Prior Engagements

by Sarah Goodwin

  “Can I just, have a second?” I asked, and the desk clerk stepped away. I gazed up at the ceiling and wondered what it would be like to live under art like that.

  Dorian’s hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my reverie.

  “I know, time to go.” I quirked a brave smile. “So, what do you want to do?”

  The clerk handed a card to Dorian, interrupting his reply.

  “Your key, Sir.”

  “Thank you,” Dorian smiled and took the card, “well...I could do with a change of clothes, so, how about we see if the shops here are any good?”

  I stood, speechless.

  “You just...you...you booked us in, at the Bellagio?”

  “Well, we do need to stay somewhere...”

  “Don’t give me that, Mister money-bags. Jesus. I feel like if I leave you alone for ten seconds you’ll come back with a Mercedes and a diamond...swan, or something.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dorian said, dead pan, “what would I do with another diamond swan?”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, and he drew a dramatically offended gasp.

  We ended up going shopping. At Armani. The Bellagio had an Armani store in it, as well as stores for Tiffany, Chanel and Gucci – brands that I’d previously assumed to be fictional, created purely for use in films and holiday romance novels. But no, I assure you, they are very real, and very scary. I’ve always feared shops that don’t have price tags, and that only displayed one shirt, a shoe and a handbag on white plinths. It was the perfect way to scream ‘we’re expensive – fuck off, you penniless wanker’.

  Though of course, they were too chic to swear.

  Or eat, judging by the stick insect that stood behind the counter in immaculate black.

  Dorian picked out three shirts that looked exactly the same to me (white button downs) and which each cost a small fortune. My wardrobe (and all the clothes in it) hadn’t cost as much as one of those shirts.

  Then, we went to check into our room.

  And oh my God. What a room.

  It was not just a room, it was a suite.

  A suite so sumptuously decorated that it practically made my knees buckle. It had a marble entryway, where pristine lilies stood in vases on chic end tables. In the actual room, there was a sofa, a desk, and in the bedroom a king sized bed was made up with cream and chocolate brown sheets and throws. All the furniture was sleek and modern, topped with artisan lamps, impeccable orchids or expensive candlesticks. The huge windows offered a view of Vegas that I’d only seen before in films.

  I’ll admit it, I squealed.

  I almost died when I saw the marble tub with the plasma screen over it, remembering my own plastic shower cubicle back home, with its mouldy windowsill speckled with spent razors and crumpled sample sachets.

  Dorian watched me gawp at our surroundings as he stowed his new clothing in one of the closets in the bedroom.

  “I feel...so bad about you paying for everything,” I told him, plumping down on the heavenly mattress, “but...we’re in the Bellagio...I’d be lying if I said I was really bothered by it.”

  Dorian handed me a whiskey and ginger, making a V&T for himself at the bar that was actually hidden in the wall behind a panel, and sitting down beside me. We sat in silence, sipping. It was going to take a while for us to get used to the idea of being married now.

  I drank my drink and then kicked off my shoes, and lay back on the bed.

  “You know what we should do?” I said, after a while.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I sighed, stretching luxuriantly, “we should get room service, fire up the Jacuzzi bath and just...relax the weekend away.”

  “The weekend?”

  “Well, I have to be back at work for Monday.”

  Dorian frowned.

  “That doesn’t give us a lot of time, to work things out.”

  “Like?”

  “Where we’re going to live...how this is going to work...”

  “Oh bugger, I hadn’t thought of that.” I honestly hadn’t thought beyond the point of getting married, I was still looking at my ring every few seconds, marvelling at it. I’d done it. I’d gotten married.

  “We should discuss it...come up with a plan.”

  I nodded.

  Then neither of us said anything.

  After a few minutes I giggled awkwardly.

  “Well...we’re off to a good start.”

