things you’ve told your fiancé not to worry about, of course.

I’m just about to click on the folder when the doorbell rings, and instinctively I click on close, imagining it’s Sam and she’s forgotten her key, but when I open the door, my heart still hammering, I see a different person.

‘What do you want?’ I say, still a little panicked.

‘Nice to see you too,’ says Dan, peering at me anxiously. ‘Everything okay?’

For a moment, I think about not telling him, and then decide I could do with his advice.

‘Not really, no,’ I say, ushering him inside, then closing the door carefully behind him. ‘I think Sam’s having an affair.’

‘What?’ For a moment, Dan can’t take this in. ‘Sam? An affair?’

I nod. ‘Yup.’

‘Sam?’ repeats Dan. ‘An
affair
?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Your Sam?’

‘No, Dan. Sam the barman. From
Cheers
.’

Dan looks confused, and I’m reminded that teasing him isn’t always as rewarding as you might think, mainly because he thinks irony is a word to describe something made of iron.

‘You do mean your Sam, right?’ he says, eventually.

‘Yes, Dan.’

‘Oh. Well, are you sure? I mean, it doesn’t sound like Sam. The kind of thing she’d do, I mean.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’ I walk over to the dining table and sit back down in front of the laptop. ‘Well, I think I am.’ I tap the screen in front of me. ‘And I was just about to find out before you disturbed me.’

‘By Googling it?’

‘Nope.’ I open Internet Explorer and click on the Hotmail bookmark again. ‘By reading her emails.’

Dan leaps across the room and slams the laptop shut, nearly trapping my fingers in the process. ‘Bad idea,’ he says, hauling me up out of my seat and dragging me towards the door. ‘Come on.’

‘Where are we going?’ I say, unable to find the energy to resist.

‘To sort this out, of course,’ he says, grabbing my keys from the coffee table, then pushing me out through the front door.

7.59 p.m.

We’re in the Admiral Jim, and not, thankfully, off to confront Sam – Dan’s idea of ‘sorting it out’ being – as usual – to talk about it over a beer. I’ve explained this afternoon’s sighting on the way here, and for once, he seems to be taking me seriously.

‘Well,’ he says, as I reach into my pocket to pay for the drinks he’s just ordered. ‘The way I see it, there are three things you can do.’

‘Which are?’ I say, when Dan does his usual trick of not continuing.

‘One,’ he says, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Confront Sam. Two – confront him.’

‘And the third one?’

‘What third one?’

‘You said there were three things I could do. You only mentioned two. What’s the third one?’

‘Confront Sam.’

‘You already said that,’ I say, picking up my drink and following him over to a corner table.

‘Hang on.’ Dan scratches his head. ‘You’re confusing me, now.’

This happens from time to time, Dan losing track of his own conversation, and usually, it makes me laugh, although I’m struggling to find anything funny at the moment. I sigh, then put my drink down carefully, before collapsing heavily onto a chair. ‘Supposing I don’t want to confront either of them, what else can I do?’

Dan pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. ‘The third thing.’

‘Which is?’

Dan shrugs. ‘Forget about it.’

‘No, come on. What’s the third one?’

‘No, the third thing
is
to forget about it. Her and him, I mean. So what if she’s been playing a little bit of tonsil tennis with someone else. Be the bigger person and let it pass.’

I stare at him incredulously. ‘I wish I could, Dan, but we’re getting married – and in less than two weeks’ time. Besides, I’m not sure that would actually be being the bigger person. In fact, it’d be being the smaller one. And I’m not prepared to do that.’

‘So, in that case, you need to find out what’s going on.’