The Accidental Proposal (20 page)

As I let what he’s just said sink in, I realize that for once, Dan’s advice makes perfect sense to me. But sadly, hearing it and taking it are two completely different things.

‘I’m sorry, Dan. You’re right. But this is what happens when women leave you. It dents your confidence. I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but it took me a long time to get over Jane. Maybe I still haven’t. And so every time Sam and I have a wobble, or anything out of the ordinary happens, it’s bound to make me feel a little . . . well . . . insecure.’

‘Surely you know how she feels about you?’ He grabs my shoulder, and gives it a manly shake. ‘Especially after that sick-making speech of hers the other night?’

‘But that’s the thing. When you’ve been dumped and cheated on, you never want to take that kind of thing for granted again. So I won’t know for sure until she actually turns up on the day and says “I do”.’

Dan taps his watch. ‘Well, thank Christ you’ve only got ten days’ – he looks across at me nervously, and I nod in agreement – ‘to go, then – and therefore I’ve only got ten days of having to listen to you bleating on. Sam’s made her decision, so don’t worry; it’s usually only us blokes who get cold feet. But if you suspect Sam has, then make sure she’s got some thermal socks.’ He grins, and takes another mouthful of beer. ‘Not
actual
thermal socks, of course.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, flatly. ‘I was about to head off to M
&S.’

‘But remember, women are like sharks. They can sense fear. So whatever you do, don’t let her get a whiff of the fact that you think you’re not worthy.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if you believe that, then there’s a danger she might start to believe it too.’

‘I’m not sure, Dan. I mean, this is commitment we’re talking about. And no disrespect, but it’s hardly your specialist subject.’ I sigh loudly. ‘Maybe I need a woman’s perspective.’

‘Where are you going to get one of those?’ huffs Dan.

‘I could ask Wendy.’

He smirks. ‘I thought you said you needed a woman’s perspective?’

Wendy clears her throat, then looks up from where she’s been loading the dishwasher not quite three feet away. ‘I
can
hear you, you know.’

‘Fuck,’ whispers Dan. ‘How long has she been there?’

‘About two minutes.’

‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘I didn’t know you were going to say something rude about her.’

‘Ed, I
always
say something rude about her.’

‘What’re you two being so secretive about?’ says Wendy, standing up and leaning against the other side of the bar.

‘Nothing,’ says Dan, guiltily.

‘I, I mean,
we
, just wanted a woman’s perspective on something. Didn’t we, Dan?’

‘Yeah. That’s right,’ he says, jumping off his stool and heading towards the toilets. ‘So if you know one we can ask . . .’

Wendy picks up a damp beer towel and expertly throws it at him, catching him just behind one ear. He scowls at her, then reaches up to touch the back of his head gingerly, although he seems more worried it might have messed up his hairstyle than actually hurt him.

‘Fire away,’ she says, turning back to me.

‘It’s just . . . well, this whole marriage thing. Business. Whatever you want to call it. I was just wondering whether maybe, you know, Sam and I had jumped the gun a bit.’

Wendy frowns. ‘Not getting cold feet, are you?’

‘Me? No. Not at all. I just meant that – I’m not sure what I meant, really. But I was wondering how soon was, you know, too soon?’

Wendy shrugs.
‘When she asked you to marry her, what was your initial reaction?’

‘Er . . .’ I think for a second. ‘I was thrilled. Flattered. Excited. Happy. Ecstatic, even.’

Wendy smiles. ‘Then it wasn’t too soon, was it?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ I struggle to find the right way to explain it. ‘I was wondering
why
Sam asked me. In the first place.’

She shakes her head ‘Possibly because she loves you, and wants to spend the rest of her life with you?’

‘Really?’

‘
Yes,
really.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Call it a wild stab in the dark.’

‘Who’s getting stabbed in the dark?’ says Dan nervously, sitting back down at the bar.

Wendy ignores him. ‘Edward, a woman doesn’t ask anyone that question unless she’s absolutely sure she wants to get married. So don’t worry.’

‘Yes, but how do I know that Sam’s serious about marrying
me
?’

Wendy smiles, then pats me on the back of the hand. ‘I’m really fond of you, you know, but sometimes you can be a little . . .’

