by Dunn, Matt
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snorts Dan, more than a little embarrassed himself. ‘I’m the best man.’
The assistant turns back to me, and I think I can detect a look of sympathy on his face. ‘And do you know what kind of thing your fiancée likes?’
‘Gay-looking men, evidently,’ says Dan.
The assistant sighs. ‘In terms of jewellery.’
‘I think so. Although she doesn’t wear a lot.’
‘Or jewellery,’ says Dan.
The assistant ignores him. ‘And you’re happy to choose it? Without her, I mean?’
The truth is, no, I’m not. At least, not a hundred per cent. Not because I don’t trust my own judgement, but it’s just that I’d prefer Sam to be involved in a decision as big as this, because I want her to be involved with every big decision I take from now on. And besides, it’s a huge commitment too, and not just financially. It’s something she’s got to be happy with, and look at for the rest of her life – a bit like me, I suppose. But I also understand that sometimes, doing things for her – and without her – is important too.
I take a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ I say, then point to a ring on the top shelf of the cabinet with the sparkliest diamond I’ve ever seen. ‘In fact, I’d like that one. How much is it?’
12.14 p.m.
I’m sitting in an armchair in the corner of the shop, vaguely aware of a clicking noise coming from somewhere in front of me, and when the room eventually swims into view, the first thing I see is a concerned-looking Dan snapping his fingers underneath my nose.
‘What happened?’
‘You fainted.’
‘What?’
Dan jabs a thumb over towards the centre of the shop, where the assistant is watching us anxiously. ‘When he told you the price of the ring. Lucky for you this carpet’s so thick or you might have done yourself an injury.’
I try and stand up, but my legs are still a little wobbly, so I lean heavily against Dan’s outstretched arm instead. ‘Ah. And how much was it?’
He nods towards the chair. ‘You better sit down again.’
I feel suddenly woozy, so do as I’m told. ‘When exactly did I pass out?’
‘Faint, you mean?’ Dan grins, then looks at his watch. ‘About five minutes ago.’
‘No, I mean before or after I bought the ring?’
‘Before,’ says Dan.
I breathe a sigh of relief, which catches in my throat when I notice the Tiffany’s bag that Dan’s clutching. ‘So, er, what’s that?’
Dan reaches inside, and produces a ring box. ‘I bought it for you.’
‘Dan, I . . .’ For a moment, I don’t know what to say. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘With your credit card, dummy. Seeing as I know your PIN.’
‘I was right the first time. You shouldn’t have. And how do you know my PIN?’
‘It’s your date of birth.’
‘Christ, Dan. The one time you actually remember my birthday . . .’ I shake my head. ‘So tell me. How much did I end up spending? Or rather, did you end up spending. Of my money.’
He shrugs. ‘Only about eight.’
My jaw drops. ‘Please tell me that’s hundred.’
‘I could tell you that,’ he says, sheepishly. ‘But it’s not what it’ll say on your next Visa bill. Besides, the one next to it cost ten. So count yourself lucky.’
‘Eight thousand pounds?’ I try to get up again, but Dan pushes me back down into the chair.
‘Relax. You wanted to make a statement. Now you have.’
I take the box from him and open it up. It’s certainly a beautiful ring, although the statement it seems to be making is that I’ll have to sell my car to pay for it.
‘Yes, but . . . eight thousand pounds?’
‘Trust me,’ he continues, echoing Natasha almost word for word. ‘It’ll be the best money you ever spend.’
And as I put the ring carefully back in the bag, I can only hope that he’s right.
1.15 p.m.
We’re pulling out of Victoria – which is a phrase Dan always sniggers at – and, given my precious cargo, for once I’m actually pleased Dan’s made me pay extra to be in first class, because we’re safely away from the usual collection of druggies and hoodies who tend to use the London to Brighton line as their daily commute from dole office to dealer. Even so, I’m clutching the Tiffany’s bag as tightly as I can.
‘Cheapskate,’ says Dan, for about the millionth time. ‘I still think you should have gone for the ten-grand one.’
‘Well, I thought I’d leave it for you. So you can get it for Polly.’
