by Nicky Wells
“Listen, is it too late? Has Tim already turned up? No? Oh, good…shall I pop her over to yours? Of course, I will.—Yes. Great. How do I get there?—Great. See you in five.”
Then he turned his attention back to me. “Come on then, up you get,” he invited me sternly.
“Are you cross?” I wanted to know. “I don’t like it when people are cross with me.” I stuck my lower lip out petulantly.
“I’m not at all cross. But Tim will be very cross in a moment if you don’t get out of here and to Rachel’s fast. And I don’t want to be responsible for your break-up.”
“Tim?” I asked incredulously. “You know Tim? My boyfriend Tim? Where is he?”
Even Dan’s saint-like patience started to wear thin. He packed me bodily over his shoulder, snatched my keys, locked up behind us, and walked me down the road.
“Oh, I like a forceful man,” I giggled into his back.
Dan ignored me completely and kept trotting down the road in an awkward jog, me flopping over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I tried hard to make myself lighter, but my limbs seemed to have multiplied. In no time at all, we were outside of Rachel’s flat, and all of a sudden I was in a fluffy bed under a He-Man duvet, shoes still on—like all good cowboys. Then the room went dark and I fell asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Somebody was shaking me and shouting “fire” in my ears at some ungodly hour in the morning. Repeatedly. Why wouldn’t they just go away?
“Go away,” I mumbled.
More shouting and then a wet drizzle on my face. Then the drizzle turned into a bucket of ice cold water. I sat up with a gasp, eyes all of a sudden unglued and wide open. “What the heck…”
Rachel stood in front of me, looking fresh and sparkly eyed. “Morning, you lazy butt, rise and shine. We have to go to work.”
Work? Work?
Not a good idea. I sank back onto the pillows weakly.
“What happened?” I asked in a feeble voice. “Was I badly hurt? Why am I in your bed?”
Rachel tossed me a towel.
“You’re absolutely fine,” she informed me mercilessly. “You just drank too much. Now get into the shower, and I’ll fill you in over breakfast.”
Half an hour later, I was ready to go back under my duvet and never come out again.
“So Dan walked me here, to your flat, on piggy back, so that I could be here when Tim came by? And you met Dan? And you both put me to bed? And then Dan had to hide in the utility cupboard because Tim had already arrived and was coming up the stairs?”
I paused and looked at Rachel to gain confirmation, once more, of this appalling fact. Yup, she nodded her head. I continued my recap of events as she had related them to me over cornflakes in orange juice and bacon. “And then Tim got in here and wondered why I was catatonic and passed out in your bed? And you said I had food poisoning?” I tried to get all these disturbing details right.
Rachel kept nodding. I was embarrassed beyond words.
“What did he say?”
“He took one look at you and departed before you had a chance to throw up over his suit.”
I wailed. “I threw up, too?”
Rachel patted me reassuringly. “No, that you didn’t do. I just told him you might, to get rid of him.”
Phew.
“And Dan? What did Dan say?”
“Dan,” Rachel began, “who is absolutely delightful, by the way…” She paused wistfully, then gave me a big thumbs up. “Dan said to tell you he had a great time, and he was sorry that the scallops and the wine didn’t mix, and that you shouldn’t feel bad. And he’ll call you.”
Wow. I wasn’t sure I got that business about the scallops and the wine, but I would think about that later.
“Do you think he will? Call me, I mean?” I wanted to know.
“Do you know, I think he just might. He looked pretty smitten with you. You lucky dog.” Big punches to my arm on “lucky” and “dog.”
“But,” Rachel continued, “he wasn’t in the least put off by the whole Tim thing. He seemed amused, in fact. So, if you see him again…you’d better wear a chastity belt.”
I chose to ignore that comment. There was a more important question on my mind. “Do you really think he’ll call again?”
“Yes, I really think he will.”
Despite my miserable physical state, I suddenly felt warm and glowing to the core. Dan had had a good time and he would call again. Life was good. Except for the tiny complication called Tim.