‘Thick?’ suggests Dan.

‘Look who’s talking,’ I snap back.

‘Insecure,’ says Wendy. ‘Because not only did she ask you in the first place, but she’s set a date. And if she wasn’t absolutely one hundred and ten per cent sure  she wanted to marry you, that’s the last thing she’d have done.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thanks,’ trying to ignore the fact that it wasn’t Sam who set the date, but me. Besides, setting a date doesn’t actually mean anything if you’re not planning to turn up.

6.15 p.m.

In spite of all that, I
do
feel a bit better, particularly because, from what I can tell, for the next couple of days, Sam doesn’t seem to have any hushed phone calls, secretive emails, or – since the only thing my sneaky investigative lunchtime walks past Muffin To Declare have revealed is that they have a new double-white-chocolate muffin, and it’s delicious – mysterious meetings. I’ve apologized to her about my behaviour the other night too because I’ve decided not to get too hung up on the name issue – after all, I wouldn’t change anything else about her, so I might as well extend that to her surname. Besides, I’ve decided to keep my eye on the prize, and not worry about any of the so-called minor traditions.

I’m also feeling quite chuffed because I’ve managed to get Billy a place in the Shelter hostel and, although it took a bit of persuading – persuading Billy, I mean, rather than the hostel staff – he seems to be keen to give it a go. Or rather, he hasn’t told me where to go. Which I suppose is as much as I can hope for.

When I get home, by the sounds of things, Sam’s in the shower. There’s a football match on this evening which I’m quite keen to watch, and as far as I know, it doesn’t clash with any of her girlie programmes, so I should be okay, particularly since she’ll probably fall asleep on me on the sofa anyway. Even so, I’m looking forward to spending the evening with her, but when she finally emerges from the bathroom, kisses me hello, then announces she’s going out, I can’t help but feel I’m suddenly back to square one.

‘Out?’ I say, struggling to keep myself from adding the word ‘again’ to the end of that sentence.

‘I won’t be long,’ says Sam, stuffing her notebook into her bag. ‘A couple of hours at most. Back in time for you to have watched your game and made me dinner.’

‘Going anywhere nice?’ I say, really only interested in the part of her answer that doesn’t involve the ‘going’, ‘any’ and ‘nice’ parts of my question.

‘Just out for a chat,’ she says. ‘Last few bits of wedding stuff to sort out.’

‘Anyone I know?’ I ask, watching her closely for any sign of guilt.

Sam nods distractedly as she picks up some loose change from the table. ‘Yup.’

‘Do you want to give me a name?’ I say, before I’ve even given her a chance to tell me.

‘Calm down, Edward.’ Sam stuffs the change into her pocket, then zips up her coat. ‘It’s just Madeleine.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to rein in my suspicious mind. ‘I’m not checking up on you.’ I stop speaking, because we both know that’s exactly what it sounds like I’m doing. ‘Can I start again? How was your day?’

As Sam shrugs, then proceeds to tell me, I force myself to smile and nod, but I can’t help zoning out a little – what Dan would call a ‘nonversation’ – while I try to work out whether there’s anything sinister going on. She’s dressed in her usual off-duty uniform of tight-fitting jeans and a plain white T-shirt and, as sexy as I think she looks, it’s hardly the gear you’d dress up in to meet a potential lover. Or is it? I mean, if you’re off to an assignation, it’s not what you’re wearing that matters, because you soon won’t be wearing anyth . . .

‘Edward?’

‘Yes?’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

Bollocks. Sam’s just asked me something and I haven’t heard a word of it because I’ve been too busy letting my imagination run away with me. ‘Oh. Er . . . Yes?’

‘Yes what?’

‘Your question. The answer’s yes.’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘So we’re having “yes” for dinner, are we? Is this a taste of what married life’s going to be like?’

‘Sorry, dear.’ I grin sheepishly back up at her. ‘I . . . er . . . thought you’d asked me if I’d made dinner. Not what I’d made.’

I pick the remote control up and switch on the TV, congratulating myself on my good recovery, but Sam’s having none of it.

‘Well, what have you made? And when did this miracle take place, exactly? While I was in the shower?’

‘Oh. Right. Actually, when I say “made”, what I mean is, I’ve got all the ingredients.’

