Something from Tiffany’s

by Melissa Hill

  Terri had heard that a ring from the world-famous jewellery store was supposed to be the epitome of romance. She wouldn’t know about that. But she did know that the nadir of romance was the love of your life running off with your supposed best friend, as had happened in Terri’s last relationship.

  That had been almost eight years ago, she reflected with some dismay, but she didn’t think she would have got through the devastation that followed if it hadn’t been for Rachel, whom she’d met at catering college shortly afterwards.

  It was strange but upon digesting Rachel’s unexpected news from New York, a panorama of memories Terri and her friend had shared throughout the years suddenly seemed to fill her head from every side.

  Student days spent lounging around in Rachel’s flat with their feet up, drinking wine and talking about past or present loves; days out shopping and sharing wardrobe advice; staying up late discussing dreams for the future . . .

  Then, of course, the huge excitement of deciding to go into business together, the subsequent haggling over the mechanics of the bistro and its bakery offshoot until, finally, the opening day of Stromboli itself, which Terri was sure was the proudest moment of both of their careers, and a defining moment in their friendship.

  She smiled, recalling the commotion surrounding not only opening the restaurant, but giving it a name.

  While the two easily agreed on the type of cuisine to offer, she and Rachel simply couldn’t come up with a name that encapsulated their intentions, yet was creative but not too pretentious.

  Eventually they chose something that reflected both Rachel’s Sicilian heritage and their explosive cuisine: Stromboli. It was the name of a volcanic island off the coast of Sicily. One thing could be said for certain: there was nothing like it in all of Dublin.

  An eclectic blend of art, furniture, fragrances and Mediterranean foods, Stromboli drew people from miles around. The artisan bakery section was practically becoming a tourist destination in itself thanks to write-ups first in local newspapers and then in the Irish Times, followed by a special mention in the Dublin Food Guide. Within a few months of opening the bistro they’d had to post a ‘Reservations Recommended’ sign in the window.

  Their focus on creating an authentic palate of individual dishes and blending flavours and textures from various countries had paid off in greater ways than either Terri or Rachel had imagined. Although they originally intended to keep the off-site catering aspect to small and intimate gatherings, their services were increasingly in demand.

  The Mediterranean dishes, full of vegetables and rich in egg, meats and cheeses, were some of the most popular choices on both the bistro and the catering menus.

  The more traditional Irish preparations of tarts, roasts and starchy vegetables enticed the tourists, and Stromboli’s location a stone’s throw from the Ha’penny Bridge helped considerably with bringing in custom. Their seafood paella, with which they served fresh sourdough (from Terri’s leg-quivering recipe), had undoubtedly become the bistro’s signature dish, and the reason their regular customers kept returning time and time again.

  Also, the drinks menu, full of personal touches, reflected an impressive consideration of detail. Terri had chosen the majority of the list herself and was immensely proud of it. They carried a nice array of popular European wines alongside a line of various Spanish and Portuguese beers, as well as the most popular Irish ones. For additional colour they even had a few American microbrewery selections to choose from. Terri’s own favourite was Arrogant Bastard Ale, which, Rachel joked, Terri only ordered shortly after first being introduced to Gary. It had been a staple on the bistro menu ever since and oddly, despite the in-joke, was one of Gary’s preferred choices; he’d even bought a round of it for everyone on his birthday.

  Everything about the bistro inspired Terri: the day-to-day running of it, the administration and ordering of supplies, the budgeting and book-keeping, even the madness that was the catering arm.

  And even though Stromboli was her and Rachel’s shared enterprise, it still felt a little like she was carrying on a piece of her dad’s legacy.

  Tom Blake had run a traditional old Dublin café from the selfsame location since Terri was very young, and although he’d raised an eyebrow at the refurbishments, and Stromboli’s striking purple and orange signage above the doorway, she knew he was overjoyed that catering (albeit of a very different kind) was staying in the family.

  For as far back as Terri could recall, cooking and food had simply been an extension of her very self and the life she experienced all around her.

