by Nicky Wells
Odd. “You don’t sound surprised?” I probed, and she laughed a genuine laugh.
“Tim rang a few weeks ago and asked your Dad for your hand in marriage. We’ve been tickled pink waiting to hear the news from you!”
A few weeks ago? So perhaps he had been serious in Paris? I gave a sigh of relief as I rang off and got ready for the day, feeling much reassured.
“What are you wearing?” Tim asked me with a dubious frown as I presented myself, ready to go. Crestfallen, I regarded myself in the full-length mirror. I was wearing my favorite jeans and a simple, flowery T-shirt. “What’s wrong with this?” I challenged back, although I already knew. Not smart enough.
“We’re looking at expensive hotels, you need to look the part,” Tim informed me soberly.
“Why? Surely they have to impress us, not the other way round?”
Tim sighed impatiently. “Just change, please. For me?”
I felt incredibly hurt, but I gave in. I didn’t want a big brouhaha within twenty-four hours of getting engaged; rather, acting as the future Mrs. Renfrew would, I obliged and changed. Fiancé appeased, we were ready to leave. Tim in high spirits, mine only slightly dampened.
“Right, where do you want to start?” Tim asked me as we got into the car, handing me a list. I regarded it in wonderment. It contained a collection of names and addresses.
“What’s this?”
“A list of possible wedding venues. I thought we might amuse ourselves with a little drive around the countryside, checking out all these places. They get booked up really fast.”
I read down the list. Tim wanted to go venue hunting? Today? I was a little taken aback. Moreover…
“These are all in greater London,” I remarked.
He nodded. “I know, that’s why I picked them.”
I swallowed hard. I had always imagined that I would get married in our parish church in Newquay, with a reception somewhere overlooking the sea.
“Um,” I started cautiously, “isn’t it kind of traditional to get married in the bride’s hometown?”
Tim took my hand gently. “I know,” he admitted. “But think about it, Cornwall is so far from everything. And there are so few places down there. Everyone would have to travel an awful long way. Staying closer to London makes so much more sense. It will be so much easier to organize everything if we can drop in on the venue regularly and check things, you know?”
I swallowed again. I knew. I did understand. He was right. His reasoning made a huge amount of sense. But even so…
We were still sitting in the car. It was a beautiful, sunshiny morning, and we were newly engaged. Tim wanted to do wedding-planning things, and I wasn’t about to have the first hitch in our engaged relationship. Second, if you counted the outfit debacle. But I couldn’t give in quite so easily either, not on this point.
“Do you really think people would mind coming down to Cornwall?” I tried again. “I mean, if we picked a spring date it might be really nice…?”
Tim waggled his head thoughtfully.
“Can’t we at least think about it…maybe after we’ve seen all these places today? Do a similar recon down there and see what’s available? Hmm?” I couldn’t take the pleading tone from my voice, but it seemed like a good compromise.
Tim finally agreed, although I was worried that we had arrived at this compromise from completely opposite angles. But still, he had agreed. My spirits lifted again as we set out on a day of scouting round venues: open roads, sunshine, and pub lunches.
I felt…arrived, somehow. I was finally no longer single. All right, so I hadn’t been single single for two years because, of course, a boyfriend counts, too. But I was properly not single any more. I had a ring to prove it. I would get married. My wilderness days were over. I could relax and enjoy life.
And, I reminded myself hastily—not that I needed to remind myself—I had bagged a lovely, handsome, considerate, caring guy who perhaps in the past hadn’t always known exactly how to kindle or maintain exultant love and steamy passion, but his proposal had been romantic and his fervor for our relationship was stronger than before. A life with Tim would be safe, secure, cozy, and tender. Wasn’t that what every girl dreamed of?
On the way to our final destination of the day, I had an idea.
“What do you say…shall we have an engagement party?” I bubbled. “You know, we could invite everyone and get outrageously plastered on champagne and have streamers and, well, celebrate with everyone.”
