The Shelf

by Helly Acton

  Last night, Amy shared her impending possible engagement news over a bottle of prosecco with Sarah, her best friend from uni, at Amuse Bouche. They’ve been going there since their first year in London and it was where they broke big news. At the same table, six months ago, Amy announced that Jamie had given her a key to his flat. Sarah announced she’d just bought her third.

  Investment analyst Sarah was predictably sceptical of Amy’s proposal theory.

  ‘Go on, then. What’s different this time?’

  Amy made the same announcement before every trip, so Sarah was right to wonder. But now it really was different: Amy felt something big brewing.

  ‘Last time you told me he was going to propose at his grandfather’s funeral.’

  ‘He was dropping major hints! Talking about how short life is, how we should be happy, how we shouldn’t let chances pass us by.’

  ‘He was talking about work again, wasn’t he?’

  ‘OK, fine, fine. There’s more evidence. We’ve been together for two years …’

  ‘Not evidence.’

  ‘It’s perfect timing! And Jamie likes things in twos – it’s his lucky number.’

  Sarah frowned at her.

  ‘Two eggs in the morning. Double coffee shot. He’s always telling me I’m his number two.’

  ‘Who’s his number one?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘He’s joking! Plus, Mum cried on the phone for absolutely no reason the other day.’

  ‘The Strictly Come Dancing final? Gin? Your dad’s new socks and sandals retirement uniform? His constant presence, now that he’s retired?’

  ‘She’s saying goodbye to her little girl! I’m an only child, remember? This is big for her.’

  ‘You’re thirty-two, Amy, not twelve.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m sure Jamie realises it’s now or never. He knows my clock is ticking.’

  ‘Amy!’ She choked. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s like you’ve accepted that Sword of Damocles with open arms. Your purpose isn’t to reproduce – it’s to be happy, whatever shape or form that takes.’

  ‘I know, but maybe reproducing will make me happy. Maybe my happiness takes the shape of a melon under my jumper.’

  ‘My happiness takes the shape of Daniel Craig feeding me mashed potato on a Mexican beach.’ Sarah laughed and took a sip from her glass before squeezing Amy’s hand across the table.

  ‘Amy, just promise me you aren’t doing the marriage-and-babies thing because of your age and because everyone else is doing it. You have to really want kids.’

  Amy stared back at her. ‘I know. I do.’

  ‘You’ll have to do things and go places,’ Sarah continued. ‘Like petting zoos and funfairs and kids’ parties. No more being a slob on the sofa in your knickers on a Sunday, watching Friends back-to-back. Oh my God, Amy, you’ll have to put pants on every day!’ Her face turned to mock horror.

  ‘Sarah, I do want kids! And not just because of my age or because everyone else is doing it. It’s because I like them. I always have done – I just don’t go on about it. I want to do more with my Sundays than watch Netflix marathons. And I can’t ignore my age – it’s science. Besides, why are we talking about kids when I’m not even engaged yet?’

  ‘Why get married at all? Just have his baby. If you’re sure Jamie’s The One.’

  ‘Well, he’s the only one.’

  Sarah stared at her.

  ‘I’m kidding! I’m happy. Life is moving forward, just like it’s supposed to.’

  ‘You know, you don’t have to be like everyone else, Amy.’

  ‘I am me. And you are you. And Jamie is Jamie.’ She hiccuped. ‘And this empty glass is this empty glass.’

  On the tube back to Jamie’s, Amy wondered if Sarah’s reaction was because she was feeling sad about losing her single sidekick. Or perhaps she was feeling upset that Amy was choosing to spend the rest of her life with a man she can’t stand. The relationship between her best friend and her boyfriend was as awkward as a lone lift ride with a date you didn’t text back. The first and last time she left them alone, she came back to find Jamie studying the ingredients on his low-carb beer label and Sarah pretending to send emails on a phone that had run out of battery. Alone, Amy probed them about their feelings towards each other.

  ‘I’d like him if he stopped staring at my mouth,’ Sarah had hissed.

