Ralph's Party

by Lisa Jewell

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said to a friendly looking young man behind a counter, ‘excuse me. Can you tell me where I’ll find the real jewellery?’

  He pointed Karl in the right direction. Oh, yes, he thought, this is more like it, this is the stuff.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied Karl eagerly. ‘Yes. Can you show me a selection of rings, please, in the region of …’ – he quickly calculated how much he could afford – ‘in the region of £1,000 to £1,500. No, sorry, actually can you make that £2,000?’ He smiled widely. It was going to be worth it.

  ‘Certainly, sir. And what sort of ring were you looking for?’

  Karl would have thought that was obvious – there was only one kind of ring, wasn’t there?

  ‘Oh, engagement rings, please.’

  Yes! He was going to marry her. He was going to marry his beautiful, beautiful Siobhan. He was so excited he could barely breathe. Why had he never thought of this before! He stared down at the glistening tray in front of him, rows and rows of shiny, perfect troths, tiny sparkling symbols of love. Oh, which one? Which one would end up on Siobhan’s delightful finger for the rest of her life? Because it would be for the rest of her life; for the first time ever, the concept of being with Siobhan for the rest of his life seemed unbearably romantic, not just some inevitable destiny, some unspoken certainty, but the most wonderfully, fantastically romantic notion imaginable. Just think, the two of them for ever, children, grandchildren, a nice house in … in … Chelsea maybe, glittering careers, and the two of them, always the two of them – Karl and Siobhan Kasparov, that fabulously grown-up, happy couple, still so in love after fifty, a hundred, three hundred years together … aaaaaaahhh. Makes your heart melt, dunnit …?

  He had to think about what Siobhan would like, not what he liked. He’d have chosen some great hunk of rock; Siobhan would prefer something more subtle, daintier, maybe something with a coloured gem in it, blue maybe to match her eyes, or yellow to match her hair. The salesman patiently showed him every tray in the department, calculating his commission with each ring Karl looked at, encouraging him and sharing his enthusiasm. Finally Karl saw it – the right ring, the one that had ‘Siobhan’ written all over it: an intricate cluster of tiny pearls, diamonds and sapphires mounted on a white-gold band, feminine and unusual, with a vaguely Celtic feel to it, and entirely unpretentious – just like Siobhan.

  The excited salesman placed the ring in a beautiful red-leather box and Karl left the store £2,200 poorer and in a rush to get home. They’d invited their friends Tom and Debbie over for dinner that night, nothing fancy, just some pasta, maybe watch a video after. Now he was hoping they wouldn’t want to stay for the ‘maybe-watch-a-video-after’ bit and would leave as early as possible, giving him time to propose before they were both too tired to celebrate.

  He could barely contain himself as he flitted around Siobhan in the kitchen that night, watching, or rather hindering her while she prepared the evening meal, chopping up huge flat mushrooms and strips of streaky bacon for a carbonara sauce (made with virtually fat free crème fraîche, she hastened to inform him).

  ‘Tom and Debbie are running a bit late,’ she told him. ‘They called just before you got back.’

  ‘Oh, God. How late?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘I don’t know, only about half an hour or so, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Since when were you a stickler for time-keeping in other people?’ asked Siobhan, laughing at Karl’s curious vexation.

  ‘Oh, nothing – I just want this evening to be over, that’s all. I want to be alone with you and I can’t wait because I’m an impatient fecking bastard, that’s all,’ he said, grabbing her from behind and planting a vampire kiss on the back of her neck.

  ‘Control yourself, Karl Kasparov!’ giggled Siobhan. ‘Another half-hour won’t kill you!’