Tim gave me a quick approving look, and then returned his eyes to the road as quickly as possible. “That is a grand idea,” he exclaimed.
I dug our mutual social diary from the depths of my handbag and started turning pages. “How about October twenty-eight? That’s a month from now…do you think that’s too short notice?”
“Might be, but we’ll just get the invites out as quickly as possible.” Tim shot me another approving look. “I am so proud that you have agreed to be my wife and that you want to share it with the world.” He grinned like a little boy.
“Invitations?” I repeated, just to be sure.
“Sure. We should do things properly. There’s a great shop near the office that does ready-made invitations…not quite ideal but it’ll do for such a quick timeframe.”
“Invitations,” I muttered to myself. I had thought of emails and phone calls and the usual grapevine…but then again, why not? After all, an engagement was a big thing to celebrate, and an engagement party was a formal occasion, so maybe formal invitations were necessary.
“Sounds great,” I assured, and then immediately shouted: “Ooh, Tunbridge is to the right here, turn off, turn off!”
I was in charge of map reading and had done a dismal job staying on top of where we were. We were supposed to head to Tunbridge Wells, and I had just about spotted the sign directing us there off the A21.
“Are you sure this is right?” Tim asked doubtfully. “I thought we had to go further than this?”
“Sure I’m sure,” I replied. “I just saw the sign to Tunbridge right there.”
We drove on and soon arrived in a little village.
“Do we have an address for the place?” I wondered out loud.
“No, not really,” Tim responded. “It’s supposed to be quite obvious. The Swan Hotel, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.”
I sat in silence for a few heart-stopping seconds. “Royal Tunbridge Wells,” I repeated slowly and at length.
I was getting hot and cold flushes. Royal Tunbridge Wells. The sign hadn’t said Royal Tunbridge Wells at all. It had said Tonbridge. With an “o.” I glanced at the map book that was still balanced on my knees, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible as I attempted to establish our exact whereabouts.
“Do you think we should ask someone?” Tim suggested, just as I had located Royal Tunbridge Wells on the map from the corner of my eye.
“Hmm?” I responded, completely distracted now because I had spotted another little town just a centimeter or so above Royal Tunbridge Wells; another little town that was called Tonbridge. Not Tunbridge. Tonbridge.
I had got us to the wrong place! Tim would not be impressed. “Do you think we should maybe ask someone?” Tim repeated, already indicating to pull in at the curb. I decided to chance it. Tim hadn’t seen the map and with a bit of luck…
“No, I think we should keep going back this way and then on a bit further. I think…” I paused for dramatic effect. “I think we may be in some kind of suburb.”
“Suburb?” Tim repeated after me. “For a little place like Royal Tunbridge Wells?”
“It’s not that little,” I defended the unknown place. “And it might be sprawling?”
“Hmm.” Tim wasn’t convinced, but he was driving and I held the map. “If you’re sure?”
Yup, this time I was. After just a few minutes, we came to a turning conveniently labeled: Royal Tunbridge Wells.
“Let’s go right again here, I think that’ll take us to the t
own center,” I said as casually as I could.
“It says ‘Royal Tunbridge Wells’ on the sign,” Tim declared.
“Exactly,” I retorted. “That’s what we want, isn’t it?”
I was mentally exhausted. I just knew what Tim would say when he realized my tiny little map-reading gaffe. This time, he had been successfully deflected and we finally drew up in front of The Swan. After all that, we didn’t even particularly like it. It was okay as far as reception venues went, but it wasn’t at all what I was looking for, and Tim was put off by how hard it had been to find the place.
“We couldn’t well have all our guests cruise that High Street for hours,” he said apologetically to the manager, who had no clue what Tim was talking about. I nodded in agreement with my future husband and hastily propelled Tim out of the room and into the gardens.
“Let’s go,” I hissed as soon as we were out of earshot. “Let’s go home and have some dinner. I’m knackered!”