  ‘I’d like her if she waxed her moustache and stopped trying to be funny,’ Jamie had muttered.

  ‘You don’t think any women are funny.’ Amy had sighed. Why did he have to be such a dick, so often? Why couldn’t he just make an effort with her friends?

  ‘Well, maybe it’s because they aren’t,’ he responded, before grabbing her by the waist and blowing a raspberry on her neck. ‘Except you, of course. You funny little Piglet.’

  And Amy had laughed and let it go.

  Jamie’s words can certainly bite, but his touch makes her feel adored. His go-to tactic for ending a heated discussion is a passionate Hollywood kiss, and while Amy has long suspected he does it to physically stop her from stating her case, she falls for it every time. Anyone would, with lips and a grip like his.

  She rolls over and rubs her eyes. She has to stop thinking so negatively about the man she’s hoping to spend the rest of her life with. Jamie isn’t perfect, but he does do lots of things to show her that he cares. Last week he sent her a surprise supper delivery when he cancelled their Saturday-night plans because he had to meet a potential investor. The jackfruit salad went straight in the bin because the smell made her gag, but it was the thought that counted. And when he comes over after one too many, he is so affectionate it makes her heart explode. Squeezy hugs, sweet nothings, back rubs and head strokes. After a few vodka sodas, his true character comes out. Sometimes she wishes he drank every night. It’s rare for Jamie to let himself go like that. He’s too health-conscious, too focused, and his business comes before leisure. And that’s OK right now. She wants him to do well, even if it means they see less of each other.

  She could do far worse than Jamie. Before Jamie there was Beer Ben, who was only ever happy with his hands on a pint and his eyes on the sport. It didn’t matter what sport it was, as long as there was a ball involved. She knew she had to call it quits when their fifth date was a bowling alley, and not the cool kind. Before him there was Dull Dan, who fancied himself as an amateur sommelier and bored Amy to tears droning on about the difference between Merlot and Shiraz, while picking at an overpriced charcuterie board. She shudders when she thinks of his fingernails spearing the chorizo. They were always five millimetres too long.

  Jamie’s fingernails are short and clean. He doesn’t smell of stale beer. He talks about the future, not goals or grape varieties. And although she’s never been explicitly featured in this future, she must fit in somewhere. Otherwise why would he have said he’d buy her a brand-new wardrobe when he made his first million?

  Amy hears the door go and Jamie bursts in, wheezing. He smiles at her and his crow’s feet wrinkle up, making her heart beat a bit faster. And faster still when he bends over to remove his shorts, his six-pack tensing and his jet-black hair flopping in his green eyes. Climbing under the covers, he hugs her from the side and she tenses her stomach muscles to stop Tinky Winky, aka her Teletummy, from spoiling the mood. It’s a nickname Jamie introduced the other day, and to be honest, she doesn’t love it. She also doesn’t love how he always hugs her stomach, especially after eating a huge meal.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m not sensitive,’ she said last week, before patting him on the top of his head. ‘And how’s the switch to solar power going?’

  Touching his crown gently, he had flown off the handle about her being nasty, gone running for two hours and given her the silent treatment for the rest of the day.

  Amy knows she’s slim but squidgy. But to change that, she’d have to go to the gym, and she�
��d rather step on a Christmas decoration than a cross-trainer. Jamie had bought her a gym membership for her birthday last year. Not for the one he went to.

  Jamie squeezes his arms around her and addresses item one on their sexual order of business: kissing the back of her neck and giving her goosebumps as she nestles into his chest. Yes, Jamie can be a bit self-centred. Yes, this routine hasn’t changed in six months. And yes, she is rarely the star of this show. But at least he still turns her on. At least he doesn’t have bad breath, like Jane’s Pete.

  Just as Jamie moves on to item two, where she gets a bit of action with a borderline-painful nipple pinch, his phone rings loudly and makes them both jump. When he takes the call, she stares at him in disbelief and he puts his finger on his lips and waves her away. Nice. She huffs, gets up and goes to the bathroom.

  It’s peaceful in there by herself.

