by Nick Oldham
‘You scrub up well,’ she observed.
‘And so do you – you look gorgeous.’
‘Thank you … Look,’ she said seriously, ‘you don’t have to do this.’
‘I think I do … Anyway, I’ve bought your mum a bunch of flowers, don’t want to waste them, do I?’
‘What about Dad?’
‘I had planned to give the other bunch to you,’ he admitted, ‘but if you think I should give it to him, then so be it,’ he said flippantly, but with an undercurrent of panic.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said, stern-faced. ‘Are you ready to face him? Mum’s not the problem, she sort of likes you.’
‘To be fair, I’d rather tackle an armed robber – but I’m up for it, if you are.’
They locked eyes and she said, ‘Yes I am.’
‘Then so am I.’
‘Well, he’s waiting in the dining room … all you have to do is go in and ask for my hand in marriage.’
‘Jeez … is that all?’
