#Toots

by Linh Le James

  The. Victorian. Room.

  The Victorian Room has a two-month waiting list. Actors, musicians and other famous faces are routinely spotted there. The chef has just been awarded his third Michelin star for the fifth year in a row.

  Unless Ben won the lottery and managed to keep the news to himself, there can only be one reason justifying forking out for the Victorian Room. A proposal.

  I always dreamt of dining there for a special occasion. One that would involve an engagement ring.

  A diamond ring!

  Will it be a timeless princess-cut solitaire? An elegant classic would be heavenly. Mind you, a trilogy or a cluster would equally fit the bill. It must be at least half a carat. Will Ben go for a splash of colour? My friend Helen received the most sublime Welsh gold and emerald ring, matching her green eyes, from her boyfriend. A sapphire or a ruby would be unorthodox but original. I hope he hasn’t splurged on platinum; white gold is good enough and we will have so many other expenses for the wedding.

  Whatever his choice, I know it will be perfect.

  He slipped a note in my breakfast cereal box, which I only discovered after he left for work this morning. A handwritten note in ink on 300 gsm thick white textured card. So thoughtful – and so unlike Ben. I am so moved he went to all that effort and planning.

  The card simply read:

  ‘Carla, love of my life, please join me at the Victorian Room tonight at 7.30pm.’

  How romantic! To meet him there rather than drive there together is the cherry on the cake. I thank his busy work schedule.

  I look and feel sensational. My long blonde hair is smoothed into glamorous side-swept curls which cascade down my neck and shoulder. My pencil dress corsets my body into a femme fatale figure. My legs are up to here thanks to the Louboutin heels. My skin is all peaches and cream and my eyes sparkle with excitement.

  I tremble with anticipation. I’m ready to take on the world.

  I cannot believe I’ll be engaged by tomorrow – and I’ll be able to make an announcement to the whole family at the christening in a few weeks’ time.

  It’ll be hard to get Mum to hold her tongue for so long though. It’ll be such a triumph! Especially for her! I know Auntie Gertrude has been hinting there is something wrong with us for not wanting to tie the knot after being a couple for so many years. If she knew how much I’ve been longing for this day!

  Too soon, the clock strikes seven and my taxi arrives.

  On the way to the Victorian Room, butterflies in my stomach make me prattle to the driver. Yes, the Victorian Room is indeed a fancy place. No, I’ve never been there. I’m meeting my boyfriend! Yes, we are celebrating a special occasion. I’m getting engaged! I’m happy, so happy! Thanks for the congrats.

  The taxi driver is the first person with whom I share the phenomenal news. I feel delirious with joy. I want to scream from the rooftops and dance in the rain. The cabbie stops at Emily’s en route – I just have to see a friendly face before my big night and hug someone who knows how much this means to me.

  We finally arrive at the Victorian Room. My heart flutters in my chest as I step out of the cab.

  The Grade II listed house has retained a lot of its original features and is one of the best-preserved examples of its time in our area. Marble steps lead to an imposing carved front door framed by heavy branches of flowering greenery. The evening air is fragrant with clematis and wisteria growing on top of the ivy-clad Georgian building. Lamborghinis and Ferraris are parked out the front.

  I rush up the steps in the manner of Cinderella – perhaps less graceful, on account of the tight pencil dress and towering heels.

  The maître d’ greets me as Mr Ben Taylor’s guest, and ushers me into the intimate main dining room, a modest forty covers.

  The ivory table linen, the oak-panelled walls, the butter chandeliers, the muted hue interior… everything is as gorgeous as I imagined. The huge bay windows at the back of the room hint at an idyllic cobbled courtyard with Japanese maple trees and Victorian lamp posts which glow with a soft golden light.

  Ben brushed up really nice. He’s wearing his new three-piece skinny suit which flatters his frame – and he got his hair cut earlier today, by the looks of it. He stands up at my sight and beams at me. I wish I could run and jump into his arms – except dress, heels and decorum would hinder the act.

  I embrace him, teary-eyed. ‘Ben! This is incredible!’

  I feel emotional, brimming over with gratitude and love.