‘For?’

‘I though I’d surprise you.’

‘By cooking something edible for once?’ she says, stroking my hair affectionately so I know she’s making a joke.

‘No. I mean, yes. It’s . . . I thought we’d have pasta. In a tomato-ey sauce. With maybe minced meat in it. Oh, and some herbs,’ I add, as if that makes all the difference.

‘Spaghetti Bolognese.’ Sam makes a face. ‘That
is
a surprise.’

‘It’s my speciality,’ I say, a little hurt.

‘How could I forget?’ Sam licks her lips and pats her stomach exaggeratedly. ‘I can taste it already. See you in a couple of hours.’

‘But . . .’ As Sam looks at me expectantly, I shake my head in disgust at myself. What am I playing at? Am I going to feel jumpy every time she leaves the house, even if it’s only to get a pint of milk from the corner shop? ‘I mean, do you want me to come with you? I could help.’

Sam laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’

I get suddenly suspicious. ‘Why not? It’s my wedding too.’

‘Yes, but it’s
my
wedding dress,’ she says, producing a surprisingly well-thumbed copy of
What Bride?
from her bag. ‘And that’s the one thing you’re not allowed anywhere near. Apart from me, on the morning before the wedding, of course.’

‘I thought you weren’t wearing a . . . I mean, didn’t want to do the whole dress thing?’

‘I don’t. But I’ve got to wear something. Unless you’d prefer me to get married in just my underwear?’

‘Well . . .’ I smile to myself, picturing the look on Dan’s face, then feel suddenly guilty. Even though she doesn’t want a big wedding, this kind of stuff might still be important to Sam, and I don’t want to sound like I’m interfering. ‘I mean, no. Of course not. Sorry.’ I glance towards the TV, where the build-up to football match I’ve been looking forward to has already started. ‘I just thought you might want to spend the evening here. With me. There’s a good game on.’

‘Ooh,’ says Sam. ‘As enticing as that sounds . . .’

‘We could switch it off,’ I suggest, reluctantly. ‘There might be something else on the other side.’

‘That’s okay,’ says Sam. ‘Besides, I haven’t seen Madeleine for a while. And I need to give her her maid of honour present.’

I’m suddenly suspicious again. Sam saw Madeleine on Wednesday, although she doesn’t know I know this, because with everything else that’s been going on, I’d forgotten to mention that I bumped into Madeleine on the way back from work yesterday, and Madeleine had told me how chuffed she was with the earrings Sam
was giving her, and how she was going to be the best maid of honour ever. And while at the time I thought that was funny, because, given what I’ve heard about Madeleine from Dan after he drove her home the other night, she doesn’t actually have that much honour, right now, I don’t find it amusing at all.

‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’ Tomorrow is Sam’s hen night. Where, presumably, she’ll be seeing Madeleine anyway.

‘Er . . . No,’ says Sam, matter-of-factly.

‘Did you want a lift?’ I say, in a desperate attempt to find out where she’s really going.

‘No thanks,’ says Sam, standing on tiptoe to kiss me, before picking her keys up from the coffee table. ‘It’s just round the corner. You enjoy your game.’

As soon as the door shuts behind her, I’m on my feet. What to do? I could phone Madeleine to check Sam’s alibi, of course, but that might seem a little suspicious if she tells Sam I’ve called. Or I could run after Sam and tell her she’s forgotten something – but what? That she’s getting married and shouldn’t be sneaking around behind my back, perhaps.

Or . . . I could take Dan’s advice and follow her. Sam’s said she’s going just round the corner and, as I peer out through the window, her car’s still outside, which means it must be within walking distance. It’s twenty-five past six, so presumably, and knowing Sam’s penchant for punctuality, she’s meeting Madeleine – or whoever – at half past. All I need to do is work out where is within five minutes’ walking distance from here.

I know it’s dishonest, and I really don’t want to do it, but I still can’t stop myself from pulling my jacket off the coat rack and heading out after her, promising myself at the same time that if what she says turns out to be true, it’ll put an end to all of this nonsense once and for all.

Given that Sam’s a faster walker than me, I set my watch for six minutes and start walking, but after only four I’ve already reached Western Road, and from what I can see, there are approximately ten pubs and three cafés that might conceivably be within five minutes of our flat.

