The Proposal

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Ah, here we go.’ She found some cotton pyjama bottoms and pulled them on. No matching top, though – not a bad thing, she didn’t want to look entirely sexless. Maybe she’d left a vest top here. Amy was nowhere near as organised as Daniel; she was pretty sure there were a few odd things of hers around somewhere. As she searched, a flicker of something caught her eye in the darkness of the wardrobe. She reached out and pulled it down. A sequinned cardigan.

  What the hell?

  Her heart began to pound as she examined it. It was heavy, expensive; Giorgio Armani Black Label. Definitely not hers. Definitely.

  ‘Amy? Are you coming?’

  She looked up as Daniel called from the bottom of the stairs, then back to the cardigan. Her throat was dry; she wanted to swallow but couldn’t. Perhaps there was a logical explanation for a strange cardigan being in her boyfriend’s wardrobe. Perhaps. But her mind was leaping to one conclusion: it was another woman’s. A chic, rich woman, a woman who had been here – in his bedroom.

  ‘Amy?’

  Ignoring Daniel’s calls, she strode over to the chest of drawers and yanked the top one open, pulling the neatly paired socks out in handfuls, dropping them on to the floor.

  Where is it? Where is it? Three weeks ago, there had been a Tiffany box hidden there. A ring, a necklace, some exciting gift certainly. But . . . Her hands ran along the back of the drawer. Nothing. Nothing there except socks. So where was it? Where was the box?

  She looked up suddenly. Daniel was standing in the doorway, holding a bag of prawn crackers.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  Amy couldn’t speak. Instead she held up the sequinned cardigan, now screwed up into a tight ball.

  ‘What’s that? A cardigan?’ he said innocently.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amy, glaring at him. ‘It’s a cardigan. Not my cardigan.’

  And there it was: the flicker of recognition, quickly followed by a look of dismay. If Amy had blinked, she would have missed it. But she didn’t.

  ‘Oh. It must be my mum’s,’ said Daniel, recovering himself. ‘She was here over Christmas. I must have put it away thinking it was yours.’

  It was plausible, if unlikely; a decent actor might have been able to pull it off. But Daniel was not a good actor and he was a terrible liar. Why would he ever have had to develop the skill? He’d always had everything handed to him on a plate.

  ‘Your mother?’ said Amy, her voice dripping with contempt.

  ‘She was shopping on the High Street, dropped in for lunch.’

  ‘Really?’ she said quietly. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

  ‘Amy, what’s got into you?’ he said, taking a step towards her. ‘You’re behaving like a crazy lady.’

  ‘Where’s the Tiffany box?’ she said.

  ‘What Tiffany box?’

  ‘The Tiffany box hidden in your sock drawer before Christmas,’ she said slowly, deliberately, watching his face. Another flicker. Her heart sank – so it was true. Right then, she knew it was all true.

  ‘What were you doing going through my sock drawer?’ said Daniel.

  Yeah, good move, thought Amy. Go on the attack.

  ‘Answer the question,’ she said, feeling suddenly weary. ‘Where is the box?’

  ‘It was a present. A key ring.’

  ‘For your mother, I suppose.’

  ‘No, not for my mother,’ he said with a touch of sarcasm. ‘For my secretary.’

  ‘And you hid it in your sock drawer.’

  ‘Look, are you going to tell me what’s going on here? What are you trying to imply, because I don’t appreciate—’

  ‘Who is she?’ said Amy, holding up the cardigan.

  ‘I’ve already told you, that belongs to my mother.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Daniel.’

  He threw his hands in the air.

  ‘Amy, you are being absolutely ridiculous. If we are going to get things back on track, you are really going to have to start trusting me.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  She untangled the cardigan and slipped one arm into a sleeve, then the other. It fitted perfectly. Amy was a size eight, a long, lean dancer’s physique. Daniel’s mother was in her sixties, a size fourteen at least.

  ‘It fits,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Well, maybe Mother bought something too small at the shops—’

  ‘WHO IS SHE?’ screamed Amy, making Daniel jerk back at the sudden ferocity.

  ‘Amy, stop it.’

