The Proposal

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Georgia!’ cried Amy as the vase tumbled in a slow-motion arc, clattering to the floor and spilling the flowers. She scrambled across and hooked her arms under the old woman’s shoulders, half lifting, half pulling her into an armchair.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine,’ said Georgia.

  ‘No you are not fine,’ said Amy, hands on hips. ‘I am going to call a doctor.’

  ‘Please, Amy, no.’

  ‘Georgia, I think something is wrong. I really think we should get someone to look at you.’

  ‘No,’ she said fiercely.

  Amy was already at the phone.

  ‘Tell me the name of your doctors. I’m phoning them.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘No point?’ said Amy, her concern making her snap. ‘This is your health we’re talking about.’

  ‘There’s no point because I know what’s wrong with me. My doctors know what’s wrong with me.’

  Amy felt the temperature in the room drop.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.

  Georgia waved a pale hand, as if it was nothing of concern.

  ‘I was having headaches, the odd fall, so I had all the tests. In the end, they found something. It’s being managed.’

  ‘What’s being managed?’ Amy hardly dared to breathe.

  Georgia fell silent, as if she didn’t want to say the words.

  ‘You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?’ asked Amy, rooted to the floor.

  ‘Well, they can’t operate, too far gone apparently.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Amy, her voice shaking in panic.

  ‘I means I’m going to die,’ said Georgia, quite simply. ‘It happens to us all, doesn’t it? For me it will just be sooner rather than later. That’s why I had to go to New York.’

  ‘Your bucket list,’ said Amy in a voice so soft she could barely hear it herself.

  ‘It was the only thing left in my life I had to do.’

  At least it wasn’t raining. Amy squinted up at the grey sky, searching the building across the road. There. The socks were still hanging on the balcony. Counting the windows across and the floors down, she worked out the number of Will’s flat and walked to the entrance. Ah, she thought. The names were on the buzzers anyway.

  She pressed the button next to ‘Hamilton, W.’ and was rewarded by a familiar baritone.

  ‘It’s Amy,’ she said. ‘From the coffee shop.’

  ‘If this is about the socks, I was just about to bring them in.’

  ‘Just let me in, okay?’ she said crisply.

  Compared to the grand chandelier and staircase of Georgia’s entrance hall, the communal area for Will’s building was small and gloomy. She took the two flights of stairs to where Will was waiting on the landing and handed him a fistful of envelopes she’d grabbed down in the hallway.

  ‘Your post,’ she said, making for the open door of his apartment.

  ‘Come in,’ said Will sarcastically under his breath.

  Inside, a narrow corridor led to a small, crowded living room. It was untidy, of course – this was a man who left his washing out for a whole season – but the few pieces of furniture in the room – a sofa, coffee table covered with heavyweight magazines, and a heaving bookcase – were smart and tasteful. There were framed film posters on the walls: bold technicolour prints of Billy Wilder classics – Some Like It Hot, The Apartment and Sunset Boulevard. It was not a room that was ever going to appear in an interiors magazine, but it was a space that hummed with the personality of its owner.

  ‘I like those movies too,’ said Amy, suddenly feeling nervous. After all, she had barged into his inner sanctum without an invitation – very unladylike behaviour, she recognised, by any standard – and now she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to deal with all the issues her morning at Georgia’s place had thrown up.

  ‘I was just over at Georgia’s, Will,’ she said, realising that now she was here, she could hardly back out again. ‘She’s not well. She had a fall when I was there, and it meant I found out a whole heap of stuff I’m not even sure you know about.’

  ‘What?’ he said, looking alarmed. ‘What kind of fall? Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s dying, Will,’ she said, feeling her hands begin to shake.

  Will looked at her incredulously as Amy told him what had happened at the apartment. When she had finished, he sank into a chair and ran his fingers through his dark hair.

  ‘Shit,’ he repeated again and again, then looked up at Amy. ‘How long has she got?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are we talking months? Years?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Will, I don’t know.’ She felt overwhelmed with emotion. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s not good. And it’s all the more reason to do something about your family. She might not be around for too much longer.’

  Will exhaled deeply.

  ‘Amy, listen. There’s something you should know . . .’

  ‘I know all about it!’ snapped Amy. ‘The rape allegation, Edward and Christopher – Georgia told me everything.’

  Will sucked in air through his nose and puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Is it too early to have a beer?’ he said, getting up.

  ‘Definitely not, if you’ve got any.’

  She perched on the edge of the sofa as Will went into the small galley kitchen and she heard the distinctive ‘hiss-clunk, hiss-clunk’ of two bottletops dropping into a sink. He walked back and handed Amy a cold bottle and sat down opposite her.

  ‘I think “assault” was the term they used when I first began asking questions about why the family had nothing to do with Georgia,’ he said. ‘I kind of filled the gaps in myself. As you can imagine, we don’t exactly discuss it over the Christmas dinner table.’

  ‘Do you believe the story?’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘The rape. Do you think Clarissa told the truth about what happened that night?’

  Will took a long swig of Stella.

  ‘You think she wanted to have sex with Edward?’ he said.

  ‘Georgia is adamant that Edward didn’t have sex with Clarissa at all that night. Neither rape nor consensual sex.’