‘Fuck off,’ says Dan. ‘That chapter of my life is over and done with. And the only way I’ll get my hands on anything of Tiffany’s is if Tiffany is an actual girl.’
I reach into my jacket pocket and hand over a smaller box. ‘So you won’t be wanting these cuff links I bought you. As a best-man gift.’
Dan opens the box slowly, beaming at me when he sees what’s inside. ‘These must have set you back a bit.’
I shrug. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Well, eight thousand of them.’
Dan looks at me sheepishly, then snaps the box shut and hands it back to me. ‘Got time for lunch when we get back?’
‘Nope. Sorry.’
‘I thought you had the rest of the day off? Don’t tell me you’re going back to the office?’
‘Yes, Dan,’ I say. ‘Seeing as thanks to your wonderful gesture I’m suddenly eight grand in debt.’
‘Ah. Good point.’ He looks guilty. ‘After work, then?’
‘I can’t,’ I say, holding the Tiffany’s bag up reverentially. ‘I’ve got to get this ring where it belongs.’
Dan grins, then leans back in his seat and pulls his cap down over his eyes. ‘Good luck with that, Frodo,’ he says.
6.05 p.m.
I’m walking home from the office after a (fortunately) busy afternoon, anxiously hiding the Tiffany’s bag under my jacket. Not that I think I’m going to get mugged, but more because I’m intending to propose – for the first and, hopefully, only time in my life – the moment I walk in through the front door, and therefore need to be ready to whip it out. So to speak.
I shouldn’t be nervous, of course. Natasha’s given her approval of the ring, if not the salary increase I’ve asked for to help pay for it, and besides, as I keep telling myself – although I’m the only one who seems to actually believe it – Sam’s already proposed to me.
Even so, there’s a fluttering in my stomach, possibly because I realize there’s so much riding on her answer. And though it’s probably mostly Dan’s fault I’m feeling this way, it does also occur to me that this is Sam’s chance to back out if she’s having second thoughts, and if she does . . . well, I suppose it’s the right thing – for both of us. At least I’ve got the receipt for the ring. Though not, I realize as I reach the flat, for the emotional investment I’ve made.
Of course, the way I’m feeling could be due to excitement, too. While I’m sure a lot of men get coerced into proposing, or only ask because they’ve run out of excuses not to, there’s something special about asking – or being asked by – someone you really want to be with. When Sam first brought the subject up, I didn’t even have to think about my answer. I just have to hope it’ll be the same for her when it’s me doing the asking.
I push the front door open quietly, then check to see the coast is clear before walking into the flat. By the sounds coming from the bathroom, Sam’s having a shower, which is perfect, so I hurriedly remove the ring box from the Tiffany’s bag, then pace nervously up and down the hallway until I hear the water stop.
After a moment’s panic, when I can’t decide which knee I should get down on, necessitating a quick rehearsal in front of the hall mirror to see which one looks best (although, surprise, surprise, it’s pretty much of a muchness), I take up my position outside the bathroom door. Only trouble is, I’ve forgotten how long women take between getting out of
the shower and actually exiting the bathroom, so by the time Sam emerges through the doorway, a towel around her midriff, my knee is starting to hurt, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be able to get up without assistance.
‘Edward! What are you doing?’ she says. ‘You made me jump.’
‘Sam . . .’ I look up at her as she adjusts the smaller turban-like towel on her head. Unfortunately, this has the effect of lifting the other towel up above her waist, meaning that I’m now staring directly into her groin. ‘I, er . . .’
‘Sorry.’ Sam adjusts the towel and kneels down next to me. ‘Have you lost your contact lens again? Do you want me to help you look?’
‘No. Nothing like that,’ I say, feeling suddenly awkward that she’s now at the same level as me. ‘Could you just stand back up, please?’
‘Er . . . okay.’ Sam frowns at me, but does as she’s told, perhaps wondering whether I’ve spent the afternoon at the Admiral Jim.
‘Great. Thanks.’ I hold the Tiffany’s box out towards her, trying to stop my hand from shaking, before realizing I’ve forgotten to open it. ‘Hang on.’