  ‘You’re going to make a terrible diplomat, Daniel,’ she sneered. ‘Your mother? Was that an example of you thinking on your feet? Christ. At the very least you should have pretended it was my Christmas present. Seeing as the Tiffany key ring has gone missing.’

  He blinked at her, then looked away. The smooth-talking rich boy finally lost for words.

  Amy pulled off the cardigan and dropped it at his feet.

  ‘Who is she, Daniel? You owe me that at least.’

  He let out a long breath.

  ‘You don’t know her,’ he said, still not meeting her gaze. ‘She works in finance. We met at a function.’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’ She knew she should just walk out, try to scrape up whatever tiny crumbs of dignity were left, but she had to know, needed to know every last detail.

  ‘It wasn’t like that . . .’

  ‘How long?’

  He lifted his chin, a little of the old arrogance back.

  ‘We were on a break, Amy.’

  ‘A week,’ she hissed. ‘And in that time, she’s been here. Been to your house, left her belongings . . .’

  Her voice faltered as she realised what all that meant. If Daniel had broken down and confessed, said it was just a one-night stand, that he’d been drunk, that it meant nothing, she knew she might actually have forgiven him. But it wasn’t like that, she could see that now. This girl was serious.

  ‘Two months,’ he said. ‘I’ve been seeing her a couple of months.’

  Amy nodded. She had expected the tears to come, but instead she just felt a crushing inevitability, a hollowness.

  ‘Let me guess, it’s someone “appropriate”, right?’

  ‘Amy, don’t . . .’

  ‘No, seriously, Daniel,’ she said. ‘I bet she’s not a waitress at the Forge Bar and Grill. I bet she’s not a showgirl in some tacky West End production no one has ever heard of.’

  ‘Amy, stop it. Listen to yourself.’

  ‘Who. Is. She?’ said Amy.

  Daniel could see he was cornered.

  ‘She’s a friend from university – well, a couple of years younger. She’s an analyst at Goldman’s now. We just bumped into each other, I really didn’t mean for anything to happen.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve got lots in common,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Seriously, Amy, nothing happened until we split up.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Oh what does it matter anyway?’ said Daniel, suddenly angry. ‘You’re right, we do have things in common, she does fit into my world. What’s so bloody wrong with that?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ snapped Amy. ‘Me, that’s what’s wrong. Your girlfriend, remember? The one you screwed last night, the one you wanted to show off at new year.’

  ‘Amy, you are beautiful, and fun and . . .’ He trailed off. ‘But this is different. Harriet can get a transfer to the Washington office, our lives are compatible.’

  ‘Yes, Harriet does sound suitable.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘But I am like this, Daniel,’ she said. ‘This is who I am. And it seems that’s not good enough.’

  She pushed roughly past him and down the stairs, grabbing her still-wet jeans and coat and pulling them back on.

  ‘I’ll leave my toothbrush in the bathroom,’ she said as Daniel followed her down. ‘Perhaps Harriet might like to use that too.’

  He stopped her just
as she was opening the front door. The rain was still pounding down, sending up little flowers of spray from the surface of the road. He put his arm across the door frame, blocking her exit.

  ‘Amy, don’t go off like this, please. I do care about you . . .’

  She turned to face him.

  ‘The last few days have been an education for me, Daniel. I know which knives and forks to use, I know which wine glasses to drink from. I even know how to eat a goddam artichoke properly. But none of that matters any more. Because the one thing I know, the one thing I’ve always known, is that I am too good for you. I really am.’

  And she pushed his arm away and walked out into the rain.

  Amy stared out of the window of the moving car, her eyes focused on the darkness. Now and then she would see a farmhouse, its lights glowing, or an isolated home, the Christmas tree still illuminated in a window, but otherwise Will’s silver Jeep seemed to be floating alone in the blackness, headlights on full beam as they twisted and turned along the narrow country lanes.

  ‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ said Amy. ‘I think we left the main road about twenty minutes ago. I keep expecting to see werewolves.’

  Will smiled, his teeth white in the gloom.