  ‘It might well do, it might well do …’

  Karl was bursting at the seams. It had been Jeff, Jeff of all people, who’d put the idea into his head. He hadn’t done or said anything in particular, it was just the way he referred to his wife all the time – Jackie this and Jackie that. And his kids, he talked about them constantly, called them ‘the kids’ even though they were probably in their twenties by now. ‘Jackie and the kids.’ ‘Siobhan and the kids.’ It seemed that Jeff and Jackie had a great marriage; it had lasted more than thirty years already and they were still very much part of each other’s lives, firmly interwoven like threads in a piece of fine silk, not a rag-bag fraying old patch of canvas like a lot of marriages seemed to be. There was a wonderful, dignified finality to their marriage, an immutable permanence. They hadn’t reached a dead end and stopped, they’d gone on and on, growing and changing, up the same path, towards the same horizon, hand in hand. It was corny but it was also exactly what Karl wanted. He wanted a great marriage.

  Tom and Debbie finally arrived and the four of them enjoyed a relaxed evening together. Before too long it was eleven o’clock, too late to watch a video and, as far as Karl was concerned, time for them to go, time for the big moment. He’d contained his excitement long enough, imagined the look on Siobhan’s face, the plans they would make about venues and guests and which church and what vows and talking into the night and going to bed to make love and celebrate their future together. The past was important, of course it was, but nothing was more important than the future now.

  Eventually Tom began to yawn and look like he was going to leave.

  ‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ asked Karl.

  They saw them to the door as the cab waited outside, its engine breaking the silence of the still December night. Siobhan yawned, too, as the front door closed behind their guests. ‘I’m going to brush my teeth,’ she said.

  ‘No! Wait!’ said Karl, his smile so lively that it pulled his face in a hundred different directions at once. ‘Just wait there. Don’t move.’ He motioned to her with his hands.

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Siobhan, Karl’s ludicrous smile infecting her.

  He returned from the hall with his hands behind his back. ‘Siobhan,’ he began, ‘this is the most important thing I’ve ever done. It’s also the best thing I’ve ever done and I only pray that you agree with me!’ He laughed nervously and Siobhan stared back at him with curiosity, amusement and apprehension.

  ‘Siobhan McNamara, the most beautiful woman in the world’ – he pulled the red box from behind his back and clumsily forced it open – ‘Siobhan McNamara, will you marry me?’

  He stood, for what felt like an eternity, holding the little box aloft, searching Siobhan’s face for a reaction.

  ‘Oh, my God, Karl, you daft bugger! You madman! What the hell have you done?’ She picked the box cautiously from the palm of his hand.

  His face dropped and a look of panic spread across it.

  ‘Yes, please!’ She threw her arms around his neck. ‘Yes, please!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Smith had gone away for an entire weekend. Some idea of James’s apparently, an office ‘team-building’ exercise, completely bizarre given that the members of the small office were so vividly disparate it was obvious no amount of ‘building’ would ever make a team of them. But James had been sweet-talked by a charming, long-legged rep from a management consultancy and persuaded that after a weekend of ‘motivational, incentivizational, inspirational deconstruction and reconstruction’ not only would his odd little company somehow be transformed into a model of modern working practices but that he would also live longer, attract women and suddenly experience a regrowth of his long-absent hair.

  So Smith had grumpily packed a small bag on Friday morning, and he, Diana, James, three ageing account executives, two dumpy secretaries and a bad-tempered receptionist had squeezed themselves into a rented Renault Espace and trundled up the Al to a hotel in Hertfordshire. Jem had been heartily amused though, of course, very sympathetic and
embraced him tightly as he left the flat, looking stony-faced and muttering, ‘Only get one fucking weekend a week and I’ve got to spend it with a bunch of psychos.’

  Jem had arranged to meet up with some friends at the Falcon on St John’s Hill that night for someone’s birthday and had gone home after work to change.

  Ralph was in. He hadn’t been out since he’d got back from hospital two weeks ago. He was still a bit sore, especially around the ribs, and it hurt like buggery when he laughed, but his doctor was pleased with his progress – he was young and strong and healing well.

  Jem joined him on the sofa with a can of lager. Ralph had looked at her, a strange smile hovering about his lips. What is it?’ asked Jem.