  A minute later, a napkin on my lap and a flute of bubbly between my fingers appear as if by magic.

  There’s a TV celebrity to my right and I recognize an England rugby player at the far end of the room. Someone, please pinch me so I know it isn’t all just a dream!

  I run my index finger along the solid silver cutlery and the white dainty crockery. I marvel at the exotic scarlet flower (phychotria elata I find out from the waiter) floating amid polished beach gemstones in a bijou glass bowl on our table. I try to engrave all details to memory so I can tell all to my toots later on.

  ‘We deserve it, babes. This is to us.’ Ben raises his glass.

  A silken bronze leather bonded menu lands in my hands. Two pages inside.

  ‘They only serve the tasting menu on Friday nights. Should we go with the flight of matching wines? Or stick with champagne?’

  It all sounds so wonderfully sophisticated, consommé, vinaigrette, bisque… What do fenugreek, yuzu or nasturtium taste like? I giggle, giddy with happiness.

  ‘I’m blown away by all this. I love you, Ben.’ I reach for his hand across the table. I feel so happy and complete, I wish I could stop time. This moment is perfect.

  The waiter soon serves a trio of flavour-packed amuse-bouche. Ben downs the pea and mint velouté as he would a vodka shot, making me laugh.

  We’re then presented with a complex foraged oak moss with wild mushrooms, encased in wispy juniper smoke and served under a glass dome which he lifts up at the table. Very impressive.

  ‘I need to do more fundraising for the Kilimanjaro Climb for Breast Cancer with Zoe. I’ve exhausted colleagues and friends,’ I say to Ben. ‘Do you think we could ask your family and your footy mates?’

  ‘Talking about footy... Have I told you Leicester sacked their manager this morning? Massive news. It was a bloody newspaper sting, it was. They made up he was grooming Marcel de Vuzman. Trying to buy him without going through the proper channels.’

  ‘You guys have an interim manager?’ My interest is almost genuine.

  ‘Yeah, the defence coach. He’s been with us for yonks. He’s good. I don’t think anybody’s given him enough credit for what’s he’s achieved for us. A defence so dominating it literally demoralizes offenses. What they’re saying is the last game against Crystal Palace was the last straw. We started really strong, but it all went tits up in the second half. Honestly, we were robbed…’’

  I can’t concentrate. There’s too much to admire. The majesty of the surroundings, the dexterity and discretion of the waiting staff. And too much to peek at. The other customers’ food and fancy outfits. I catch a woman a few tables away whispering to her partner, discreetly glancing at Ben. A few minutes later, I can feel someone staring at me; I turn around and see a waiter look away. He’s probably just lingering to refill my glass. Am I being too loud? Oops. The champagne keeps flowing. I feel a little lightheaded. It must the bubbles – they go right to my head.

  A single pan-fried scallop topped with caviar and cauliflower puree follows.

  I usually hate shellfish, but the plate looks so appetizing I must sample it. I end up eating the whole lot. Each morsel tastes divine.

  ‘The board is considering a couple options for the new coach. Some guy from America. Some Dutch guy. They both have experience, but I have no idea if any of them is going to work out. We need stability.’ Ben rambles on, oblivious to my distraction.

  ‘Indeed, massive news about Leicester.’ I nod, sympathetic. ‘Sorry to bang on
about my Kilimanjaro climb. But could you please ask your family and mates if they could donate? I can send you the link again and you can share it on Facebook or email it to people. Would that be OK? I still need to raise a thousand pounds. Zoe’s all done. We can’t start planning flights and stuff until I’ve reached the target.’

  ‘Talking about flights. Matt can get tickets for the quarter finals of the World Cup next month. Can you believe it? Another reason to celebrate! Matt, TJ, Charlie and me. The four of us lads. Matt wanted to book Prague for his stag do but we’ll do that instead. We’re booking the trip this weekend. I wanted to check it’s all right with you because you wanted to go away again this year but we’ve just had a holiday in Portugal, so I don’t think we need another one so soon, do we?’

  ‘How long would you be away?’

  ‘It’s got to be two weeks. We’d have to stay for the final in case we get through the quarters. This year we have a chance to make it to the end. We haven’t had a better chance since 1966!’