Two weeks later, I had still not heard another peep from Dan, and I was starting to feel a little peeved. Our date that wasn’t a date had ended in such drama, and without a chance for me to say goodbye or gauge his feelings, that I felt at a loose end. Perhaps he hadn’t had a good time after all?
Anyway, that was all immaterial. It was nearly Tim’s birthday and, true to form, he wanted to celebrate with me—just me this year—in style. He had booked a table at his favorite-restaurant-and-shrine-for-special-occasions for Tuesday night, and so I was looking forward to yet another dinner at one of London’s prime restaurants, The Quarry. Not! Okay, it was a great place with all traditional fittings and first-rate, good-old-fashioned, unfaultable English dishes, but I simply didn’t like it.
Still, I dutifully turned up at The Quarry on Tuesday night at seven o’clock, clutching a card and a voucher for a present to be bought with him in a place of his choice—so that I wouldn’t have to repeat the whole watch fiasco.
Tim was already waiting for me at a little table tucked in a corner at the back. I wasn’t late but he obviously had been early, usually a great sign. He was wearing his work suit and a fresh shirt and looked a little anxious. I joined him at the table, decked out in a crisp linen cloth and silverware, and we smiled at each other almost shyly. All of a sudden, I felt like I was on a first date. A great big swoosh of lovey-dovey emotion flooded through me. I was so utterly relieved at sitting there with a clear conscience that I produced the most dazzling smile I could muster and made Tim blush. I loved it when I managed to do that. Almost—but not quite—overcome with affection for this handsome, overgrown, slightly awkward big kid, I could just about restrain myself from walking round the table and giving him a big hug. Except that that really wasn’t the done thing, so I just kept smiling and Tim kept smiling back at me.
A waiter brought a bottle of red wine that Tim had selected prior to my arrival and started serving in the very formal and proper way that only waiters in The Quarry manage. I suspected that Tim had already picked his courses—I had my money on grouse salad and highland venison as his preferred choices—and so I tried speed-reading the menu. When the wine waiter was done and the food waiter appeared, I was ready and armed.
“I’ll have the potted shrimp, followed by the crab cakes,” I trilled, perhaps too gaily, when the waiter asked about my order. Tim gave me an only slightly disappointed look, ordered, food and…more wine?
“What’s up with the extra wine?” I whispered when the waiter had disappeared.
“Well, you really can’t have red wine with the fish,” he explained in a soft voice, “and since we’re celebrating, I thought we might as well splash out.”
I was thoroughly confused. Celebrating a birthday, yes, but even so, Tim was usually extraordinarily restrained. Paris had been a complete anomaly, and this continued extravagance… I sat up straight as a thought flashed in my brain. Maybe, he was changing? “Thank you,” I said sincerely.
He looked at me, surprised. “For what?”
“For ordering an extra bottle of wine just because I’m being difficult.”
He winced only slightly, then recovered and took my hand. “Sophie,” he commenced in a very earnest tone of voice. “You’re not being difficult. Just different.”
I considered that for a moment. Was that good or bad? Did he imply that this was how I was, or did he plan to change me at some point? I couldn’t quite interpret his tone of voice.
“You are trul
y special,” he continued, “and I know I don’t always get things right. I don’t always treat you properly.” He blushed, and then corrected himself. “I mean, I don’t think I mistreat you. I don’t hit you or anything.” He had clearly gotten himself down some kind of blind alley and he took a deep breath before starting again. “I know I don’t often give you presents or little treats. I can be weird at times. But…we’re two people. People who are different, but that doesn’t mean they can’t live together or be good together. Forever.”
His voice was all serious and there was perspiration on his forehead. Where was he going with this?
Tim continued, “You are truly special, Sophie. I love you very much. You make me laugh. You make me sane. Sometimes you drive me insane, but you make me whole. If that makes any sense.”
He paused. I barely dared breathe.
Now he retrieved something from his suit pocket, placing it on the table in front of me beside my glass of white wine which, upon closer inspection, I noticed wasn’t white wine at all. It had bubbles in it. Incredulous, I turned my attention back to the little box that sat on the table.