  It was really only in the kitchen – her hands covered in sticky dough, her senses filled with the rich sweetness of the egg-and-sugar-laden mass and her arms tired from kneading – that she felt secure and confident in her life. Baking represented a link not just to her past, but to her passion in the present and her identity in the future.

  On the wall of the kitchen in the bistro hung a plaque:

  When we no longer have good cooking in the world, we will have no literature, nor high and sharp intelligence, nor friendly gatherings, nor social harmony.

  Her dad had given her this plaque on Stromboli’s opening night and she’d since learned that it was attributed to a person called Marie-Antoine Carême. It confirmed for Terri that she was doing something of value, something that brought a sense of continuity to her own life and the lives of others.

  She couldn’t remember which book it was in particular, but there was a Toni Morrison story she had read in which the main character made bread time and again, sustaining her family and entertaining friends. The section of the story Terri loved most was the description of the woman kneading bread with her warm hands while, behind her, her lover held her closely, gently and firmly kneading her body too.

  Thus came her passion for baking bread. Bread – like real love – took time, cultivation, strong loving hands and patience. It lived, rising and growing to fruition only under the most perfect circumstances. If the water was too warm, it killed the yeast; too cool and the yeast was not inspired to grow the bread. Without enough sugar, the yeast would starve, leaving the bread flat and lifeless; if the air was not humid enough, the yeast could not spur the bread to reach its full potential.

  Many were the late nights or early mornings that Terri had spent in the kitchen concocting new bread recipes and kneading dough of various textures – herbs, spices, sausages and cheeses – until it gleamed and grew smooth under her persuasive hands.

  Unfortunately, Terri thought wryly, as her mother kept telling her, the time and effort she dedicated to baking might have been better diverted to her love life. While she’d had a few flings over the years, she hadn’t been involved in a proper relationship since Rob, and in all honesty she didn’t particularly care.

  It wasn’t for the lack of offers, and although Terri knew she was a million miles from Rachel’s drop-dead beauty, she figured she was OK-looking in her own right.

  Her hair was probably her best feature, and customers often commented on her curly red tresses, which were so thick she could barely contain them beneath her chef’s cap, and while she was probably a teeny bit overweight, there was no way she was forsaking her and Rachel’s delicious food for the sake of ‘finding a man’.

  In addition, Terri had yet to find any man worthy of the time and effort required for a relationship. Most of the men she encountered these days were serial Romeos who had no interest in settling down, or newly single guys emerging from long-term relationships or marriages with all the extra baggage this entailed.

  Rachel and their chef, Justin, were always teasing her about being too cynical and having unrealistic expectations, but what was so unrealistic about wanting to share her life with someone easy-going and straightforward? Terri had no interest in the immature game-playing that seemed to go on between people who were supposed to have grown out of their teenage years a long time ago. She simply wanted someone to share her day-to-day life with, someone to come home t
o in the evenings and to chat and laugh with, someone who understood her hopes and dreams and who would be there for her whenever she needed him. Was that really too much to ask?

  ‘I don’t have high standards, just standards full stop,’ she argued with Justin on a routine basis, but the truth was that at thirty-two years old, and after almost eight years of being single, Terri had just about given up on happy ever after.

  And while it might have been a surprise (to her at least), she was glad that Rachel had found it.

  Chapter 11

  As it turned out, and much to Gary’s annoyance, the doctors refused to discharge him from the hospital until the following afternoon.

  In the meantime, Rachel once again contacted the airline and arranged, at considerable expense, to rebook their flights back to Ireland on the twenty-ninth, which meant that once Gary got out they would be spending one last night in New York.

  Back at the hotel, she’d gone out of her way to ensure that their final night in the city would be extra special. All being equal, she was sure that Gary would have had his own elaborate proposal plans in place but, with the accident, everything had gone awry. Well, the least she could do now was try to make it easy for him.

  So when at six p.m. sharp the knock on the hotel door came, Rachel leapt up from where they sat on the couch to answer it.