Chapter Seventeen
“…and then he got on his knees and asked me to marry him. Rachel, it was incredible. It was so romantic,” I gushed, midway through reliving the proposal and the events of the following day. “I cried. I was so happy. He was just so sweet, and there was all this champagne and he had gone to all this trouble.” I petered out, smiling fondly at the memory as though it all had happened years ago rather than a mere forty-eight hours.
Rachel heard me out patiently. We were at my flat and I had treated us to a Chinese takeaway, which we devoured before braving the Big Talk between Best Friends. Eventually, the complete lack of interruption disconcerted me more than any objection she might have raised. Her silence was unnerving.
I stopped myself short in mid-sentence and stared a challenge at her.
“All right, out with it. What’s bothering you?” I barked.
Rachel squirmed uncomfortably. I was onto something. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. You don’t approve, do you?”
“Well,” she started, and took a deep breath. “Soph, I’m really happy for you, really I am. Or at least, I’m trying. But…”
The infamous but.
“I just want to be sure that you’re sure. That you’re doing the right thing. Not too long ago, you said you’d say no. Now, you’ve said yes without a moment’s thought. I don’t want you to make a decision out of desperation or some kind of belief that you owe it to Tim or to yourself, or anyone.”
“I never meant it about saying no,” I interjected, “that was just supposed to be a counter-jinx, and it worked, didn’t it?”
“Well, maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. But what worries me…” She paused again to collect her thoughts. “Look, a proposal is supposed to be about the bride. The guy is supposed to treat the bride, not himself. So, to pick a restaurant that she will like, not his favorite place. To pick a time, an occasion that is special to her, or at least to both of them, not to him and him alone—like his birthday. To pick a ring that is to her taste…”
I interrupted her quickly before she could list any more faults. “I love this ring,” I cried, waving my left hand emphatically in her face. Rachel was unflappable.
“Okay, so maybe you do, but you’re not getting my point. From where I’m sitting, Tim short-changed you by proposing on his birthday in his favorite restaurant.”
I gulped. Late last night, after we had got back from our venue hunting expedition and lain in bed together, a similarly nasty thought had popped up in my brain. I had hastily squashed it. Having it thrown at me by Rachel was too much to bear and I snapped.
“From where I’m sitting, Tim made the ultimate romantic gesture by subordinating his birthday to the proposal. He was on his knees, for crying out loud.” I was feeling combative and resentful.
“Even if perhaps he didn’t get it right according to the book of perfect proposals.” I continued hotly, “He tried really hard. He’s been trying hard for weeks. He’s a changed man.” I hated having to defend Tim to Rachel, especially as it sounded like I was defending him to me, too.
“And why is that?” Rachel countered, also hotly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, haven’t you given any thought to what might have prompted this rather dramatic, and, if I may say so, uncharacteristic change?”
“You may not,” I protested, “and I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Another pause. Rachel was working up the courage to say something else, something worse.
“What?” I challenged tartly. “What is it?”
“Dan.” Rachel put as much emphasis into that one word as she possibly could.
“Dan?” I repeated, temporarily at a loss.
“Yes, Dan.” And, when I still didn’t get it, she elaborated. “Don’t you think Tim had picked up on the change in you? The glowing, happy, excited, new you? Who’s really the old you? Don’t you think he was worried that there might be someone else in your head or, perhaps, your heart?”
She gave me the creeps. I had been so careful to deny these thoughts even to myself. I hadn’t even done anything. Could Tim really have figured it out?
“It doesn’t really matter what you did or didn’t do with Dan,” Rachel went on. “What bothers me is that I think that Tim responded to changes in you, that he started to feel territorial. You know, like a little boy who’s kicked his toy out of the cot and wants it back the second another kid picks it up. But not before. So long as it’s his and unchallenged, he’s quite happy for it to lie on the floor. It’s classic, really.”