  Amy spends the next hour with her holiday essentials. She blew the whole of last week’s salary on waxing, soaking, scrubbing, exfoliating, firming, fake-tanning and tinting. Two hundred quid literally down the drain. Probably the same price as a week-long stay in a beach hut in Phuket.

  As she tries to master the impossible art of crying and looking pretty at the same time while perfecting her Yes! face in the mirror, she spots an eyebrow on the run. Her face falls. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ she sighs, yanking out the stray hair. She’s blessed with her mum’s lips and cursed with her dad’s monobrow. Despite his insistence, the only character it adds bears a striking resemblance to Miffy, the family poodle. Miffy is not welcome on this holiday.

  Jamie has given her one clue about their mystery destination. No coats required. Amy has translated this to mean an island in South East Asia, and so she’s spent hours, days, truthfully weeks investing in her travel-beauty-fashion blogger look, complete with oversized floppy hat, rose-gold mirror sunglasses and a pair of toddler-sized ripped denim shorts, which she knows she’ll be too embarrassed to wear anywhere. Her suitcase also includes five new bikinis, three of which fitted her when she was packing and two of which will definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent fit her by the time she gets there. She’s strategically saving those for the last few days, in case he hasn’t asked her yet, and they show off more flesh than the cast of Geordie Shore combined. She’s secretly hoping for a safe, but highly effective, tropical stomach bug.

  Just as she grabs a triple-savings pack of Imodium, Jamie appears in the bathroom door in a crisp white shirt, pale blue chinos and trademark navy loafers. He gives Amy a long stare as she slowly puts the pills in her toiletry bag, hoping to God he can’t see what they are.

  ‘Is Miffy joining us?’

  Amy darts back to the mirror.

  ‘I’m joking.’ He grins and opens his arms. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘If we’re off to Bali, yes. If we’re off to Siberia, no.’

  ‘You’ll see soon enough, but you look fine to me. That call was important,’ he says, by way of apology, giving her his wiggling come-here fingers.

  ‘Did it go well?’ she asks, as she steps towards him for a rare hug outside of the covers.

  ‘Weller’s on board. Another one bites the dust for those pricks at Simon Watts.’ He whistles as he looks at himself in the mirror.

  ‘Aren’t those pricks your friends?’

  ‘Not when it comes to money, little Piglet.’

  If this was a film, Amy thinks, Jamie would be the caricature villain that everyone wants to see fall. Her guilt grabs her by the gut again. Jamie’s ambition is an asset, not a flaw. It’s business, and he has to be ruthless at times. It’s a streak that could secure their future together.

  She should feel proud. Lucky, even.

  As she watches Jamie lock up the flat, Amy stares at the front door and lets out a sigh, wondering if she will ever see it in the same way again. She smiles as she imagines him sweeping her into his arms and swooping her over the threshold. Then she makes a mental note not to overindulge on waffles at the hotel breakfast buffet.

  ‘I couldn’t find my keys this morning. Do I need them?’ she asks Jamie as they walk down the stairs.

  ‘Nope.’

  There’s no doubt in her mind that she left them on the hall table, so this must be part of his big plan.

  ‘Shall I get an Uber?’

  ‘Nope, that’s covered, too.’ Jamie nods towards a shiny black stretch limo rolling up to the pavement.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘After you, Piglet.’

  Jamie is extravagant with his watch collection, whisky library and Egyptian cotton sheets, but he’s never done anything like this before. Especially not for her. This can only mean good things. For the first time since forever, he is desperate to impress her. He wants this proposal to be perfect, from the first minute to the last.

  Amy beams as she slides into the soft leather seats with their brand-new car smell, while Jamie reaches for a bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket between them and pours them each a glass.

  ‘Chin-chin, Piglet.’ He smiles.

  She tilts her head to one side. ‘Very funny. How about to us, instead?’

  Ever since Jamie had walked in on her doing neck-cercises in bed at the start of their relationship, he’d used ‘chin-chin’ to poke fun at her complex.

