Never Propose on Christmas Day

by Alice Ross

  Her jaw drops. ‘But we always stay at the Travelodge whenever we go anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’re splashing out for a change. You deserve some serious pampering. So here it is - my Christmas present to you.’

  At this proclamation, I imagine her going all giggly, like the time I surprised her with a trip to Alton Towers one birthday.

  She doesn’t.

  Instead, she mutters a distinctly unimpressed, ‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’

  And that was the end of that.

  Inside, the hotel is every bit as sumptuous as its website promises, Scottish charm enhanced by the gigantic Christmas tree in the reception area decorated in red, green and gold to match the abundant tartan. Marching up to the gleaming mahogany desk it’s all I can do to resist announcing that we are the soon-to-be Mr and Mrs Pankhurst. Which might be just as well given the receptionist’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, Mr Pankhurst,’ croons a thin, red-headed woman, at a volume evidently designed to attract the attention of her colleague, who’s head is currently hanging over the top drawer of a filing cabinet. ‘We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

  At this declaration, the head snaps up from the drawer. ‘Oo, indeed we have. We’ve all been very much looking forward to meeting you,’ it pipes, jigging over to the desk on its portly, male, middle-aged body. ‘I think it’s safe to say that, in the five years I’ve worked here, your booking has been the most… interesting I’ve dealt with.’

  ‘What’s he on about?’ whispers Ellie.

  ‘No idea,’ I whisper back, shooting the man a reprimanding glare.

  ‘As you know, we have tried to accommodate your requests as much as possible,’ prattles the female, in a weird voice that makes me suspect she might be trying very hard not to laugh.

  Her male counterpart doesn’t do nearly so well, briefly flitting back to the filing cabinet and repositioning his head in the drawer, from which subsequently emanates a strange snorting sound.

  ‘We, um, just need a signature, if you don’t mind,’ the woman continues, lips now twitching profusely as she pushes a slip of paper across the desk to me.

  Eager to escape the pair – not only because of their disconcerting behaviour, but because I’m terrified they’ll let slip something of my plans to Ellie, I scribble my name on the form, mutter something in the way of thanks, then grab Ellie’s arm and propel her across the lobby to the lift.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asks, as we’re kangarooing along the plush green tartan carpet on our escape route.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I lie, suspecting it had much to do with my extensive catalogue of requests – the final one being to have a romantic dinner delivered to our room on Christmas evening, by waiters dressed as Ellie’s favourite minions. A wish politely declined by Mr Tomkinson, the manager, on the grounds that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find any members of staff willing to dress up as fictional yellow creatures with funny voices.

  Still, to be fair, he had authorised some of my more straightforward requirements. Like placing a vase of fresh flowers – with Ellie’s favourite freesia and snapdragons - in the room. Quite an achievement given the month.

  ‘Wow!’ she exclaims, when I thrust open the door to our room. ‘This is gorgeous. Ooo, and look. Flowers. With my favourite—’

  She breaks off and spins around to me. ‘Is this one of the requests they were talking about at the desk?’

  I nod, sticking out my chest like a mating peacock. ‘It is.’

  At this confirmation, I wait for her to throw her arms around my neck and plant an almighty smacker on my lips.

  She doesn’t.

  She does the last thing I expect and bursts into tears.

  I, meanwhile, stand there like a banana, wondering what could possibly be wrong with the blooms. ‘I—I thought you’d like them,’ I stammer. ‘But I’ll take them away if—'

  ‘No,’ she howls. ‘Don’t take them away. They’re lovely.’

  I furrow my forehead. ‘But if they’re so lovely, why are you crying?’

  ‘Because it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. And because I—I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Of course you deserve it.’ I close the distance between us and envelop her shuddering form in a hug. ‘And there are lots more surprises to come. We’re going to have a fabulous Christmas. Just the two of us,’ I whisper, nuzzling my nose into her dark curls.

  At which point she ups the ante on all shuddering and sobbing, and shoots off into the bathroom.

  Where she remains for the next ten minutes.