It was made of plain leather with a gold rim embossed round the edges. Hinges at the back. About three centimeters by three centimeters. It looked suspiciously like that kind of box. The one that I had searched for in Tim’s flat not too long ago. The one that might alter my life forever. And there it sat, looking inconspicuous and innocent. Mine for the taking. Mine for the opening.
“Go on, open it,” Tim urged, eyes a-sparkle.
I took the box. My hands were shaking and I had some difficulty engaging the hinge mechanism. When I finally managed to snap the box open, I found a single diamond set in a delicate slim golden ring. I gasped and looked at Tim in astonishment…except he wasn’t sitting opposite me anymore.
“Sophie Penhalligan, will you marry me?”
I looked to my side and there was Tim, kneeling, and grasping my hand. The restaurant seemed to have gone entirely silent and the world stood still. I could hear my breathing pulse in my ears, and I felt giddy. My God, he had finally done it. He had finally asked. And at the worst time, when I had almost but not quite…with Dan. Guilt and shame washed over me in alternate motions, followed by love and by relief that I was, after all, still innocent of any untoward behavior. “Yes,” I whispered. And then again, a little louder, for mine as much as Tim’s benefit, “Yes, I will.”
The world resumed its normal pace and all someone had turned the sound back on. The people at the surrounding tables smiled, but were altogether too well behaved to applaud. The waiter set our starters down just as Tim reclaimed his seat and folded his napkin over his lap.
“May I offer my most sincere congratulations,” the waiter murmured discreetly and withdrew.
Tim picked up the box, took the ring out, and slipped it on my finger.
“The future Mrs. Renfrew.” He beamed broadly, and I beamed back. The future Mrs. Renfrew, indeed. Gone were the frustrations of the last week, any thoughts of Dan, and any recollection of my grand resolution to say no should Tim ever get round to popping the question. My pink cloud was fluffy and exquisite. My happiness was complete and absolute. I didn’t have any words, but I didn’t really need any. So we worked our way through dinner, savoring every forkful, holding hands and sipping champagne.
When we got to Tim’s house, he uncorked another bottle of champagne and we sat on his newly slug-free patio drinking bubbly and eating strawberries for dessert by the light of some big flickering garden candles. We talked dreamily of our lives and our hopes, and of the wedding, of course. What it would be like and where it would be. Spinning yarn rather than making plans, feeling carefree and very much in love.
Chapter Sixteen
Tim’s alarm clock—yes, it was still working, despite my bashing—woke us at the usual time the next morning. I was loath to give up my snuggling position next to him in his crisp clean bed. We had ended the previous evening making love, slowly and quite passionately, and then had had a shower together. The feeling of contentment and love was too good to give up and, to my surprise, Tim abruptly turned off the alarm clock.
He looked at me tenderly and nuzzled my ear.
“I love you, Sophie Penhalligan,” he declared. “Soon Mrs. Renfrew.” Then he sat up and regarded me with big, fearful eyes. “You did say yes, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.” I giggled like a teenager. “And I’ll say it again: Yes. Yes. Yes!”
Tim laughed and flopped back next to me. It was my turn to be sure.
“You did ask, didn’t you? I didn’t dream it, did I?” I wanted to know.
In response, Tim reached under the duvet and retrieved my left hand, now adorned by the darling ring. “Do you need more proof?” he wanted to know. “Shall I ask again?”
“Go on then…” I giggled some more, eager to make the most out of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Tim turned on his side and propped his hand up on his elbow.
“Sophie Penhalligan, will you marry me?” he repeated in the exact same tone of voice he had used last night.
“Yes!” I shouted, and we collapsed in a heap of limbs and giggles.
“Let’s take the day off then,” Tim eventually murmured into my ear. “Let’s keep celebrating. Let’s do wedding planning things. Let’s have another treat.”