  ‘Country houses,’ he said. ‘The clue’s in the name – they tend to be in the middle of nowhere. But don’t worry, I’ve been coming to Stapleford since I was a kid. I think I could find it blindfolded.’

  ‘I’d prefer you kept your eyes on the road.’

  They fell back into silence. Amy had to admit she wasn’t exactly sparkling company tonight – but then who would be when you’d been dumped twice in the space of a couple of weeks? She was still struggling to come to terms with it; that moment when she had found the cardigan was etched into her mind. How could she have been so stupid? How?

  ‘So what were you supposed to be doing tonight?’ asked Will.

  ‘Going to a party hosted by someone called Gideon.’

  She could see Will suppressing a smile.

  ‘What’s wrong with the name Gideon?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Will. ‘Nothing at all. It’s just . . . I can picture him, just from the name.’

  Amy snorted.

  ‘The stereotype actually fits in this case. But then most of Daniel’s friends were like that: public school, protected, very pleased with themselves.’

  ‘Daniel? Is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘Ex-boyfriend.’

  Will glanced across.

  ‘Ex? But the other day. Your big night out. Georgia’s dress. The result dress.’

  ‘Well, things change,’ she said briskly. ‘Turns out he was sleeping with a tall, thin banker called Harriet. He gave her something from Tiffany for Christmas.’

  Will’s eyes widened.

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘No, I found the “something from Tiffany” in his sock drawer before Christmas. I thought it was my engagement ring,’ she said. ‘Can you believe that?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. So, would you have been going to this party if it wasn’t for me forcing you into going?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Probably not. No date, you see. Turn up without a girlfriend and the family start asking all sorts of awkward questions.’

  ‘You don’t have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Hard to imagine, I know,’ he said with the hint of a smile.

  He paused, turning back to the road.

  ‘Actually, I did. Until last summer. Then I found out she was sleeping with a tall, thin lawyer called Jonathan. No Tiffany box, but they had been on a mini-break together under my nose.’

  Amy looked at him.

  ‘That sucks.’

  ‘I haven’t really had time to dwell on it. Work has been busy.’

  ‘The plays? Well, it’s good you’re getting work.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Not you too. Seems the standard reaction to telling anyone you’re a playwright is “Oh, you can make a living out of that?”’

  ‘Sorry, I should know better,’ said Amy. ‘When I tell people I’m a dancer, they automatically assume I’m unemployed.’

  ‘So what might I have seen you in?’ He looked over, his dark eyes flashing.

  ‘An apron at the Forge Bar and Grill,’ she said grimly.

  ‘You just need a lucky break,’ he said with confidence.

  ‘What about you? What was your last play?’

  ‘It was called About Face. It had a short run. You probably won’t have seen it,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders modestly.

  Amy was about to ask more when suddenly her attention was elsewhere.

  ‘Jeez, is that it?’ she said, looking at what lay ahead of them.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Will. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Impressive’ didn’t really do Stapleford justice. Lit from the outside by spotlights, it looked to Amy like a palace from a story book. She had occasionally been to visit Daniel’s friends at their country places, but compared to Stapleford, they looked like twee cottages.

  ‘How big is it?’ she said as Will pulled up on the drive, parking his Jeep between a Bentley and a silver Maserati.

  ‘Two-hundred-odd rooms, I think,’ said Will. ‘Actually, maybe more than that now they’ve converted the stables. They don’t live in all of it, of course. The main house is open to the public these days. Taxes, you see.’

  ‘Must be tough,’ said Amy, gazing up at the tall windows, twinkling from the inside. ‘Light bulbs alone must cripple them,’ she added sarcastically.

  Will got out of the car and came round to open the passenger door for her.

  ‘We’re guests here,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s try to be nice.’

  She stepped out of the car, her Ralph Lauren heels crunching on the gravel drive.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Will, looking at her.

  She was momentarily distracted by how great he looked. He had picked her up from her apartment, waiting in the car until she had come down to the street. On the two-hour journey to Oxfordshire, she had tried not to notice how handsome he was – how his hair had been cut, his face cleanly shaved – but standing in the shadow of Stapleford, he looked tall and strong and manly, like someone straight out of an aftershave advert.