  Dorian smiled shyly. “I can’t help it, I haven’t exactly done this before. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

  “This is our wedding night, I guess...” I began. “...Is that what’s making it weird?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted, setting his drink aside, “I think my natural cowardice is reasserting itself.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Sleeping with someone new, for the first time, had always been a minefield for me. I expect it’s the same with pretty much everyone, save for those few women who are naturally blessed with poise and perfection. You know the type, the ones who can do that twisty towel-turban thing without it flopping into their eyes, and who never seem to end up with droopy crotched tights or blouses that slip off their shoulders.

  Before Stephen-the-indecisive there had been a few boyfriends, but in the five years since Stephen, there had been practically no one. I’d forgotten how to date. Actually, I’d just forgotten how to meet people. So there had been the inevitable internet dating spree, a brief flirtation with the idea of lesbianism and then a steady stream of blind dates with men Yvonne had already had her way with.

  I always lost my nerve around date three. The idea of being naked with someone new, of being that vulnerable with someone who would, it seemed, inevitably turn around and disappoint me, left me feeling less than hopeful. A sexual encounter was not the glorious beginning of a new relationship, for me, it held all the apprehension and painful potential of a smear test.

  So I surprised myself in no small way, when I took the drink from Dorian’s hand and leaned forwards, kissing the taste of stale coffee and citrus tonic from his lips. A strange feeling overcame me as I pushed his suit jacket from his shoulders. It was the same feeling that had led me up the aisle, after I’d sworn that wild dogs, horses, ducks and goats, all working together, would never force me into that long walk again. The giddy thrill of the impulse, that Dorian was as scared as I was, and the knowledge that this didn’t have to matter.

  We collapsed onto the bed in a wave of crumpling, swishing skirt, and by the time I was down to my (thankfully matching) underwear, I wasn’t nervous. Not at all.

  No. I’m not going to tell you how it was.

  The mere suggestion that I would do such a thing has me highly offended.

  God, who do you think you are?

  ...OK, so, it was good. Very good, considering how nervous we both were, and how we’d only known each other for...well, the combined length of a wedding, a dinner, a flight and...another wedding. He wasn’t disgustingly sweaty, or hairy as a badgers arse, and he was very considerate. Dorian, for all his town-mouse shyness, was actually quite...

  Actually...no. I’m not going to tell you that.

  Anyway, after that, came sleep. Dreamless, amazingly comfortable sleep.

  The hotel bed was about a zillion times more cushy than mine, and Dorian wasn’t difficult to sleep next to. He didn’t snore, I was pleased to find out, neither did he kick or drool.

  So far he was the perfect husband.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, we woke up, and I smiled at him, and he smiled at me. Because we had not been on the requisite three dates, and because I had not made myself up fully and to the best of my ability for each of those nonexistent dates, I wasn’t cut up about Dorian seeing me without my make-up on. I never usually wore it day to day, and I’d never been one of those ‘I’d rather burn to death in my house than be rescued without my slap on’ women.

  Having said that, I probably would choose death over being spotte
d in the HMS Gusset pants. There were limits.

  I took a swim in the whirlpool tub, and oh, the gloriousness of hot water after so many months of my flat’s grungy, tepid, drizzle. I clicked on the TV and let it play music videos while I closed my eyes and savoured lying in a beautiful bath that frothed with expensive suds.

  Yes, OK, you’re probably sick of hearing all about this fabulous dream palace. Give me a break. I’d spent the past five years working double shifts in a café, when I wasn’t slaving it for minimum wage at BHS. All that work and I had only a drafty, dingy flat to show for it. A flat that I didn’t even own. Besides, I hadn’t had a proper date in forever, and there I was, suddenly, in a marble bathroom, wrapping myself in a towel that definitely did not come from BHS, with a new husband waiting for me in bed, in our suite at the fricking BELLAGIO!

  It was not the time to let details slip by unremembered.

  For one thing, I was still convinced that I might wake up at any second.

  Dorian had ordered room service while I was in the bath. A fresh fruit plate awaited me when I got back, along with a pot of coffee. God knew how much room service cost at the Bellagio. I sat down on the bed and helped myself to a raspberry.