I resented being compared to a toy, but the allegation had the teensiest ring of truth to it. What if she was right?
“You’re wrong,” I spat. “In fact, I can prove it. He asked Dad weeks ago. He was going to propose in Paris, remember? Huh? Huh? Nothing to say to that, have you?” My voice rose hysterically.
“He said he was going to propose then, but he didn’t, did he?” Rachel responded calmly, ignoring the evidence that Tim’s proposal had been carefully planned when it had eventually come. “And if I’m not very much mistaken, you would have searched his house high and low for that ring, and I bet you never found it. Did you? So what does that say?”
I stared in astonishment. How did she know that? Had I told her? I had been so embarrassed about my mini-search operation that I didn’t think I had confided in anyone, not even Rachel. I was so shocked that I even forgot the big D: denial.
“How do you know that?” I gasped.
“So you did. I was right.” Rachel felt vindicated.
“How did you know?”
“Because,” she stated simply, “it’s what I would have done. It’s what anyone would have done. It’s what prompted you to sulk and say you’d never say yes. And the presence or absence of a ring at his house that time proves absolutely nothing at all. He could have kept it at work. But it made you think, didn’t it? And you can’t know whether he was serious on that train, can you? Not ever, not now. And so we still are no further on knowing why he proposed in the end.”
“Of course, we know. He loves me! I can’t believe what bollocks you spout sometimes.” I had tears in my eyes—of rage, of frustration, of indignation, of hurt, I couldn’t be sure. But at that precise moment, I hated Rachel and her superior, know-it-all behavior.
“You can’t look into my head or his head, and you don’t know what’s going on in our relationship. And I’m really hurt and upset now. I don’t even know if I know you anymore!” I cried angrily.
Deep, deep down I was worried that I was getting overly defensive, and that I was compensating for some kind of vague hurt that I had felt at the manner in which Tim had proposed. Perhaps I had even been ready to confess my worries to Rachel, but she had got in there first with her accusations, and I would never now be able to admit that I was insecure and hurt. And on top of that, any avenue for seeking her confidence or consolation had been closed off for good. I felt alone and frightened. What if she was right? What if I was right? What if this
was all wrong?
There was nothing for it now but to stick with it. People made mistakes, and perhaps Tim hadn’t got the proposal right, but our relationship had been good and strong. I knew I wanted to spend my life with him. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered.
Wasn’t it?
Shock, astonishment, and hurt registered on Rachel’s face in quick succession. She rarely cried, but now there were tears in her eyes. I was welling up too. Were we falling out? I couldn’t bear the thought.
All of a sudden, we were in each other’s arms, crying and laughing alternately.
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel mumbled into my shoulder.
“I’m sorry too,” I mumbled back.
Eventually, we recovered. It felt like we had had a lovers’ tiff. The whole Tim thing had gradually slipped between us. Even though we had agreed to differ on many occasions, perhaps a confrontation had been inevitable in the long run. The big question was where we would go from here.
“Rachel,” I began, “you’re my best friend and that means a lot to me. Everything, in fact. But I do love Tim. I want to spend my life with him, whether you accept my motives or his motives or not. Maybe I’m making a dreadful mistake. Maybe I’m not. If I am, I’ll need you more than ever one day. And if I’m not, we’ll have to live with the fact that I’m marrying a guy who you can’t stand.”
I let that hang for a few minutes, thinking about what I had said while Rachel absorbed it, too. Hesitantly, I continued my train of thoughts.
“Tim and I will probably move in together. Well, we will, really. And we will be a twosome, more so than now. But I will still want to have a life outside marriage. You know, going to the cinema, a club, or to a gig, having weekends away with my best friend. There needs to be space in a relationship, and I would like to fill that space with the person that matters most to me other than my future husband. And that’s you.”
My God, that was all a bit dramatic and over the top, but best friends’ dynamics could feel like a relationship.
Rachel, meanwhile, had come to some kind of conclusion.