I flip the lid open, and for a moment, Sam just stares at me. Then, after what seems like an eternity, she takes the box from my hand.
‘But . . .’
‘It’s just, well, we didn’t do it properly. The other day, I mean. So I thought I’d better . . .’ I break off, mid sentence, desperate to rock back on my heels to give my knee a rest. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘I . . .’ Sam’s eyes suddenly fill with tears, which I’m hoping is a positive emotional response – or even a reaction to the conditioner she’s got in her hair – rather than from disappointment at either the box’s contents or those four little words. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
For a moment, an element of doubt creeps into my mind. Why shouldn’t I have? Is it because she doesn’t want to marry me? Or has Sam sensed that my proposal is less ‘ring from Tiffany’s’, and more ‘ring of desperation’? But fortunately, the feeling doesn’t last that long, as Sam sniffs loudly, then smiles down at me.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, slipping the ring onto her finger. ‘And it fits!’
‘Lucky guess.’
‘But . . .Tiffany’s?’ Sam gazes at the ring, then holds her hand up to the hall light to admire the sparkle. ‘It must have cost a fortune.’
‘Yes, well.’ I don’t know what to say. Especially since it did.
‘Oh, Edward . . .’ Sam stops talking, then does that shaking her hands in the air thing women do which always looks as if they’re attempting to dry their nail varnish, whereas in reality they’re trying to stop themselves from crying.
‘So, is that a yes, then?’ I ask, hauling myself back onto my feet, trying hard to resist the impulse to rub my knee.
Sam doesn’t say anything, but just drops her towel, takes me by the hand, and leads me into the bedroom. And while my first thought is that I really ought to give Dan a call and tell him my good news, for the moment, I think that can probably wait.
Tuesday, 7 April
8.33 a.m.
Sam’s not taken the ring off since she slipped it onto her finger in the hallway last night, and despite the fact that I’ve got a rather nasty scratch in an embarrassing place where she caught me with the diamond while we were, er, celebrating, it’s a small price to pay for the feeling of relief it’s given me. The fact that we’re engaged, I mean.
Even though it’s early, and despite that fact that Dan’s unemployed and therefore might not actually be up yet, I’ve popped round on the way to work to tell him the good news. Once I’ve finished my breathless explanation – almost before he’s had a chance to get dressed – he frowns.
‘So, she didn’t actually say yes?’ he says, pulling on a white T-shirt with ‘I ♥ ME’ printed on the front.
‘No, Dan. But she didn’t say no either. Which is probably more important, if you think about it.’
Dan gives me a pitying look as he puts the kettle on. ‘You idiot,’ he says. ‘Your one big chance to find out for sure – which might I remind you cost you eight grand – and you blow it. Did she say anything else?’
‘Well, no. But she cried.’
‘She cried?’
‘Yes, but in a good way.’
‘How does anyone cry in a good way? People cry at bad news usually.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘I hope you’ve still got the receipt?’
‘Dan!’
He sighs loudly. ‘So come on, then. What happened next?’
‘Next?’
‘After she didn’t say yes.’
‘Well, we – you know – had sex.’
‘Lucky bastard.’ Dan gives me a tight-lipped smile. ‘What kind?’
‘What kind of what?’
‘Sex. Apart from the most expensive you ever had, of course.’
‘Huh? You mean missionary, or whether she was on top?’
‘No, Edward – although thanks for the imagery. I mean, was it your normal run-of-the-mill shag, or thank-you sex, or make-up sex, or shut-up sex, or . . .’
‘Shut-up sex? What on earth is that?’
‘You know. When you’re trying to avoid one of those awkward conversations, so you make sure she’s otherwise engaged.’ He grins. ‘After all, she can’t talk with her mouth full.’
‘It was just, well, sex. There doesn’t always have to be an agenda.’
Dan opens his mouth as if to say something, then evidently thinks better of it. ‘Okay. But think about it. You did the big proposal, handed over a diamond that would guarantee you the shag of your life – which by the looks of you this morning, you got – and yet she still didn’t actually, say yes.’