  Two weeks mean Ben won’t have any leave left till next April. I don’t mind. We’ll have a three-week-long honeymoon next year. I’ll let him have fun with the boys this summer. Although we could do with saving up for the wedding. Two weeks’ footy break abroad won’t be cheap. Ben doesn’t make much at all since they’ve cut his hours down. He can’t be bothered to look for a new job but with my salary we’re fine. The raise for the promotion will help of course. I don’t want to go crazy, but I still want a really nice wedding day. Which means I can’t afford to put any of my own wedding savings in for the Kilimanjaro climb, and I need to raise the outstanding balance as soon as possible.

  ‘OK. As long as you help me with the fundraising for my climb. Deal?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He shrugs, non-committal. ‘The other big news is there’s this Spanish player we have our eye on. He’s a striker for Celta Vigo.’

  He is way too relaxed about helping with the fundraising for my climb. I already reminded him last week and he didn’t do anything about it. That’s typical Ben. I might prompt him ten times before he does anything about it, if at all. Funny how he can forget birthdays and anniversaries, but he knows every footy stat by heart. Ok, I’ll give him another week and nag him again afterwards. I don’t want to bicker on our special evening.

  Am I paranoid? I have the feeling people at other tables are surveying me with curiosity. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom to check I don’t have food stuck in my hair or similar.

  The toilets are a phenomenon on their own. Shiny Italian marble all around and jazzy taps I can’t figure out how to turn on for a good five minutes. The cotton hand towels are so soft I want to sink my face in them and breathe the honey rose scent.

  As I rub in Jo Malone hand lotion on my palms, I scrutinize my appearance. My hair has somehow lost volume and looks a bit flat. I’m a tad washed out. Must be those late nights in the office working on the new expansion project in Japan. The marketing division at Mezmeerize is crazy busy and we’re growing faster than we can hire new people. I swirl some more blusher on my cheekbones. The dress still looks fabulous, though, pinching me at the waist and faking curves just where it should. Another layer of lipstick and I’m done.

  An appetizing plate of perfectly pink herb-crusted lamb loin with caramelized shallots, potato fondant and niçoise vegetables is waiting for me at the table on my return.

  Ben wolfs his down in five seconds flat – the philistine – and sets about checking the latest football news on his phone.

  I fiddle with the sweetbreads. What are they made of? I suspect they could be akin to black pudding, which I never eat.

  Conversation has inexplicably come to a halt. Well, we’ve both been busy at work and have a lot on our minds. I want to bring up the Kilimanjaro climb again but am wary of either vexing Ben or being met with indifference yet again.

  When did that start? When did I stop feeling I could talk to him about anything? When did he stop hearing me?

  My dress now feels tight and irritatingly uncomfortable, its corset seams digging into my ribs. I squirm in my chair.

  Something is off. I can sense it. People around me. Peering at me. Am I genuinely the scrutiny of other patrons in the restaurant? Are they all going to stand and start a flash mob, with Ben leading?

  My Louboutins are pinching my heels. I wish the Victorian Room was the sort of place I could kick them off and let my feet breathe for a while. I try to wiggle my toes to find some relief, but the stilettos are too narrow.

  Emily has WhatsApped me a sneaky photo of one of her blind dates.

  ‘Do you think he’s really 25?’

  I reply, not missing a beat, shaking my head in dismay.

  ‘He looks 40, Em x’

  We’re soon both engrossed in our phones.

  The following course is venison fillet with a liquorice sauce, grilled polenta and cabbage slaw.

  I cannot bring myself to finish the meat. It’s supposed to be best medium-rare. However, I’m put off by the maroon shade of the flesh. The polenta feels gritty against my teeth and the cabbage is undercooked. I study the exotic flower from the table arrangement. Its green corolla has crimson flecks which remind me of blood drops. Its stamen is black and the petals have a strange jagged outline. It may be carnivorous.

  I can’t fathom exactly why but find myself asking Ben, ‘Do you love me?’

  Ben, completely absorbed by his phone and the latest Leicester developments, ignores me.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Did you say something?’