  “So, Mr Foffaney...how do you make this money that you’re so eager to burn?” (See I was getting used to my new name, sort of).

  “Well, Mrs Foffaney...” he replied, and I honestly felt a little thrill. I was a ‘Mrs’, “I am, as you know, an artist.”

  “And...apparently, you’re famous?”

  “Not famous...more, notorious,” he rolled his eyes, “I illustrate books by Georgio Casablancas, who is for some unaccountable reason, insanely popular in the states. They’re graphic novels...”

  “You mean comics?” I asked, then realised that this might offend him. “Sorry, I just...I’ve never understood why you can’t just call them comics.”

  “Fair point. OK, they’re comics, and they require a great deal of work to illustrate them, and then the art is used to make animated films on the internet...the royalties I receive are, rather good. I also don’t make a habit of spending like this, so I have a lot of savings.”

  I winced. “Now I feel bad for all the bills you’re picking up.”

  He looked at me, boyish now that his blonde hair was bed-messy, and his big blue eyes were clear and unguarded. “Well, it’s a special occasion,” he said, fiddling with his wedding band.

  “Yes it is...but, for our tenth anniversary, I’ll pay for the hotel. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Dorian said, and picked up a cube of melon.

  I ate a small handful of raspberries and poured myself a cup of coffee, adding a lot of sugar and milk. Dorian was far too distracting in his sheet wrapped nakedness, he looked really good for...

  “How old are you?” I asked, then, feeling bad I added, “sorry, I seem to be asking all the rude questions.”

  “Someone should be,” Dorian said kindly, “I’m thirty-two.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Dorian raised his eyebrows.

  “What? Oh God, do I look older?” I asked, remembering the pot of miracle-moisturiser I’d never had the money or the (lack of) sense to buy, and the childbearing-ness of my body type. I always thought I looked a lot like a mother on the school run (dazed, sloppily dressed and with Wheetabix all down my front).

  “No, you just...I can’t imagine being ready to marry someone at twenty.”

  Embarrassed, I looked down at the bedspread. “We met in university...it was kind of...romantic. At least it would have been if it had worked out.”

  Dorian nodded, sagely. “Perhaps we’ve asked enough questions.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  Dorian moved with the kind of grace and slowness of someone trying not to startle a deer. Which was nice, but it made me feel a bit...well, like Bambi. I stopped minding so much when his elegant fingers tweaked my robe open, and we tangled ourselves once more on the soft hotel sheets.

  I’d never had a dirty weekend before, and I suppose I still haven’t, as we were married and it was technically our honeymoon. But, as we whiled away the Sunday in our suite, ordering steadily more elaborate dishes from room service and having alternately giggly and seriously intense sex, I felt adventurous and free. For the first time in five years, I wasn’t thinking about Stephen, or work, or the money I didn’t have. I was enjoying myself with a very nice man who after a whole day of being married to me, still found me interesting and sexy.

  I was happy.

  The flight home that night didn’t come close to intruding on our happy bubble, which I had half expected to collapse on checking out of the Bellagio. Dorian saw me off at the airport, as he was flying to New York, back to his apartment. We exchanged emails (I really regretted sticking with my pre-teen hotmail address, angelpiedisneyeyes@hotmail.co.uk). Dorian bought my ticket, and we promised to meet up in two weeks time, when he was in the UK again for a family visit.

  Later, sitting in my airplane seat, I looked in my handbag, searching for a paperback to read on the long flight home. What I found was a small hardback, titled David Chihuly promising original sketches and artwork inside. I flipped it open to the first page, and found neat writing printed over the title page: Annie, you are the most delightful woman I have ever attempted to marry, and this weekend has been the best of my life. Two weeks has never seemed so long – Dorian.

  I stared at it, trying to reign in my huge smile, lest someone take me for a scheming terrorist and boot me off of the plane with three air marshal bullets in my back. Dorian couldn’t wait to be with me again.