I stand helplessly, wondering where on earth to start, and am on the verge of giving up when I spy Madeleine’s car parked outside the Cooper’s Arms. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I tell myself I’m just being stupid, turn round, and start walking back towards my flat – and away from my fears – when it occurs to me I should actually check. I mean, while it looks like Madeleine’s car, there are rather a lot of Beetles in Brighton – plus, she might have sold it. Though whether the buyer would have kept the ‘Homoeopaths Do It In Small Doses’ sticker on the rear windscreen is questionable.

I creep back along the pavement towards the pub, ready to duck behind a lamp post in case Madeleine or Sam come out unexpectedly and catch me, then realize I’d feel a lot better if I had an alibi for being here – which the Tesco Metro round the corner might well provide me with - so I nip in and buy a tube of sour-cream-and-chive-flavoured Pringles. Of course, now I’m running the risk of getting into even more trouble if Sam catches me with a packet of Pringles before dinner, although in my defence, at least I’ve bought Lites. Better that than be caught following her, I suppose.

Brandishing the Pringles like a relay runner’s baton, I hurry back round the corner, relieved to see Madeleine’s car hasn’t moved, and walk nervously towards the Cooper’s Arms. Then I encounter my first real problem. Obviously I can’t simply stick my head in through the door and try to spot her in case she spots
me
, but the pub’s got these strange little glass windows, most of which are impossible to see through due to a circular ripple effect, so I can’t just look through the window either. There is one normal pane – evidently where one of the originals has been broken and replaced by plain glass – but it’s a little bit higher than is comfortable for me to reach.

I peer up and down the street, keen to get this sordid incident over and done with, then notice an old wooden crate in the alleyway at the side of the pub. For a second, I think maybe I
could use that to stand on, but I don’t really want to pick it up because departing drinkers have a habit of using that alleyway as a toilet when the pub’s shut.

I stand there for a moment or two considering my options. The most sensible one, of course, is to accept that Sam’s telling me the truth and just go home. But if I do that, I know I’ll be wondering for the rest of the evening – and maybe for the rest of my life. I’ve got to check. But how?

I look up at the pane of glass. It’s just above head height, and probably easily reachable if I jump, but knowing my luck, I’ll do it just at the moment Sam’s looking up, and she’ll see me behaving like some demented jack-in-the-box. And Pringles or not, how on earth would I explain that?

Then I have an idea: the Pringles. Or more specifically, the tube they’re in. It’s about the right length, and looks pretty sturdy, so maybe if I’m careful I can balance on one foot on the top of it. It’s a dilemma, because if it works, I’ll be able to see what Sam’s up to, but if it doesn’t, I’ll risk crushing a whole tube of my favourite crisps.

After a moment’s consideration, where I can’t decide whether the end with the plastic cap will be better at the top or on the ground, I carefully stand the tube upside down on the pavement underneath the window and, putting one hand against the wall for support, rest my right foot gingerly on top of the tube. Holding my breath, I gradually increase the downward pressure while wondering, perhaps too late, whether I should nip back into Tesco to exchange them for the full-fat version, in the hope they might be a bit stronger.

Somehow, thankfully, the tube seems to be holding my weight, so I carefully lift my other foot off the ground and, conscious that I need to maintain my weight directly over the tube rather than make any sudden movements, straighten my right leg, using my arms for balance in a Karate Kid-type stance. I’m feeling somewhat precarious, not to mention ridiculous, but luckily it’s a dark evening, and the Coopers Arms is on a side street, so there’s not a lot of passing traffic, although I do have to shoo away an old lady who seems to think I’m one of those street performers who pretend to be statues in front of the shopping centre every Saturday.

Slowly, my eyes draw level with the clear pane of glass. It doesn’t seem to have been cleaned in a while, and initially I struggle to locate Sam through the grime, but eventually I spot her – fortunately with her back to me – sitting at one of the tables. When I crane my neck to the right, rubbing my forehead accidentally against the dirty glass, I can just about identify Madeleine in the seat next to her, and – thanks to the clean patch of glass I can see through having just used my brow as a squeegee – can even make out that they do seem to be poring over the copy of
What Bride?
Sam showed me earlier.