Never Propose on Christmas Day

by Alice Ross

  ‘No need, honestly,’ I cut in, desperate for some peace and quiet. ‘I just wanted the ring back.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, good luck with the proposal then.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, immediately swiping aside the thought that scampers into my battered and bruised brain: that luck and this proposal do not yet appear to have made one another’s acquaintance.

  Much to my grateful amazement, Ellie is still in the bath when I return to our suite, what feels like eons – but is actually less than half an hour – later.

  Finding me on the bed, exactly where she’d left me, and completely oblivious to the exhausting fiasco I’ve just undergone, she asks: ‘Are you feeling better for having a little rest?’

  ‘Yes. Much better, thanks,’ I lie, head now on the point of bursting. ‘Think I might just take another painkiller though.’

  She pulls an anxious face. ‘Remember what the doctor said – you have to pace yourself with those. They’re really strong.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I assure her, welcoming her concern and marvelling at how scrumptious she looks in her post-bath glow.

  ‘I’m so pleased we decided to have dinner in the room tonight,’ she says, plumping down next to me. ‘I can’t be bothered to dress up, and I really don’t want to face the other guests after the drama at the swimming pool.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ I concur. After my latest humiliating debacle, I’d be happy to remain in our suite for the next two days.

  ‘What are we having for dinner again?’

  ‘Ham hock and pickled carrot terrine to start,’ I inform her, stomach rumbling as I realise we haven’t eaten since leaving home that morning. ‘Followed by sirloin steak with roast vine tomatoes, mushrooms and chunky chips. Topped off with pineapple and coconut crumble.’

  At a sharp rap on the door, Ellie springs to her feet. ‘Ooo, that’ll be the food now. I’m going to take a photo of it and post it on Facebook.’

  Only there is no photo.

  Because, the moment she opens the door, the entire hotel plunges into darkness.

  What subsequently follows is a mix of confusion and chaos, the likes of which I’ve only ever experienced at Malaga airport when the incorrect flight numbers had been posted above the luggage carousels.

  ‘Power cut,’ a harassed candlelit manager eventually informs us, when we’re shivering with the other guests in the foyer. ‘And we’re having difficulty finding anyone to come out and fix it, given it’s almost Christmas Eve. If anyone wishes to leave, you will, of course, be fully reimbursed,’ he adds, his voice strongly intimating that he hopes we’ll all bugger off, so he can do the same.

  ‘What should we do?’ I ask Ellie.

  ‘I think we should take the refund and bugger off,’ she replies.

  ‘Back to the flat?’

  ‘No. We have no food in. Which means we’ll have to go to Mum and Dad’s.’

  Following the bump to my head, and the ensuing medical recommendation not to sit behind the wheel for twenty-four hours, Ellie chauffeurs us down to Northumberland, while I occupy the passenger seat, attempting to come to terms with this recent stream of disastrous events. Were they the effort of some higher being to dissuade me from forging ahead with my proposal plans? Were they a sign that mine and Ellie’s joint future was destined to fail? That perhaps we didn’t even have a future? I quash such fanciful considerations without further ado. No one could ever make me as happy as Ellie did. And likewise – I hoped. All this bad luck was purely coincidental. Of course we had a future together. And when we were sitting in the nursing home in our dotage, holding hands and reminiscing about ‘the good old days’, we’d look back on this and laugh. In the present cold, dark and drizzly evening, however, with my thudding head and aching groin, it didn’t seem remotely funny.

  The look of dismay on Diana’s face when we bowl up a short while later, suggests she isn’t amused either.

  ‘Goodness. What on earth are you two doing here?’ she gasps, as we roll into her kitchen.

  At least Ellie rolls. I hobble in behind her like a geriatric penguin.

  ‘And what’s happened to you, Adam?’

  ‘Bit of an accident in the hotel spa,’ I inform her.

  ‘And there was a power cut and no one to fix it,’ Ellie adds dolefully.

  ‘Oh,’ mutters my hopefully-soon-to-be-mother-in-law, casting a despairing look in my direction. ‘What a shame. After all Adam’s wonderful planning and—’

  ‘What planning?’

  I fire a warning look at Diana, which she adroitly catches.