  Clueless as to how to handle the situation I mutter several encouraging - but obviously ineffectual – platitudes through the closed door, before stooping to sneakier tactics and informing her of the packet of Mini Cheddars in the fridge. This works a treat, her sloping out of the bathroom, still sobbing, and pointing out that that individual packet will probably cost more than an entire box from Costco. I silently agree, while assuring her that money is of no importance for the next few days, it being her present and all.

  ‘How about we make the most of the facilities and try the spa?’ I suggest, flapping the brochure promoting ‘The Ultimate Relaxation Experience’ at her as she perches on the edge of the bed, munching the biscuits.

  ‘But I haven’t brought my swimsuit.’

  ‘Lucky I did then, isn’t it?’

  Her lips curve into a watery smile, speckled with cheesy crumbs. ‘You’re brilliant, you know. And I’m sorry for crying. It’s just—’ She breaks off, gaze dropping to the floor as another tear glides down her cheek.

  I drop down next to her and slide an arm around her shoulders. ‘There’s no need to apologise. Anyone can see you’re worn out with studying. But, for all I’m very proud of how hard you’re working, I’m worried you’re making yourself ill. Which is why I thought you’d appreciate a nice break.’

  She tilts her head back up and turns to me. ‘I do appreciate it. And I’m sorry for being so miserable. It’s just… everything’s a bit much at the moment.’

  ‘I know.’ I pull her to me. ‘But let’s try and enjoy some time together, eh?’

  ‘Definitely,’ she agrees, before pressing biscuit-coated lips to my cheek.

  This small show of affection has the same effect on my dwindling spirits as the latest NASA rocket launcher, lobbing them into orbit with turbo-charged power.

  Everything’s going to be all right, I promise myself as my gaze lands on the wardrobe where I’ve tucked the ring box on the top shelf – the one Ellie can’t reach. In a couple of days, the emerald and diamond cluster will – hopefully - be wedged on her finger, acting like a starting pistol for the rest of our lives; kicking off streams of lists for our Big Day; cementing the foundations for our future together.

  I’ve rehearsed my speech a million times in my head. And had decided exactly where I’m going to give it before we even arrived. It was the picture on the website that had swung it. The one of a little rocky outcrop jutting into the river that flows through the castle grounds. A beautiful spot which can only be enhanced by the covering of snow predicted for Christmas Day. So, with the ring sorted, the speech fully rehearsed, and the location decided upon, all that remains for me to do now is continue acting as if everything is completely normal.

  ‘So, I take it,’ begins Ellie, as we’re slipping out of our fluffy white hotel robes in preparation for a dip in the pool, ‘that Mum and Dad know about this. Otherwise they’ll be wondering where we are.’

  ‘Ah ha. They know all about it. And you can imagine how excited your mum was,’ I chuckle, looping my robe over a hook on the wall.

  Ellie’s forehead pleats. ‘Really? I thought she’d be gutted we weren’t there. It’s the only time of year she has me and my sister in the same house.’

  I award myself a metaphoric kick. It was the proposal that had excited Diana - the main event to which Ellie is still not privy. And as there were still a couple of days before that clim
actic happening, I can’t risk her getting wind of it now.

  ‘What I meant was, she’s pleased you’ll be having a good rest. Let’s face it, there’s not much downtime at her house over Chrimbo. Not with Rachel, Dominic and the Actually Kids around’ - Ellie and I refer to her niece and nephew as ‘the Actually Kids’, because almost every sentence they utter begins with ‘actually’.

  She nods. ‘It’ll certainly be a pleasant change not listening to Barnaby’s actual opinion on Brexit.’

  ‘Yep,’ I agree. ‘For an eight-year-old, that kid is actually incredibly up to date with current affairs.’

  ‘Actually, he is. And it’ll be refreshing not having Arabella pirouetting around us in her tutu.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I splutter, delighted at this resurgence of the normal, fun-loving Ellie – the one that revels in witty banter. ‘Remember last year when she tried to do that jeté thing and landed on your dad’s head.’

  Just in case she didn’t recall that unfortunate incident, I attempt an impersonation by launching myself into the air on one leg.

  Causing my other leg to slip from beneath me.