  He gave her a sideways look.

  ‘How is she so sure?’

  ‘Did you know that he proposed to Georgia that night?’

  Will looked surprised and shook his head.

  ‘As I said this morning, no one’s ever given me a blow-by-blow account. I’ve had to piece things together.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking it over,’ said Amy. ‘And I just don’t believe it makes sense that Edward would rape Clarissa that night, not after he’d been planning a new life with Georgia.’

  ‘With respect,’ said Will, ‘having spent a few days with Georgia doesn’t make you an expert on our family.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Amy, irritated. ‘And I was as sceptical as you when Georgia was telling me all this. But you should listen to her side of things. She’s very compelling. She just doesn’t believe that Edward raped Clarissa, never has, not even after all this time.’

  Will shrugged.

  ‘You believe what you want to believe, don’t you?’

  ‘But have you ever asked your Aunt Clarissa?’

  ‘No, of course not! Have you ever asked your family about their sex lives?’

  Amy pouted. It was a good point.

  ‘But Will, you’re a writer, you understand how stories work. You know how versions of events can get twisted over time.’

  He took another long drink, seeming to mull it over.

  ‘Let’s just say Georgia has it right and Clarissa wasn’t raped. Why would Clarissa lie about it? Imagine the shame that must have been attached to rape back then. Why bring all that down on yourself?’

  Amy shrugged.

  ‘And to destroy Edward’s life like that? Clarissa would have to be cold as ice. Even if he hadn’t died in the Far East, it was a sic
k allegation to make.’

  Amy had thought all the same things herself and she didn’t know the answers.

  ‘People in love, rejected people, jealous people, angry people, they’ve done a lot worse. You only have to read the papers,’ she said finally.

  Will drained his beer and looked at her.

  ‘But these people are my family, Amy. They’re respectable people.’

  She appreciated how difficult this must be for him to take on board.

  ‘Maybe they are in many ways,’ she said as gently as she could. ‘But Clarissa was young, buzzing with hormones, feeling snubbed – young people can do some crazy, impulsive things. They think about the rewards, not the consequences. And with Edward discredited, Clarissa married Christopher and got everything she ever wanted. The stately home, the title, the admiration of her family. That’s the sort of prize that could make you do some pretty mad stuff.’

  Will stood up, pacing up and down. Amy could see he was struggling with it.

  ‘We need to do something,’ she said.

  ‘Do what?’ he asked, shrugging in exasperation. ‘Even it’s true – and how will we ever know for sure? – Clarissa and Christopher, if he knows what really went on, aren’t exactly motivated to tell us the truth, are they?’

  ‘So you think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie?’ said Amy sarcastically.

  ‘Tell me the options, Amy. Confront Aunt Clarissa and call her a liar?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s exactly what we should do,’ she said, feeling her cheeks turn pink with fury. ‘Then maybe Georgia will get to hear the truth. Maybe she’ll get some closure finally. Don’t you want justice? For Georgia? For Edward? For everything that was taken away from them?’

  Will stared out of the window, as if he was thinking. When he turned and looked back at her, she could see the conflict on his face and she could sympathise. Here she was, a virtual stranger, turning up in his tidy little life, begging him to chuck an emotional grenade into his family. It was crazy, wasn’t it? If their positions had been reversed, Amy was pretty sure she would have thrown him out on to the street long before now.

  ‘There’s a party,’ he said finally. ‘It’s at their house.’

  ‘You’ll help me to do something?’ said Amy, running up to him and throwing her arms around him. He smelt nice. Like Christmas trees and soap.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said gruffly, stepping away from her.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  He walked over to the mantelpiece and handed her a stiff white card.

  You are invited to a New Year’s Eve celebration

  Stapleford

  31 December

  8 p.m.

  Black tie

  ‘This is pretty much the only time we are guaranteed to get Clarissa and Christopher on the spot before Easter. They have a house in Antigua they usually disappear to in January, and stay there for three or four months. And if Georgia’s . . . well, maybe we can’t wait that long to do something.’

  ‘And what are we doing?’ asked Amy, looking up at him.

  ‘Probably wasting our time,’ said Will cynically. ‘Clarissa’s almost certainly not going to admit anything.’

  ‘We can only try,’ said Amy, putting a grateful hand on Will’s shoulder. ‘We definitely owe Georgia that much.’

  ‘See you on New Year’s Eve then,’ he said finally. ‘Dress up.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ she said as she pulled up her coat collar and went back into the cold.

  Amy huddled in the doorway of Daniel’s house, her shoulders hunched against the rain, which came down in hissing silver ribbons, backlit by the street lights. She had run all the way from High Street Kensington tube, but her speed hadn’t seemed to make any difference: her jeans were sticking to her legs, her thin trench coat – never the best choice for a torrential downpour – was sodden and heavy with dripping water. She felt like she’d been dunked in a swimming pool.

  ‘Surprise!’ she said in a monotone, as Daniel opened the door.

  ‘Amy! Good God, what have you been doing? You look like a drowned rat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Just what I needed to hear.’

  ‘Sorry, come on, get inside before someone calls the coastguard.’