‘Yes, but what about actions speaking louder than words, and all that?’
‘What actions did she do, specifically?’
‘None of your business.’
Dan walks over to the refrigerator and removes an expensive-looking jar of coffee. ‘Why can’t you do a single thing properly? Have I taught you nothing?’
‘Hopefully not, no. The important thing is, we’re officially engaged now. She’s wearing the ring. So it makes me feel better, you know? After all, she’d hardly have it on—’
‘Unless she was just having you on.’
‘Dan!’
‘Sorry, Ed. If you’re sure . . .’
‘I am.’
‘Good,’ he says, spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘So when’s the big day?’
‘Well, we didn’t actually get around to setting a date.’
Dan stops, mid-spoon. ‘Don’t you think you’d better?’
‘Okay, okay. It’ll be the first thing I do this evening.’
‘Good.’
As he grabs a couple of clean mugs from the dishwasher, I hold my hand up. ‘Actually, Dan, I don’t think I’ve got time for a coffee.’
‘What? This isn’t for you?’
‘Who’s it for?’
As I wait for him to answer, there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat from the bedroom doorway, and I look round to see a short blonde girl with just-out-of-bed hair standing there. She’s wearing – appropriately – a T-shirt with ‘Love Is Blonde’ written on the front, which I recognize as one from Dan’s collection. And nothing else.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ says the girl.
‘Er, yes, sorry,’ says Dan. ‘This is Edward.’
‘No,’ says the girl, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘I mean, introduce me.’
As Dan stands there awkwardly, I realize the reason he doesn’t is probably because he can’t remember her name.
And as I make my way out through his front door, a smile on my face, the girl isn’t far behind me. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t have one on hers.
10.19 a.m.
I’m sitting in my office, safe in the knowledge that since Natasha’s just phoned to say that she’ll be in in five minutes I’ve easily got an hour or two to myself, and I’m reading the engageme
nt announcements in the Argus, wondering how to word Sam’s and mine, when a knock on the door makes me jump. Assuming it’s Natasha and that she’s early, I hurriedly hide the paper in my desk, then leap up to answer it, banging my kneecap on the edge of my drawer as I do so.
Cursing to myself, I limp across the office, realizing that if it was Natasha, she certainly wouldn’t knock, but when I open the door, it’s the one person I want to see less than my boss.
‘Hello, Edward.’
Jane smiles, then leans in to kiss me on the cheek, and I’m so stunned I don’t have the time to pull away. I haven’t seen her for a few months, and almost don’t recognize her; she’s had her hair cut short, dyed almost copper in colour, and is wearing a pair of those ‘statement’ glasses, although they look more like those 3-D ones you get at the cinema, and the statement they seem to be making is ‘I’m a public danger’, as the corner of the white plastic frame nearly takes my eye out.
‘W-what are you doing here?’ I stammer. The last time Jane turned up unannounced like this, it almost led to Sam and I splitting up.
‘Nice to see you too,’ she says, looking a little hurt.
‘Sorry.’
We stand there awkwardly for a moment until Jane clears her throat. ‘Are you going to ask me in?’
‘Well, Natasha’s going to be here in a moment,’ I say. Which isn’t strictly untrue, depending on your definition of how long a moment is.
‘Great,’ says Jane. ‘In that case, you can let me buy you a coffee.’
For a minute, I think about telling Jane that Natasha won’t be pleased if she comes in and finds the office unattended, but the alternative is that I have to spend time with her here, with no witnesses. And while I might not want to risk upsetting Natasha, seeing as that’s actually the lesser of two evils, I agree.
10.34 a.m.
We’re sitting in Megabite, the internet café on the corner of Ship Street, and I’ve made sure we’ve got a table as close to the window as possible, in case Sam walks past. And while this may sound strange, it’s actually because if she does, then I want her to spot us – or rather, the last thing I want is for Sam to think we’re hiding from her. Not that I think she doesn’t trust me, but last time I saw Jane, I ended up getting myself into trouble by not telling Sam about it. And what a mistake that nearly turned out to be.