  My body to topple over.

  And my head to crash on the rim of the pool.

  Chapter Four

  ‘A cut to the forehead, concussion and a groin strain,’ pronounces the doctor at the hospital where I gain consciousness an hour later. ‘You’ll probably have a pounding headache for the next few days, so I’ll prescribe some painkillers to see you through the holidays.’

  ‘Great. Thanks,’ I mutter miserably. Then, noting the concern etched on Ellie’s pale face as she gazes at me from the bedside chair, I execute a mental about-turn. Just because I have a headache doesn’t mean our stay at Pebberley has to be a complete washout. My vocal chords remain fully functioning, which means I can still pop The Question the day after tomorrow. A fact that makes me feel instantly better.

  ‘Ah, Mr Pankhurst. How are you after your little… mishap?’ enquires the red-haired receptionist, when a taxi drops me and Ellie back at the hotel.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ I lie, noting the same twitch to her lips I observed when we checked in earlier. Deciding she can’t possibly be deriving humour from the dressing taped to my forehead, or the way I’m hobbling like a ninety-year-old, I attribute the spasm to an unfortunate medical condition.

  ‘We’re all pleased your injuries aren’t more serious,’ she continues. Then, glossy lips broadening into a grin. ‘Actually, we have a surprise for you. You’ve been upgraded to one of our private suites.’

  ‘Wow! A suite. We won’t have to pay any extra, will we?’

  ‘Not another penny. We’ve had a last-minute cancellation, so we thought, in the circumstances,’ – she shoots me what is evidently meant to be a surreptitious wink – ‘that there was nobody more deserving than you and Ms Marsden. And what’s more, because we weren’t sure how long you would be at the hospital, or what state you’d be in when you arrived back, we’ve transferred all your things to the new room.’

  ‘Blimey,’ croaks Ellie. ‘That’s really good of you. Thank you so much.’

  ‘All part of the Pebberley Castle service. And if you need anything else, you only need pick up the phone and ask.’

  ‘Crikey. What else could we possibly need?’ exclaims Ellie, the moment we set foot on the bouncy green carpet of the Tower Suite.

  ‘What else indeed?’ I concur, eyeballs almost vaulting from their sockets. Gazing around the interior, I concede that I have never before witnessed such luxury, never mind savoured it.

  While our original room was stunning, this one – or rather four, given, in addition to the bathroom and bedroom, we now have a lavish lounge and a dressing area – is positively regal, with its Jacobean furniture, gold brocade curtains and huge sash windows overlooking the back of the building.

  ‘Think it’s got Mini Cheddars?’ I snigger, indicating the jumbo fridge next to the cinema-screen-sized TV.

  Ellie shakes her head. ‘Nope. Far too upmarket. I bet it contains stuff made out of seaweed, packed with your five-a-day. And Toblerone. Those humongous ones.’

  ‘Oh God. I love them. Should I have a look?’

  ‘No. We’ll end up pigging out on the lot. Let’s save ourselves for a nice dinner this evening.’

  ‘Spoilsport. Although I do find it rather sexy when you go all sensible. Even in my current dilapidated state.’

  She manages a weary smile. ‘Think I’ll have a bath. I smell of hospital.’

  ‘Good idea. Take as long as you like. I’m going to lie on the bed and hope this headache eases a bit.’

  Ellie takes hold of my hand and squeezes it. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right. I was really worried.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ I reply, returning the squeeze. ‘Still, nothing broken, thank goodness. Although I think this might signify the end of my dancing career.’

  ‘Never mind. Actually-Arabella will make up for your loss,’ she sniggers, before giving a little pirouette and disappearing into the cavernous bathroom.

  Flopping back onto the sumptuous four-poster bed, a cloud of sweet aromas tickling my nostrils as Ellie tips the complimentary toiletries into her running bath, I conclude that all clouds really are lined with silver. In this case, Ellie demonstrating signs of her usual affectionate self after my accident, and this fabulous room upgrade. And just because my head feels like the Pneumatic Drill World Championships are taking place inside it, and all notion of intimate liaisons have been crossed off the agenda courtesy of my groin strain, neither circumstance means I have to postpone my marriage proposal. As planned, I will pop The Question in two days’ time. In the garden. With the ring. And, hopefully, the predicted covering of—

  I jerk upright, a vice tightening around my chest.