  She caught a glimpse of herself as she walked past the mirror in Daniel’s hallway. Oh no, she thought. Her hair was plastered against her forehead in a kind of weird Hitler fringe and her mascara had run, making her look like a refugee from an eighties goth band. Great.

  Daniel ran upstairs, taking two steps at a time, and came down with a towel, which he started rubbing over her head.

  ‘I didn’t even know you were coming.’

  She had been playing phone tag with Daniel all day, but he wasn’t picking up, and she’d figured it was best just to come straight over. The bijou mews house just off the High Street had been a present from Daniel’s parents for his thirtieth birthday, and the bathroom still had that just-finished sheen. In fact, so did the whole house – Daniel was something of a neat freak – and Amy couldn’t help but notice how it was the polar opposite of Will’s flat: sleek and shiny, with designer furniture and stark black and white prints on the walls. Even the glossy magazines next to the toilet were arranged in a dentist’s-waiting-room-style fan.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I couldn’t get in touch and I needed to see you.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  She puffed out her cheeks and felt the emotion of the day start to get the better of her.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ he said, stepping forward to kiss her. ‘Come on, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘How about I order Chinese and you can tell me?’

  She nodded weakly and looked around the room as he went to the phone. There was a computer games console sitting on the coffee table, next to a copy of the Telegraph. She felt her nerves calm a little as she surveyed the picture of bachelor bliss. Arriving on his doorstep unannounced had unsettled her. She wasn’t even sure why – did she expect him to be entertaining a beautiful blonde on the quiet? – but still, she had been reassured to see nothing out of the ordinary.

  She peeled off her wet jeans and put them on the radiator just as Daniel walked back into the living room with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  ‘What’s this? Naked takeaway?’

  ‘I will if you will,’ she flirted back.

  He smacked her bottom playfully and handed her a wine glass, which he topped up with red. Then they both sat back on the sofa and she spun around so that she could rest her feet on his lap. He stroked her bare legs and she felt the stress drain out of her.

  ‘I’ve told Gid we’ll be there about eight on Monday night.’

  ‘Monday night?’

  ‘New Year’s Eve. The party.’

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered. ‘About that . . .’

  He sipped his wine and frowned.

  ‘What’s up? Got something better to do?’ he said playfully.

  ‘I don’t know about better. I have to be somewhere else.’

  He looked confused.

  ‘But Gid’s parties are apparently epic.’

  ‘There’s a party in Oxfordshire. Georgia’s cousin, actually.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Clarissa Carlyle, some place called Stapleford.’

  Daniel’s jaw dropped open, his annoyance suddenly replaced with interest.

  ‘We’ve been invited to Stapleford? Bloody hell, Amy. How did you wangle that?’

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Heard of it? It’s one of the best houses in the entire country. Great shooting. My parents have been desperate to go for years. An invitation always seems just out of reach, however.’

  ‘Well, it’s not something I’m looking forward to,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Why not? It’ll be a blast. Hey, we could even pop into my parents’ on the way home. That will keep them quiet, telling them we’ve been to Stapleford.’

 
‘It’s not a plus one, Dan.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s not a plus one?’

  ‘You can’t come.’

  ‘I can’t come?’ he frowned.

  ‘Someone’s invited me.’

  ‘Who?’ he asked, looking completely miffed.

  ‘Georgia’s cousin’s son.’

  Daniel was shaking his head angrily.

  ‘What’s going on, Amy? Is this some sort of revenge for what happened at the Tower?’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘Or are you having an affair?’

  ‘Of course I’m not having an affair. He’s gay, Daniel. I’m going to meet the family because some things need to be said about Georgia.’

  Daniel fell silent, but at least he looked partly mollified. Amy had no idea about Will’s sexual orientation. From his banter with the pretty Primrose Hill barista, he was almost certainly straight, but it would keep Daniel quiet.

  ‘We’ll make a little networker out of you yet, Miss Carrell,’ he said finally, smiling.

  Amy wanted to tell him she wasn’t doing it for that reason, that she didn’t care about social climbing, that she was only doing it for her friend. She wanted to ask his opinion about what to say to Clarissa and Christopher Carlyle, but just then she heard the gentle ‘put-put-put’ of the delivery bike arriving.

  ‘Chinese is here,’ Daniel said, standing up.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and put some PJs on while you sort it out, okay?’

  He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

  ‘PJs? Killjoy,’ he purred. ‘I wasn’t joking about naked Chinese.’

  If the delivery man hadn’t been ringing the bell so insistently, Amy felt quite sure they would have slid down on to the floor right then and there. Instead, she turned Daniel around and swatted at his behind to send him on his way, then ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

  ‘PJs, PJs,’ she mumbled, opening cupboards. Working at the Forge three or four nights a week meant that she had never spent more than a night at a time at Daniel’s, so she had only ever got around to leaving a toothbrush. Generally she didn’t wear anything to bed, but after the rain, her legs were cold. Where would he have put his pyjamas? All of his clothes were impeccably cleaned, pressed and stacked in neat little piles, his shirts on hangers and lined up in descending order of blueness. It was all so pristine, Amy didn’t want to disturb anything.