The Accidental Proposal (7 page)

Even so, there’s a fluttering in my stomach, possibly because I realize there’s so much riding on her answer. And though it’s probably mostly Dan’s fault I’m feeling this way, it does also occur to me that this is Sam’s chance to back out if she’s having second thoughts, and if she does . . . well, I suppose it’s the right thing – for both of us. At least I’ve got the receipt for the ring. Though not, I realize as I reach the flat, for the emotional investment I’ve made.

Of course, the way I’m feeling could be due to excitement, too. While I’m sure a lot of men get coerced into proposing, or only ask because they’ve run out of excuses not to, there’s something special about asking – or being asked by – someone you really
want
to be with. When Sam first brought the subject up, I didn’t even have to think about my answer. I just have to hope it’ll be the same for her when it’s me doing the asking.

I push the front door open quietly, then check to see the coast is clear before walking into the flat. By the sounds coming from the bathroom, Sam’s having a shower, which is perfect, so I hurriedly remove the ring box from the Tiffany’s bag, then pace nervously up and down the hallway until I hear the water stop.

After a moment’s panic, when I can’t decide which knee I should get down on, necessitating a quick rehearsal in front of the hall mirror to see which one looks best (although, surprise, surprise, it’s pretty much of a muchness), I take up my position outside the bathroom door. Only trouble is, I’ve forgotten how long women take between getting out of the shower and actually exiting the bathroom, so by the time Sam emerges through the doorway, a towel around her midriff, my knee is starting to hurt, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be able to get up without assistance.

‘Edward! What are you doing?’ she says. ‘You made me jump.’

‘Sam . . .’ I look up at her as she adjusts the smaller turban-like towel on her head. Unfortunately, this has the effect of lifting the other towel up above her waist, meaning that I’m now staring directly into her groin. ‘I, er . . .’

‘Sorry.’ Sam adjusts the towel and kneels down next to me. ‘Have you lost your contact lens again? Do you want me to help you look?’

‘No. Nothing like that,’ I say, feeling suddenly awkward that she’s now at the same level as me. ‘Could you just stand back up, please?’

‘Er . . . okay.’ Sam frowns at me, but does as she’s told, perhaps wondering whether I’ve spent the afternoon at the Admiral Jim.

‘Great. Thanks.’ I hold the Tiffany’s box out towards her, trying to stop my hand from shaking, before realizing I’ve forgotten to open it. ‘Hang on.’

I flip the lid open, and for a moment, Sam just stares at me. Then, after what seems like an eternity, she takes the box from my hand.

‘But . . .’

‘It’s just, well, we didn’t do it properly. The other day, I mean. So I thought I’d better . . .’ I break off, mid sentence, desperate to rock back on my heels to give my knee a rest. ‘Will you marry me?’

‘I . . .’ Sam’s eyes suddenly fill with tears, which I’m hoping is a positive emotional response – or even a reaction to the conditioner she’s got in her hair – rather than from disappointment at either the box’s contents or those four little words. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

For a moment, an element of doubt creeps into my mind.
Why
shouldn’t I have? Is it because she doesn’t want to marry me? Or has Sam sensed that my proposal is less ‘ring from Tiffany’s’, and more ‘ring of desperation’? But fortunately, the feeling doesn’t last that long, as Sam sniffs loudly, then smiles down at me.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, slipping the ring onto her finger. ‘And it fits!’

‘Lucky guess.’

‘But . . .Tiffany’s?’ Sam gazes at the ring, then holds her hand up to the hall light to admire the sparkle. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’

‘Yes, well.’ I don’t know what to say. Especially since it did.

‘Oh, Edward . . .’ Sam stops talking, then does that shaking her hands in the air thing women do which always looks as if they’re attempting to dry their nail varnish, whereas in reality they’re trying to stop themselves from crying.