  In a moment of stunning clarity, I see our future together. Ben, growing old, planning staycations or football holidays at best. Me, always coming third after footy and his mates. Him, putting off buying a flat, getting married and having children ad vitam. His procrastination will kill me.

  ‘You don’t have a ring, do you?’ I ask, defeated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ring. Definition: shiny metal thingie, usually with a diamond on top.’

  ‘A ring? Oh.’

  His face falls. I have his attention now. A painful silence swiftly builds between us. He clears his throat.

  ‘With what we’ve been through in the last year, I thought it would be nice to celebrate your promotion. I just wanted to do something nice for you, for us. They had a cancellation and...’ He trails off.

  The air is thick with resentment.

  ‘I can’t believe it. Portugal. Now this!’

  ‘I never said I was going to propose in Portugal. I never said I was going to tonight. You ruin everything. Can’t you just enjoy the good things in our life? Am I even a good thing in your life? You always make me feel like I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough.’ Ben whacks the table with his palm in anger.

  ‘No. You make me feel like I’m not good enough. Not good enough for you to commit to me. Not good enough for you to want to spend the rest of your life with me.’

  Ben crosses his arms and shakes his head. He sighs. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Yes, it is. You think there’s something else better around the corner. Why else would you not propose? We’re supposed to love each other, so what’s your excuse for not asking me? I’ve been ready from the moment we moved in together. You’ve been stalling ever since. You’re a selfish coward and you make me sick. Ten years we’ve been together. How much longer do you need to figure out whether I’m the one? How much longer, Ben?’ I wipe an angry tear from my face.

  Ben has fallen into an obstinate silence. He fiddles with his shirt sleeve button and refuses to meet my eye.

  ‘Tell me, Ben. Are you or are you not affirming your love to me tonight? You’re not asking me to marry you, are you? Not now. But not ever either, right?’

  He doesn’t indulge me with a response. He taps his phone on the table, irritated by the turn of events.

  ‘You’re never going to ask me, are you?’ I insist, fighting back the tears rolling freely down my cheeks.

  ‘Pro
bably not, no,’ he replies with hostility, after a deadly silence.

  The words punch me in the chest. The air rushes out of my lungs. My vision greys for a few seconds. I have never felt so betrayed.

  I have to leave. I cannot stay in his mocking presence.

  Numb with pain, I pinch my trembling lips, choking back sobs. Holding on to the table for balance, I whisper, ‘I’ve already wasted ten years of my life with you. I’m not sticking around for another ten.’

  How did it go from such a perfect night to this nightmare?

  I abruptly become aware of my surroundings. In the heat of the argument, I have pulled the tablecloth. The flower arrangement has fallen off the table, greens and pebbles scattered in a wet patch on the floor. The flower is lying there, its ugly head still sneering at me. I clock a waiter a few feet away, eager to clean up the mess.

  The other guests are quiet, looking the other way. They must be secretly relishing the drama. I bet they’re loving every minute of it. I can hear their voices in their heads, getting louder and louder till I feel like I’m drowning in them.

  ‘She’s asking for a proposal?’

  ‘She’s so deluded.’

  ‘What makes her think she’s so special?’

  ‘This is hilarious, wait till I tell my friends about this tomorrow.’

  ‘How embarrassing. She must be mortified.’

  I’m still standing, rooted to the spot. An incandescent anger washes over me. It is so strong it empowers every cell of my body. Ten years, waiting for him, wasted on him. I am furious at everything and everybody, but mostly at myself, for feeling like a fool and being made a fool of. With a wrathful swipe of my arm, I send the elderflower and passion fruit parfait flying. They all want a show? I’ll give them show. Raging, I throw the glass next. It shatters satisfyingly against the floorboards.

  A clamour of voices buzzes in my ears, deafening, making me dizzy.

  ‘Sit down, girl, don’t make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘If I were her, I’d leave now.’

  ‘Desperate, isn’t she?’

  I feel nauseated. The bitterness of my dinner invades my mouth. The moss aftertaste reminds me of dark fungus on a mouldy cheese. The memory of the scallop feels slimy in my throat. I swear I can smell blood from the pink lamb I had earlier. My head is throbbing. My mouth burns with a metallic acidity which ravages my palate.