  ‘Well, for your… your Christmas. You deserve a proper break given you haven’t been on holiday for the three years you’ve been studying. Still,’ she continues, gathering speed, ‘all that will change when you’re a fully qualified accountant. You’ll be earning pots of money and be able to jet off all over the place, including taking Adam to Papua New—’

  ‘Er, there’s the small matter of me passing my final exams first,’ puffs Ellie, slumping down on a chair at the long oak table. ‘And the way my revision’s going, I can’t see that happening in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ll be fine. But you are looking a bit pasty. And thin. Have you eaten?’

  ‘We were about to,’ I inform her. ‘Before the power cut. We were having ham hock and pickled carrot terrine to start.’

  ‘Then sirloin steak with roast vine tomatoes, mushrooms and chunky chips for our main course,’ adds Ellie. ‘Followed by pineapple and coconut crumble.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, that all sounds very nice, but as it’s so late, will you settle for a couple of slices of cheese on toast?’

  ‘Fine,’ we mutter in unison.

  Chapter Five

  Just because absolutely nothing has gone to plan so far, doesn’t mean I have to scrap my proposal intentions altogether, I remind myself at 3.07am. I’m lying next to a gently snoring Ellie in the double bed in the Bird Room. All the bedrooms in Ellie’s parents’ trendy barn conversion have names. As well as ours, there’s the Dark Room – ironically named because of its huge windows. And the Naughty Room – which derives its title from the risqué sketches on the walls, purchased by a tipsy-on-too-much-ouzo Diana, while holidaying in Greece a couple of years ago. The Bird Room is my least favourite, its moniker originating from wallpaper splattered with pictures of endothermic vertebrates. According to Diana, her interior designer had raved about how it ‘brought something of the outdoors’ into the room. I refrained from voicing my opinion, which is that there’s a very good reason the outdoors is outdoors – namely that it doesn’t belong indoors. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine the birds launching themselves off the wall with the sole purpose of pecking away parts of my anatomy I’d much rather remained peck-free. Admittedly, though, it isn’t just the wallpaper causing my insomnia tonight. Not only am I failing to find a comfortable position, thanks to my recent injuries, but my mind insists on replaying the few hours Ellie and I spent at Pebberley Castle: her lack of enthusiasm on arrival; her bursting into tears on spotting the flowers; and, most worrying of all, her comment that she didn’t deserve them. What had she meant by that? I had no idea. Nor was I sure I wanted one.

  Barricading my musings from straying into unknown – and potentially dangerous – territory, I heave them back to what this Christmas is supposed to be about: The Proposal. And, most importantly, where to do it. Given I’d rather not have Diana earwigging at the door, and with my heart previously set on a snow-covered scene at Pebberley, I plump for the garden. There’s a little arbour at the bottom which will be perfect – particularly if the promised snow flurries do arrive. To entice Ellie out of doors, I’ll tell her there’s a surprise waiting for her. Which there will be. In the shape of the gorgeous emerald and diamond cluster, currently nestling in its box, rolled up in a pair of socks tucked away in a drawer. Not daring to examine the wallpaper for fear there might be a magpie among my feathered audience, awaiting an opportunity to swoop d
own and flutter off with the jewel, I eventually, at around 5:50am, drift into a bird-free sleep.

  A little over three hours later, I awake with a jolt, and the horrible sensation that someone – other than Ellie, who I have a vague recollection of creeping out of bed earlier - is in the room with me. Oh God. Magpies! Pulse rate soaring, I tentatively prise open one eye. To find not a flock of birds peering at me, but two small people: Ellie’s niece and nephew, Arabella and Barnaby.

  Six-year-old Arabella is dressed in a pink leotard and matching sequinned tutu, with a glittery tiara crowning her long dark hair. While eight-year-old Barnaby looks set for a day’s trading at the Stock Exchange, in a white shirt and turquoise tie combination, his coiffure slicked back with a too-generous splodge of gel.

  Their presence signifies the arrival of Ellie’s sister, Rachel, her husband, Dominic, and these two precocious offspring, courtesy of the early morning flight from Heathrow.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ I croak, levering myself up on my elbows. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Two earnest faces gaze back at me.

  ‘It’s not actually Christmas until tomorrow,’ Barnaby points out, in a supercilious tone obviously inherited from his father.