  Ralph kept smiling. ‘Guess what?’

  What?’

  I’ve done it!’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘I’ve been a good boy,’ he beamed. ‘I’m sorting my life out.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning I’ve finished with Claudia,’ he said smugly.

  ‘What!’ she shrieked. ‘What do you mean, you’ve “finished with Claudia”?’

  ‘Well, what do you think I mean? I’ve finished with Claudia, simple as that.’

  ‘Good God. I don’t believe it! Let’s get this straight. You saw Claudia – Claudia with the legs, Claudia with the face of an angel, Claudia who lets you have sex with her – you saw her, and you said, “I’m sorry, it’s over, I don’t think we should see each other any more,” just like that?!’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied, his arms folded across his chest, grinning indulgently.

  ‘Not “It’s over but can we still have the odd shag for old time’s sake?”’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Not “It’s over but do you mind if I sleep with your best friend?”’

  He shook his head again.

  She’d thrown her arms around him then and hugged him quickly.

  ‘Bloody hell, Ralph. I’m so proud of you! How did she take it?’

  ‘Oh, typically Claudia. “You would do this just before my sister’s wedding, wouldn’t you, you’re so selfish, who am I going to go with now, all my sisters will have their boyfriends and husbands there and I’ll be the sad old spinster – God I hate you!” ‘He finished his impersonation with a camp flounce. ‘And then she cried. Wasn’t expecting that, I have to say, old Clauds, crying. She tried to play it down, y’know, but I think she was really upset.’

  ‘So what next?’ Jem asked. ‘How are you going to control your sexual urges? What are you going to do on Friday nights? Who’s going to be your next girlfriend?’

  ‘What makes you think there has to be a next girlfriend? No, I think I’m going to steer clear for a while, “find some time for myself.’” He said this in a cheesy American-therapist voice. ‘I haven’t been single since I was, since I was … ever. I’ve never, ever been single – I think it’ll do me some good. And I reckon I can live without sex for a while, a little while anyway. I’ve got my sources if I get desperate, I’ve got my Little Black Psion Organizer!’

  ‘Well,’ said Jem, moving to get up, ‘it’s a start, it’s a very good start. Well done. Now we’ve just got to find you someone to fall in love with …’

  A strange mood fell across them both briefly at that moment, and for a second they sat, suspended. Ralph noted the fleeting tension with some satisfaction. He had realized that Jem thought he was a little sad, going out with a girl he didn’t care about purely for the sex, and so he was putting a new plan into operation: Operation Mature and Available. His decision to chuck Claudia hadn’t been entirely rational and prescient. It had been hard for him lately, spending time with Claudia, wishing she were more like Jem, everything she did and said irritating him with its cloying girlishness and irrational female ‘logic’.

  But mainly he’d finished the relationship because Jem wanted him to, because Jem would think more of him if he did and because, more than anything right now, he wanted Jem’s respect. He’d done a lot of thinking since the accident and understood that there was no point in mooning around after Jem, trying to impress her with his choice of flowers or the latest vindaloo. Jem was twenty-seven years old, the age when a woman, consciously or not, starts to look for different qualities in a man, an age when charisma alone is not quite enough to clinch the deal, when a healthy bank balance, a solid future and a practical nature become just as attractive as a trendy haircut, a wacky sense of humour and the romantic allure of a failed artist.

  That was another reason she’d chosen Smith, and he didn’t blame her really, he’d always been quite taken with the thought of being supported by a rich woman and could see no reason why Jem should be beyond the allure of a man in a position to keep up the mortgage payments and pay for Baby Gap clothes in the event of a maternity break, a man you could seriously envisage making a good impression at a Parent–Teacher meeting, a man who would have no qualms about assembling a set of bookshelves, a man with AA membership. So, there was no point in getting all bitter and resentful about Smith and his seemingly obscene good luck. He just needed to rise to the level of the competition. Surely a girl would rather a fabulously successful artist type than a fabulously successful banker type.