  She looked away from him, and rubbed her hands up and down her little black dress nervously.

  He touched the small of her back and led her past the uniformed valets and into the house.

  Amy took a second to compose herself. The outside of Stapleford was intimidating enough, but stepping into the crowded entrance hall – God, that was the tallest Christmas tree she’d ever seen – did nothing to ease her anxiety. What am I going to do exactly? she thought. Go up to the lady of the manor and say, ‘Hi, you don’t know me, but you’re a liar’?

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a party,’ said Will in a low voice that no one else could hear.

  ‘Just a party.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Just a party where I’m completely out of my depth,’ she said, playing with a cocktail ring she’d bought at Walthamstow market.

  ‘You know, if you accepted that you are the most beautiful woman in this place, you might relax and stop fidgeting,’ said Will, accepting two glasses of champagne and handing her one. ‘Here, try that. It might help,’ he said, leading her through the entrance hall.

  She was still blushing at his compliment as they threaded through the many well-dressed revellers and into what Amy had to assume was the ballroom. There was a raised platform at one end with a seated jazz band playing gentle swing tunes, but there was no dancing; rather the floor was filled with people standing in groups laughing and talking.

  ‘Hey, there’s my dad,’ said Will. ‘Let’s go and say hello.’

  Amy stopped him and pulled him to one side where they wouldn’t be overheard.

  ‘You know, I think I should do this. Talk to Clarissa.’

  Will opened his mouth to object, but she stopped him
.

  ‘It’s better coming from a stranger. But before we do, remind me of the set-up so I don’t balls it up. Your dad is Clarissa’s brother, right?’

  Will nodded.

  ‘And what does Clarissa do these days?’

  ‘Do?’ he smiled.

  ‘Like a job.’

  ‘She doesn’t do jobs. She is big on the charity circuit. Formidable, in fact. I think there are various wings of museums and libraries named after her.’

  ‘That’s why she’ll do anything to avoid scandal,’ Amy muttered under her breath. ‘Who’d want to endanger all this?’

  A tall man with grey hair approached them. He was in his sixties, Amy guessed, but you would still classify him as handsome. He gave Will a chummy slap on the back.

  ‘Amy Carrell,’ said Will. ‘Meet my father, Richard Hamilton.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Amy,’ said Richard, with a genuine smile. Perhaps it was his obvious resemblance to Will, but Amy instantly warmed to him.

  ‘Amazing house,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I have to keep reminding my sister of that; she’s constantly moaning about the roof. I suppose when you’re here all the time, it becomes commonplace. Anyway, you’ll get a chance to have a look around. I think they’ve put you two in the Trafalgar Suite.’

  Will glanced at Amy.

  ‘Oh, we’re not . . .’ he stuttered. ‘Amy’s a friend, not a . . .’

  His father started to laugh.

  ‘It’s the twenty-first century, Will. We’re not that old-fashioned, you know.’

  ‘Well, we were going to drive back tonight.’

  ‘To London? Tonight?’ said his father, shaking his head. ‘What on earth for? Your aunt Clarissa will be so disappointed. Come on, drink up,’ he said.

  After a while, Amy excused herself, leaving the two men talking. It was nice to see the warmth between Will and his father. She had rather imagined the Hamiltons as a wholly dysfunctional family, clawing at each other for advantage, money and power, but now she could see that she had judged them only on Clarissa’s actions. Yes, it had been wicked and it had had terrible consequences, but it had happened decades ago. Perhaps throughout the intervening years they had enjoyed a normal life, just like Amy’s family: the occasional spat and argument, but nothing they couldn’t overcome. Somehow, though, Amy didn’t think so. It was possible that someone could do what Clarissa had done and learn from it, a shock to the system that would cure you of your selfish ways. But more likely it would only confirm whatever self-image you already had. After all, Clarissa’s deceit had given her all this: the chandeliers, the polished woodwork, the gilt-framed oils and the marble fireplaces. The human mind had a way of justifying its actions to itself. Amy was fairly sure that Clarissa would have taken the success of her scheme to mean that she deserved this life. She somehow doubted whether she had lost many nights’ sleep over it.