  ‘And I don’t actually think you’re supposed to say “Merry Christmas” until the twenty-fifth of December,’ opines Arabella.

  Ugh! These kids are as much fun as Ingrid on one of her ‘That wouldn’t happen in Sweden’ days. Still, like it or not, thanks to the non-functioning power supply at Pebberley Castle, I’m stuck with them for the next few days. ‘Well, I don’t think that’s strictly true,’ I counter levelly. ‘I mean, for instance, when I finished work for the holidays, I said “Merry Christmas” to my coll—'

  ‘What exactly is your work?’ enquires Barnaby.

  Refusing to be intimidated by a kid, I heave myself up a bit higher. ‘I’m a marketing analyst.’

  ‘Does it pay well?’

  I gape. It’s the twenty-fourth of December. Shouldn’t kids their age be hyper about Santa coming, not enquiring about people’s salaries? In fact, what other kids would be remotely interested in people’s salaries?

  ‘Well enough,’ I reply wearily.

  ‘Prima ballerinas earn lots of money,’ Arabella informs me, before exiting the room via a series of one-legged twirls.

  Leaving Barnaby peering at me like I’m something unpleasant he’s found on the bottom of his shoe.

  ‘Would you mind if I took your picture?’ he asks, suddenly proffering a digital, very expensive looking camera.

  ‘Why?’ I tentatively venture.

  ‘I’m doing a project for school. On old bones.’

  Overcoming the temptation to knock Barnaby off his irksome feet, smother him with a pillow and leave him to the birds, I instead issue him with a no-holds-barred instruction to leave the room. As he scuttles off, I attempt to drag myself out of bed. Due to the inordinate number of aches and pains my body has developed in the aftermath of the previous day’s tumble, this normally effortless endeavour proves excruciating. Nonetheless, I manage a hasty shower, tug on some clothes and lug myself down to the kitchen, where I discover most of the house’s other residents.

  ‘Goodness, you really are in the wars, aren’t you?’ exclaims Ellie’s sister, Rachel, from her seat at the table.

  ‘Yep. Not my finest look, even though I do say so myself,’ I quip.

  From the Aga, where she’s scrambling eggs, Diana turns and flashes me a sympathetic smile. ‘Poor Adam. He’d planned everything so beautifully and it’s all gone pear-shaped.’

  ‘Planned what?’ Rachel rests her elbows on the table, her glossy brown bob swinging forward to frame her face.

  ‘Oh, just Christmas at Pebberley Castle,’ I reply, hurling yet another reproving glare at Diana. ‘Ellie’s been studying so hard recently that I thought she could do with a proper break—’

  ‘Only it’s you that’s had the break. Well, not quite a break, but you know what I mean.’ At this jibe, Rachel begins cackling with laughter and Diana joins in.

  Ellie, meanwhile, sitting opposite her sister, rolls her eyes wearily. ‘How’s the head?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll live,’ I say, hobbling over to her and kissing the top of her head. ‘What time did you get up?’

  ‘Half six,’ she huffs, as Rachel springs off her chair and begins helping her mother dish out the eggs. ‘I wanted to cram in some revision before it goes a bit mad.’

  ‘You look shattered,’ I remark quietly. ‘And it’s Christmas Eve. Why don’t you go back to bed?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I have to go over the corporate tax chapters again. Not that there’s much point in here. I think I’ll go and hide in Dad’s study for a couple of hours.’

  ‘OK. But just a couple of hours. After that I’m coming to drag you out.’

  She tilts up her head to me, her gorgeous green eyes brimming with tears. ‘You’re too good to me, Adam.’

  ‘Of course I am. I bloody love you,’ I whisper.

  Which has the worrying effect of causing a couple of the aforementioned tears to spill down her cheeks.

  Despite the delicious breakfast Diana serves up, I manage no more than a couple of mouthfuls of toast, half a mug of coffee and two painkillers, my appetite quelled by Ellie’s increasingly worrying demeanour. Which evidently hasn’t gone unnoticed by other members of the family.

  As I’m occupied at the dishwasher around the corner, slotting in my plate and cup, I hear Rachel asking her mum, ‘Is Ellie all right? She looks terrible.’

  ‘She’s working herself into the ground with these exams,’ Diana replies. ‘Goodness only knows what state she’ll be in if she doesn’t pass them.’