  The ring!

  It’s still hidden in the wardrobe in our old room.

  Or at least I hope it is.

  Waves of panic crashing over me, I trampoline off the bed – a move I immediately regret as a sharp pain zips through my nethers – take a few seconds to steady myself, then, as quietly as I can so as not to alert Ellie to this latest drama, stagger out of the room and close the door behind me.

  After much shuffling, stumbling from me, and multiple questioning glances from other guests – who, unsurprisingly in such a respectable establishment, hadn’t expected to see a character limping about, looking like he’s done a couple of rounds in the boxing ring - I negotiate the two intervening floors, reach our original accommodation and knock on the door.

  Expecting it to be empty, I’m surprised when a female voice calls out, ‘Come in and leave the tray on the table, please.’

  Having attracted far more attention than I was comfortable with during my navigation of the corridors, I’m reluctant to attract still more by bawling out an explanation in public. I therefore turn the handle, push open the door and pop my head around it.

  To discover an empty room.

  ‘Just out of the shower,’ the new occupant calls through. ‘If you don’t mind leaving the tray on the table, I’ll be ready in a minute or two.’

  I open my mouth, about to inform her that I’m not room service, but am there on an entirely different mission. However, knees weakening as a thud of exhaustion hits me, I decide I’m all out of energy. It will only take a few seconds to retrieve the ring from the wardrobe and effect a retreat. Meaning, whoever’s in the bathroom, need never know I was there.

  Tottering over to the wardrobe, I yank open the door to find the space – and, most depressingly, the top shelf - crammed with beautifully wrapped Christmas presents.

  Crap!

  There’s no way I can reach the ring without moving them. An endeavour which could well take much longer than the minute or so the occupant of the room—

  At a sound behind me, I whisk around to find a tiny wizened old woman, swathed in a white towel and topped off with an orange shower cap meandering out of the bathroom clasping a loofah.

&nbs
p; Upon spotting me, she comes to an abrupt stop.

  Before opening her mouth and emitting a blood-curdling scream.

  Never, in my entire life, have I been more mortified than when being escorted from the hotel room by ‘helpful’ guests, eager to assist a damsel in distress.

  Except, perhaps, when said damsel whacked me across the chest with her loofah multiple times.

  Or possibly, when the red-haired receptionist turned up with Mr Tomkinson, the manager.

  ‘What’s going on, Mr Pankhurst?’ the head of the establishment enquires, in front of the newly gathered throng.

  ‘I was looking for something,’ I mutter through gritted teeth, preferring not to reveal my proposal intentions to a load of inquisitive strangers.

  ‘What were you looking for exactly?’

  ‘My Christmas presents, that’s what,’ pipes up the old woman – still wearing her towel and shower cap. ‘He was going to pinch the lot.’

  ‘If we could all keep calm, please, Miss Tibbs, and permit the young man a chance to explain himself.’

  ‘I’d rather not explain myself in front of all these people,’ I bat back, all out of patience and energy. ‘If we go back into the room, I can show you what I was looking for.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he concurs. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Less than two minutes later, I’ve managed to detail my predicament and have been reunited with the ring.

  ‘Goodness, I do feel bad for making such a fuss now,’ flutters a shamefaced Miss Tibbs.

  ‘It was my fault,’ I puff wearily. ‘I should have come back when you were out of the shower and explained properly.’

  ‘Well, no harm done,’ soothes Mr Tomkinson, evidently never having been whacked with a loofah.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ counters Miss Tibbs. ‘Poor Mr Pankhurst looks like he’s had quite a lot of harm done to him. I thought he must be one of those thugs. The type you read about in the newspapers, who go about stealing people’s Christmas presents. But he isn’t a thug at all. He’s a very nice young man. And I think the least I can do in the circumstances is to buy him and his intended a bottle of champagne. Or a—’