‘So, is that a yes, then?’ I ask, hauling myself back onto my feet, trying hard to resist the impulse to rub my knee.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but just drops her towel, takes me by the hand, and leads me into the bedroom. And while my first thought is that I really ought to give Dan a call and tell him my good news, for the moment, I think that can probably wait.

8.33 a.m.

Sam’s not taken the ring off since she slipped it onto her finger in the hallway last night, and despite the fact that I’ve got a rather nasty scratch in an embarrassing place where she caught me with the diamond while we were, er, celebrating, it’s a small price to pay for the feeling of relief it’s given me. The fact that we’re engaged, I mean.

Even though it’s early, and despite that fact that Dan’s unemployed and therefore might not actually be up yet, I’ve popped round on the way to work to tell him the good news. Once I’ve finished my breathless explanation – almost before he’s had a chance to get dressed – he frowns.

‘So, she didn’t actually say yes?’ he says, pulling on a white T-shirt with ‘I
♥ ME’ printed on the front.

‘No, Dan. But she didn’t say no either. Which is probably more important, if you think about it.’

Dan gives me a pitying look as he puts the kettle on. ‘You idiot,’ he says. ‘Your one big chance to find out for sure – which might I remind you cost you eight grand – and you blow it. Did she say anything else?’

‘Well, no. But she cried.’

‘She cried?’

‘Yes, but in a good way.’

‘How does anyone cry in a good way? People cry at bad news usually.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘I hope you’ve still got the receipt?’

‘Dan!’

He sighs loudly. ‘So come on, then. What happened next?’

‘Next?’

‘After she
didn’t
say yes.’

‘Well, we – you know – had sex.’

‘Lucky bastard.’ Dan gives me a tight-lipped smile. ‘What kind?’

‘What kind of what?’

‘Sex. Apart from the most expensive you ever had, of course.’

‘Huh? You mean missionary, or whether she was on top?’

‘No, Edward – although thanks for the imagery. I mean, was it your normal run-of-the-mill shag, or thank-you sex, or make-up sex, or shut-up sex, or . . .’

‘Shut-up sex? What on earth is that?’

‘You know. When you’re trying to avoid one of those awkward conversations, so you make sure she’s otherwise engaged.’ He grins. ‘After all, she can’t talk with her mouth full.’

‘It was just, well, sex. There doesn’t always have to be an agenda.’

Dan opens his mouth as if to say something, then evidently thinks better of it. ‘Okay. But think about it. You did the big proposal, handed over a diamond that would guarantee you the shag of your life – which by the looks of you this morning, you got – and yet she still didn’t actually, say yes.’

‘Yes, but what about actions speaking louder than words, and all that?’

‘What actions did she do, specifically?’

‘None of your business.’

Dan walks over to the refrigerator and removes an expensive-looking jar of coffee. ‘Why can’t you do a single thing properly? Have I taught you nothing?’

‘Hopefully not, no. The important thing is, we’re officially engaged now. She’s wearing the ring. So it makes me feel better, you know? After all, she’d hardly have it on—’

‘Unless she was just having
you
on.’

‘Dan!’

‘Sorry, Ed. If you’re sure . . .’

‘I am.’

‘Good,’ he says, spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘So when’s the big day?’

‘Well, we didn’t actually get around to setting a date.’

Dan stops, mid-spoon. ‘Don’t you think you’d better?’

‘Okay, okay. It’ll be the first thing I do this evening.’

‘Good.’

As he grabs a couple of clean mugs from the dishwasher, I hold my hand up. ‘Actually, Dan, I don’t think I’ve got time for a coffee.’

‘What? This isn’t for you?’

‘Who’s it for?’

As I wait for him to answer, there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat from the bedroom doorway, and I look round to see a short blonde girl with just-out-of-bed hair standing there. She’s wearing – appropriately – a T-shirt with ‘Love Is Blonde’ written on the front, which I recognize as one from Dan’s collection. And nothing else.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ says the girl.