  ‘I don’t know why she’s subjecting herself to all that stress.’ This observation belongs to Rachel’s husband, Dominic, who has evidently just returned from his run. ‘She’s in her thirties now. If she has any sense, she’ll bag herself a rich husband and concentrate on having babies and being a yummy mummy. Isn’t that right, Rach?’

  ‘Dominic! You sexist pig!’ his wife cannons back.

  A sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with. That remark is the most chauvinistic thing I’ve heard since I last watched a 1970s sitcom, yet, in typical Dominic fashion, it’s also struck a chord with me. One that instantly makes me feel inferior, and like Ellie’s poor state of health is all my fault. Aware that I can’t hover out of sight for much longer without arousing suspicion, and terrified that if I do, I may hear more unsavoury remarks that chip away at my self-esteem, I flip up the dishwasher door, suck in a deep breath and return to the fray, to discover my adversary – in running vest and shorts - in the seat I’ve recently vacated.

  ‘Hello, Dominic,’ I say, keeping my tone as chilled as the outside temperature.

  ‘Oh. Hi, Adam. Didn’t realise you were lurking there,’ he sniggers, without a hint of apology. ‘You look like crap. What happened?’

  ‘Poor Adam had a little accident at Pebberley Castle,’ proffers Diana, having evidently forgotten that said accident had not affected my speech. ‘So we’re looking after him here,’ she adds, making me sound like I’m six years old. Not really what you want when in the presence of an ultra-high-achieving, mega-bucks-earning banker.

  ‘Shame,’ ultra-high-achieving, mega-bucks-earning banker sneers. ‘You could’ve come out running with me.’

  ‘Dominic’s training for an Ironman competition,’ Rachel informs us. ‘A two-and-a-half-mile swim, followed by one hundred and twelve miles cycling. Then, to top off the perfect day, a marathon.’

  ‘Goodness,’ gasps Diana, plucking four slices of bread from the toaster. ‘That sounds awfully impressive. And rather dangerous.’

  ‘Only dangerous if you’re not one hundred per cent fit,’ rejoins Dominic, holding up an arm and flexing a bicep. ‘Mind you, I’ve only done ten miles this morning. Bit knackered after the early flight. Still, better than nothing, eh?’

  ‘Just a warm-up really,’ I remark �
� in my most sardonic tone.

  By the way my potentially-future-bro-in-law glowers at me, the sarcasm does not go unnoticed. The next point, however, definitely goes to him as he asks:

  ‘What do you think about the recent hike in interest rates, Adam?’

  Tosser! He knows he’s on to a winner with any property related subject, given I don’t yet own a property. Still, I refuse to roll over and let him stick the boot – or, in this instance, probably the world’s most sophisticated, technologically-advanced training shoe - in.

  ‘Good for us savers,’ I hurl back confidently, despite the increase making little difference to the pitiful sum in my account.

  ‘Oh. I forgot you don’t have a mortgage,’ he scoffs, tone indicating he’s forgotten no such thing. ‘How old are you now, Adam?’

  Two words bounce into my head. Neither of them numbers. The second one being ‘off’. ‘Thirty-one,’ I reply, catching sight of the remains of scrambled eggs and imagining me slowly tipping the mixture over Dominic’s sweaty head. ‘Which I believe is the average age of homebuyers in the UK.’

  ‘Actually, it’s thirty.’

  Right. That’s it. I fire another look at the eggs.

  But before I can reach for them, an ear-splitting roar causes us all to jump, and Diana to drop the knife she was holding.

  ‘Barnaby practising his trumpet,’ Rachel coos proudly. ‘Doesn’t it make you think of Christmas?’

  It makes me think of constipated elephants, but I consider it best not to voice that opinion. Nor do I intend apprising Dominic that I fully intend becoming a homeowner in the next few months. Jointly - with Ellie. Not because he’s an arrogant prick with whom I’d rather not share any details of my life, but because I haven’t yet discussed this plan with Ellie. To bring up the subject would merely heap another load of pressure onto her already over-burdened shoulders. Once we were engaged, though, and her exams were out of the way, the purchase of our first home together reigned top of my agenda. Yet another rite of passage, which, although daunting, I couldn’t wait for.