  He looks at her as he sips his champagne slowly and reaches to tuck her hair behind one ear.

  ‘I’ve been planning this for a while.’

  It’s a perfect moment for a kiss, but just as she moves towards him he turns his head to look out of the window. She takes out her phone to text Sarah.

  I’m in a limo.

  Is there champagne?

  There is.

  It’s so on.

  I think so. He just said he’s been

  planning this for a while …

  Why does the bride emoji

  look scared?

  She found a chin hair.

  Hope you waxed your left hand. Have an

  amazing time x

  Thanks pooch x

  The car is quiet as they cross the river at Hammersmith.

  ‘The Apollo!’ Amy puts her hand on Jamie’s leg. ‘Do you remember our first gig together?’

  He shifts in his seat and catches the eye of the driver.

  ‘Muse?’

  ‘No, not Muse. Did we see Muse together? That Thai DJ, it was amazing.’

  Jamie draws a blank but says, ‘Yeah, he was cool.’

  ‘She.’

  ‘Right, she was great.’

  Jamie keeps glancing in the rear-view mirror. Checking his own reflection isn’t unusual, but what’s different is that he isn’t looking at himself. He’s looking at the limo driver, and the limo driver is returning his gaze.

  Out of the blue, the limo driver speaks. ‘It’s time, Mr O’Connor.’

  Amy looks at Jamie, confused, as he takes her phone out of her hand. She panics inside, scared he might read her messages. Instead, he reaches forward and takes a long piece of black fabric out of the central compartment.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Amy smiles tensely, like Chandler Bing in a photograph. There’s a knot in her stomach.

  Jamie smiles back, as he motions for her to turn around. He slowly places the blindfold over her eyes, and the outside world is shut off.

  ‘How am I supposed to walk through the airport with this on?’

  ‘Amy, we aren’t going to an airport.’

  ‘OK … Soho Farmhouse? Lime Wood?’

  ‘Nope, not a spa either. Mate, can we turn the music on?’

  The driver obliges and Classic FM fills the limo. As she leans back into the seat, Jamie places his hand on hers, squeezing it a little too hard, like he’s trying to tell her something he can’t bring himself to say. Not an airport, not a spa. She suddenly has a horrible thought and shoots up out of the seat.

  ‘Jamie,’ she whispers, ‘are we … going to an orgy?’

  ‘What? No. Just wait, we aren’t far.’

  ‘OK. Sorry, I’m just
excited!’ she whispers. She doesn’t want him to call her ungrateful again.

  Amy hears the car indicate as it moves to the side and slows to a halt.

  ‘We’re here.’ Jamie sighs as he wriggles out of her grip and opens the door.

  Amy hears a muffled conversation outside before the door opens and she feels Jamie take her hands. He guides her slowly out of the limo and walks her through what sounds like an electric gate.

  ‘OK, Ames, there’s a ramp coming up, we’re going to be walking down it.’

  His voice isn’t as calm anymore. He sounds shaky. Amy wonders why he’d be taking her into a basement and not through a front door. Then she realises what’s happening.

  It’s all so obvious now. He’s organised a surprise party, and he’s going to ask her in front of her friends and family. Hold on. She knows exactly what this is. It’s a bloody flash mob. Jamie’s obsessed. A few months ago, he interrupted her pouring her heart out about a problem at work to show her a flash mob proposal at Waterloo.

  ‘God, I’d run for the hills if someone did that to me,’ she replied, irritated that he’d changed the subject. ‘Talk about a giant red flag. He doesn’t want her having any of the attention.’

  ‘So what? He’s still asking her – isn’t that enough for you lot? I don’t think you’d complain if you got a million views at the same time.’

  ‘Jamie, I’d rather you asked me on the loo than for the likes.’

  ‘Steady on, Piglet.’

  And that’s how every conversation around marriage has ended.

  ‘There’s a door coming up, I’m going to hold it open for you,’ he says, placing his hand on her lower back. She feels a draught in front of her as he guides her into what feels like a wide-open space. It’s completely silent, and her laugh echoes through the air.