I chuckled. What on earth had happened to this man? But I instantly agreed with his suggestion. I was all for time off. I was all for never working again. I wondered…would the future Mrs. Renfrew have to work? Would I be able to be a lady of leisure? Tim had often suggested that any wife of his should be able to stay at home if she wanted to. In fact, should stay at home, full stop. Right now, a very tempting thought. I purred contentedly. Wouldn’t that be nice? I indulged myself for a few seconds, although, deep down, I knew I would miss the excitement and buzz of work if I were never to have to do it again. But, as a fantasy on the first morning of my engaged life—hoorah, I was out of the wilderness that was singledom—it did very nicely, thank you very much.
“Oh, do let’s,” I thus enthused. “But!” I raised my hand imperiously, “but only if I’m allowed to give our engagement as a reason. I want to shout it from the rooftops.”
“You do that. And then let’s get some breakfast.”
We smiled at each other happily.
It was still before eight a.m. It was too early to reach anyone in our respective offices, so we left messages with our bosses.
After we had placed our calls, Tim organized a yummy breakfast of croissants, three types of jam and honey, scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, fresh coffee, and orange juice. He really had planned the entire engagement scenario, right down to the morning-after-the-night-before breakfast. I felt at once flattered and in awe. Shortly after nine a.m., the first congratulatory text messages started rolling in. Tim’s boss and colleagues, Rick, various people from my office and, eventually, Rachel. I had somehow dreaded that one. Hers said:
???? Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND? Call me immediately!
Oh turmoil and angst. I had known she wouldn’t take this lightly.
While Tim cleared away the breakfast things, I retreated to the bedroom and called Rachel.
“Hey, engaged woman,” she said. “What on earth happened to you?” She sounded surprisingly amenable and cheerful. I gathered hope.
“Look, Rach, I’m so sorry you didn’t get to hear it first, but I was a little hung-over this morning when we decided to take the day off and the only thought that came through was, must let work know. Honestly, I swear, not even my parents know yet, so you are technically first.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she chided, albeit affectionately. “Whatever happened to your resolution to say no?”
I gave a little groan. “I don’t know. He proposed last night and it was really romantic and it felt…feels so right,” I had to correct myself hastily lest she pounced on that little slip. “I will tell you all about it in every ex
cruciating detail tomorrow, I promise. The whole caboodle, no holds barred. My treat, over dinner—what do you say?”
She didn’t say anything for a little while, and then she laughed. “Soph, you are incorrigible. Your treat, over dinner, I get to pick the place. And I want to understand, do you hear?” I nodded, only then remembered she couldn’t see me.
“But listen, Soph, what about Dan? What about all that excitement and emotion and the whole new-old you that came out?”
Yes, Soph, what about Dan? I shrugged, glad this time that Rachel couldn’t see me, and tried to deflect this turn of conversation.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. But you know, it was just…a thing. A thing that hasn’t raised its head for over two weeks now. It’s obviously a dead end. And Tim…Tim is everything,” I ended rather lamely, painfully aware that I couldn’t go into too much detail because my dearly beloved might walk in at any minute.
Rachel seemed alive to this possibility too, because she relented. She offered a dubious “I don’t know…but let’s talk tomorrow,” and then added her congrats again. She really was the best! I knew she disapproved, but she was my best friend and she came through every time.
“Rach,” I said spontaneously, almost choking on fresh tears of happiness, relief and…well, and more relief. “I do love you, you know. I know that sounds strange but…let’s be friends, forever, okay?”
“Of course,” she responded staunchly. “Don’t know what silly thoughts you have in your little head now. I’ll see you tomorrow—have a great day. And,” she threw in, ever the rational complement to my emotional self, “don’t forget to call your parents.”
I rang off and did just that. Getting Rachel’s blessing, of sorts, was more important than calling my parents, but now I felt ready.
I twiddled my hair round a finger while the phone was shrilling all the way down in Newquay. A breathless Mum finally answered.
“Mum,” I yelped hastily. “Tim’s asked me to marry him. I’m engaged!”
There was an almost imperceptible silence before she spoke. “Congratulations, sweetheart, that’s so wonderful.”