  And I couldn’t wait either.

  Chapter Six

  I showed up at work on Monday with a reluctance heretofore reserved only for pelvic examinations and anything involving my mother. I was exhausted, having just experienced a whirlwind wedding and (I had to admit) a pretty energetic honeymoon. I could have happily stayed at home with some Desperate Housewives, and had eight-plus cups of tea with Malteaser croutons and a side of Mars Bars.

  But no – Raspberry Bereft called. Oh yeah, the name, not my idea. Actually, I thought it was the stupidest name anyone had ever given an eatery, and I’d spent a year getting my lunch at Bagels Ahoy!, so that was saying something. Will defended the name, saying it was logical, because we never served anything with raspberries in. This was because Will was ‘allergic’. I, however, maintained that not eating a fruit just because you think it looks like a nipple and that ‘freaks you out’ did not constitute an allergy.

  “Late,” Will boomed, as I reluctantly shunted open the door. I winced as the bell trembled over my head. The bright pink walls assaulted my brain, as did the radio, which blared Ke$ha. It was Monday, and so it was Will’s turn to pick the music.

  “Always,” I said, without my usual vigour. As a rule, you go into Raspberry Bs ready to fight, or you go down in flames, at least if you’re an employee. Will loved to take all kinds of ‘the piss’.

  A host of waitresses, cooks and busboys had run screaming from Will’s management skills (taking choice pieces of our décor with them, in lieu of compensational therapy). At present, our staff consisted of me (too stubborn to leave – besides, Will was my friend) and ‘Water’ the gangly teen of indeterminate gender, who did the washing-up.

  Will swore that Water had turned up to the interview wearing a suit and claiming to be ‘Walter’. But on the first day of work, ‘he’ had shown up in a skirt, with lilac dreads, and had introduced ‘himself’ to me as ‘Wilma’.

  Out of awkwardness, we had started to mutter ‘his’ name and avoid all pronouns. The name ‘Water’ had just become a thing, and Water never complained.

  Will ignored me after our initial exchange, and went back to wrestling with the cappuccino machine. I swept into the back and put on my apron, scrunching my hair up into an almost-ponytail. My rings caught in my hair, and once I’d freed them, I wondered if I should slip them off and put them into my pocket.

  “Come on! Milk’s tur
ning faster than you’re working.”

  I stalked back out into the café, prepared to snap at him, but I got distracted by his hair, which had changed colour again. The last time I’d worked a shift, Will’s hair had been bright pink, but today it was the lime green of the counter tops.

  I groaned, loudly and disparagingly.

  Will lovingly petted his Mohawk and batted his eyelashes, which were smothered in mascara to match. “Gorgeous, aren’t I?”

  “Like Courtney Love’s surgical runoff,” I simpered.

  He threw an old coffee filter at me. “Pick that up.”

  “Up yours, you cockatoo.”

  He rolled his eyes and bowled me a bagel for breakfast. Salmon and paprika cream cheese, my favourite.

  “Wass’at?” I asked, face stuffed with bagel, pointing at the monstrosity on the far wall.

  “It’s a new painting, your highness,” Will drawled, swiping at the bagel crumbs I’d left in my wake.

  “From a skip?”

  “....maybe.”

  I sighed.

  “And what’s that?” Will retorted, pointing at my hand.

  I winced inwardly, I’d planned to wait until things were a bit more settled between Dorian and I before I started telling people. But, Will was my best-friend, and I always told him everything (even when he had absolutely no interest in the matter whatsoever. That’s just what friends do).

  Besides, it was better to get the piss-taking over with.

  “I got married.”

  Will sniffed. “And I got knighted.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He looked at me, harder and harder, like he was trying to force me to stop bullshitting him.

  “Will, I got married, on Saturday, to a man I met at work.”

  “How long have you known him?” Will looked gobsmacked. “Why didn’t you invite me?”