‘Er, yes, sorry,’ says Dan. ‘This is Edward.’

‘No,’ says the girl, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘I mean, introduce
me
.’

As Dan stands there awkwardly, I realize the reason he doesn’t is probably because he can’t remember her name.

And as I make my way out through his front door, a smile on my face, the girl isn’t far behind me. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t have one on hers.

10.19 a.m.

I’m sitting in my office, safe in the knowledge that since Natasha’s just phoned to say that she’ll be in in five minutes I’ve easily got an hour or two to myself, and I’m reading the engagement announcements in the
Argus
, wondering how to word Sam’s and mine, when a knock on the door makes me jump. Assuming it’s Natasha and that she’s early, I hurriedly hide the paper in my desk, then leap up to answer it, banging my kneecap on the edge of my drawer as I do so.

Cursing to myself, I limp across the office, realizing that if it was Natasha, she certainly wouldn’t knock, but when I open the door, it’s the one person I want to see less than my boss.

‘Hello, Edward.’

Jane smiles, then leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and I’m so stunned I don’t have the time to pull away. I haven’t seen her for a few months, and almost don’t recognize her; she’s had her hair cut short, dyed almost copper in colour, and is wearing a pair of those ‘statement’ glasses, although they look more like those 3-D ones you get at the cinema, and the statement they seem to be making is ‘I’m a public danger’, as the corner of the white plastic frame nearly takes my eye out.

‘W-what are you doing here?’ I stammer. The last time Jane turned up unannounced like this, it almost led to Sam and I splitting up.

‘Nice to see you too,’ she says, looking a little hurt.

‘Sorry.’

We stand there awkwardly for a moment until Jane clears her throat. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’

‘Well, Natasha’s going to be here in a moment,’ I say. Which isn’t strictly untrue, depending on your definition of how long a moment is.

‘Great,’ says Jane. ‘In that case, you can let me buy you a coffee.’

For a minute, I think about telling Jane that Natasha won’t be pleased if she comes in and finds the office unattended, but the alternative is that I have to spend time with her here, with no witnesses. And while I might not want to risk upsetting Natasha, seeing as that’s actually the lesser of two evils, I agree.

10.34 a.m.

We’re sitting in Megabite, the internet café on the corner of Ship Street, and I’ve made sure we’ve got a table as close to the window as possible, in case Sam walks past. And while this may sound strange, it’s actually because if she does, then I want her to spot us – or rather, the last thing I want is for Sam to think we’re hiding from her. Not that I think she doesn’t trust me, but last time I saw Jane, I ended up getting myself into trouble by not telling Sam about it. And what a mistake that nearly turned out to be.

‘I tried our flat,’ says Jane, offering me a piece of her flapjack, then making a surprised face when I turn it down.

‘What? When?’ I say, not really wanting to ask why.

‘Last night. I just happened to be passing. Thought you might fancy a drink. But someone else answered the door.’

Immediately, I’m suspicious. Jane doesn’t ‘just happen’ to do anything. And while her motivation may have been completely above board, I can’t help but doubt it.

‘It’s not
our
flat any more, Jane,’ I say, and while my next thought is to inform her that it stopped being her flat when she moved out without telling me, I remind myself that I should be past all that. Especially now. ‘I mean, it’s rented out. And I’ve moved . . .’ I stop short of saying ‘in with Sam’, and then realize I’m being silly. While I don’t want to rub it in her face, at some point Jane will have to hear I’m getting married. And while, actually, I’d rather she didn’t hear it from me, I don’t think, with her sitting across the table from me like this, I’ve got much choice. Besides, starting off by telling her Sam and I have moved in together might well soften the blow. Then again, knowing Jane, it might provoke one. She always had a good right hook.

‘Oh yes?’ Jane picks her steaming latte up, then puts it back down on the table when she realizes it’s too hot to drink. ‘Anywhere nice?’ she asks, taking a large bite out of the flapjack.