  Tipping the room-service waiter, she wheeled in a cart with two prime-rib dinners, two lit candles and a freshly chilled bottle of champagne.

  ‘Wow, pulling out all the stops, aren’t you, babe?’ Gary grinned, as she put an arm around him and helped him to the table

  He was getting around pretty well on his twisted ankle but still seemed a bit crotchety, despite the Vicodin haze.

  ‘Well, we did miss Christmas,’ she said, giving him a wink and biting the inside of her cheek as she tried to hold back a giddy smile. Earlier he’d again brought up the subject of exchanging Christmas gifts, so it looked as though she didn’t have too much longer to wait.

  She managed to make it most of the way through dinner without her hands shaking too much. By contrast Gary was incredibly relaxed, and for this, Rachel was grateful. Part of her was afraid that, if he hadn’t been seeing her through the rose-coloured glasses of pain medication, he might have been suspicious that she was on to his proposal plans.

  ‘Ugh, I can barely move after that,’ she said, scraping the plate with her knife and fork. ‘I’ve been waiting for so long to have this nice dinner with you, I think I’ve overdone it. More champagne?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Gary said. ‘I’d pour it myself if I could, but I don’t think my ribs could handle the strain.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’ve got it,’ Rachel said. She glanced at the bottle, which, worryingly, was almost empty. They’d have to order another one to celebrate their engagement, if Gary ever got round to it, that was! Sometimes he could be so laid-back it was funny, but not this time. ‘So,’ she went on, trying to sound light-hearted, ‘I suppose now might be a good time to break out the presents. I’ll just get yours and we’ll open them together, OK?’

  ‘Great. I could do with some cheering up. While you’re at it, would you grab the one I got you from my stuff?’

  Rachel’s heart raced. This was it! ‘Sure, but how will I know which one is mine?’ she asked, grateful that her strengths lay in cooking and she hadn’t instead tried to pursue an acting career.

  ‘Well,’ Gary replied, raising his eyebrows playfully. ‘That would be the one in the little blue gift bag.’ He sounded uncommonly pleased with himself and she grinned.

  ‘Sounds nice,’ she said, feigning ignorance about the significance of the bag’s colour.

  A couple of minutes later, she returned to the table with the Tiffany’s bag and several gift-wrapped packages meant for him.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t we move onto the sofa for this? It’ll be more comfortable for you,’ she said. That way, there was less risk of Gary injuring himself when he got down on one knee.

  ‘OK. Give us a hand, though, would you?’ He stood up and Rachel gently guided him the few steps across the room. ‘Grand, and don’t forget my top-up,’ he added, indicating the champagne.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll bring my glass too.’

  Once they were seated side by side on the sofa, Rachel handed Gary her carefully wrapped gifts.

  ‘You first,’ he said.

  ‘No, you go ahead,’ she insisted. She appreciated his manners, but figured the engagement ring deserved to be the grand finale. He didn’t seem nervous at all, but then again she supposed he was lucky; most men didn’t have the cushion of Vicodin to help them through a marriage proposal.

  Gary complied, and several minutes later had his motorbike-riding trousers, leather wallet and a nice Hugo Boss shirt next to him on the couch. Rachel had picked up the shirt in the meantime, realising that the gifts she had given him seemed miserly compared to the huge amount he must have spent on her. ‘Thanks, babe. I can’t believe how much you’ve spoilt me! I’m so lucky to have you. Now your turn.’

  Rachel looked at him nervously, waiting for some sign of ceremony; then, realising that with him in his current state she should just be happy that she’d soon be wearing his ring, she reached for the bag.

  ‘Oh wow, Tiffany’s!’ she exclaimed, playing her part to perfection.

  Gary grinned. ‘Yep, nothing too shabby for my girl.’

  Taking out the box, she smiled up at him, hoping she had done a good enough job of retying the ribbon so that he wouldn’t notice it had already been opened.

  But it seemed he hadn’t spotted anything amiss. ‘Can’t wait to see it on you,’ he said, and Rachel swallowed hard.

  Here we go . . .

  She pulled at the delicate white ribbon and as it fell away she gently lifted the lid off the box. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she gasped wide-eyed, slowly opening the velvet ring box inside. By now, though, Rachel was no longer acting; the sheer beauty of the ring was more than enough to send her swooning all over again. ‘Gary . . .’

  ‘I knew you’d like it. I saw it and straight away I thought, yep, perfect for Rachel. She’ll be able to wear that with just about anything.’

  His sense of humour certainly kept her on her toes, that was for sure. This really wasn’t the right time for joking around, although Gary was such a devil that she wouldn’t put it past him to keep her on tenterhooks just for the fun of it.

  Despite his best attempts at levity, Rachel still couldn’t help but be overcome by the emotion of the moment. She smiled, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes. ‘Well, yes, of course I will. I’ll never take it off.’

  She looked up at him, still waiting for him to make some sort of romantic gesture, even if he wasn’t able to get down on one knee just yet.

  ‘Let’s have a look, then,’ he said. ‘Put it on.’

  ‘Well –’ she turned the box towards him ‘– I was hoping you’d help me with that.’

  Suddenly Gary’s eyes grew even bigger than hers, and for a long moment he couldn’t seem to meet her gaze. The silence was just beginning to make her uncomfortable, when finally he spoke. ‘So you . . . erm, like it, then?’

  Rachel’s eyes shone, and all of a sudden she understood. He was nervous; in spite of all his jokey bluster, the poor darling was terrified. ‘Gary, I love it! And I love you. I will be so proud to wear it.’

  ‘I . . . yeah . . . me too . . . I mean, proud to have you wear it,’ he fumbled, trying to sit up a little straighter. She nodded at him encouragingly, still holding out the box.

  ‘Oh . . . right,’ he said, reaching to take the ring out.

  She set the box down and held out her left hand.

  ‘So, er, do you want to . . . will you marry me?’ Gary asked, his jaw quivering a little.

  ‘Yes, yes, I will, Gary. Of course I will!’ Rachel replied, a tear streaming down her cheek. She could never have imagined this would be so emotional. Leaning over to hug him, she then sat back to see that he was still wi
de-eyed. ‘You poor thing! I can’t believe you pulled this off in your condition. We could have waited till you were feeling better.’ Then she paused. ‘Oh who am I kidding?’ she continued, laughing and wiping another tear from her face. ‘I’m so glad you didn’t. It’s so gorgeous. I love it. And I love you!’ she beamed, holding the ring up so the diamond sparkled magnificently in the light.

  ‘Yeah, me too. Ah, how about some more of that champagne?’ he said, sounding weak – from the emotional strain of it all, no doubt.

  ‘Yes, of course. A toast!’ Her heart singing, Rachel topped up their glasses with what little champagne was left and picked them up. She handed him his glass, waiting for him to say something meaningful, but before she knew it he’d knocked it all back in one go.

  ‘To us,’ she said, faintly disappointed that he hadn’t waited, but what did it matter?

  Taking a sip of champagne, she relished anew the lovely sensation of bubbles on her tongue. Here she was, in New York, engaged! And not only that but she now owned the most stupendous, amazing, magnificent Tiffany’s ring.

  It was every girl’s dream come true.

  Gulping down the last drops, she then turned and gave Gary a devilish smile. ‘Now, I know you’re not exactly in the best condition for any . . . energetic activity, but that doesn’t mean you can’t receive.’

  She put her glass down and moved towards him.

  ‘Well, OK,’ was all Gary could say, and she felt him finally relax as she began placing feathery kisses on his lips, his neck, before gradually working her way down along his torso.

  Looking back up at his face, she grinned mischievously. ‘Just a little taste of what you’ll be getting for the rest of our lives . . .’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Gary smiled, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the couch.

  Later that night, well after Rachel had fallen asleep, Gary lay wide awake in bed beside her.

  What the hell?