  He’d been in touch with his ‘mentor’, Philippe, who had unexpectedly been pleasantly surprised to hear from him after so many months. They’d discussed the future, the market, the prevailing stars, his past work, his state of mind, and Ralph had left feeling nicely needed and worth while and itching to get the cast off his wrist so he could start painting again. He’d made another, less eventful trip to his studio and pottered around for a while, clearing out the cobwebs and rat droppings, throwing out dead-bristled brushes and dried-up tubes of paint, familiarizing himself with the draughty old shithole.

  Less is more, he’d decided, and he’d backed off from Jem in the two weeks since his accident, spending more time with his friends, even when he knew that Jem was going to be on her own in the flat, deliberately forgetting about the chilli plants in the airing cupboard, dispensing with the constant flower-buying and compliments. And the more he backed off, he’d been gratified to note, the more she came to him. Part of that was to do with guilt, he realized that. She still blamed herself for the bike accident and fussed around him like a delightful little hen, making sure he was comfortable, fetching him things from the kitchen, cooking for him. But she was missing the rapport they’d developed, it was obvious – she’d talk to him about the chilli plants, give him progress reports, like a sad mother to an absent father who needed reminding about the welfare of his children. She took up his flower-buying role and brought home unusual chillies she’d discovered in food halls and Asian supermarkets.

  Once Ralph had established that Jem cared, truly cared, it was time to put step two of Operation Mature and Available into practice: finish with Claudia. And now this remarkable opportunity had arisen, Smith, away, for a whole weekend, two whole days. He didn’t know what was going to happen but he knew something would. Definitely. He could feel it in his water.

  Jem could feel something in her water, too. Ever since the day of the accident she hadn’t experienced a moment’s peace. She had spent the last fortnight battling with feelings she’d never encountered before. Jem had always been so solidly sensible in love, a serial monogamist, as they called them these days, two years here, a year there, all nice blokes and clean breaks.

  Despite the fact that for one reason or another Jem usually ended up breaking men’s hearts, it wasn’t because she was cruel or unkind or had anything against men. She didn’t want to hurt them, she just had to sometimes. She’d never been unfaithful and, as far as she knew, no one had ever been unfaithful to her. She’d never had a ‘bad’ relationship, just relationships that didn’t work out because men wanted more than she could give. She wasn’t one of those girls who was constantly attracted to the wrong sort of man, who suffered from unrequited love, who couldn’t commit or who ‘loved too
much’. She’d never had a passionate love affair with someone, been consumed with desire. She’d never experienced irresistible lust. She’d loved, or at least been fond of everyone she’d ever been out with, and they’d loved her back. All her relationships had been strong learning experiences, passing the time until the right man came along. And now, when finally she thought the right man had come along, and she was happy and could see a long-term future ahead of her with Smith, she was suddenly feeling horribly attracted to someone else. To Ralph. It was utterly ridiculous. This wasn’t how she operated.

  Jem wasn’t stupid, she could read people like books, had always been able to, and it was quite obvious that Ralph was attracted to her, too. It was touching, the way he’d been so pleased when she’d congratulated him on his choice of flowers that he’d gone out and bought them every week, and the way he was always making nice comments about her clothes, and that he was happy just to hang around the flat with her when Smith was out and chat about things which were ‘their’ things now, like chillies and music and recipes. She’d ignored the signs at first, put it down to vanity on her half. Why would Ralph, with his penchant for willowy, upper-class blondes, be interested in her? She was imagining it, paying herself compliments. But then there’d been that peculiar morning, the morning of the accident, and she’d found herself behaving quite outrageously by her standards. She knew he’d been titillated by the shortness of her T-shirt and she’d been conscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing any knickers; she had known, deep down, that he’d deliberately asked her to reach for items from the top cupboard so that he could look at her bottom. She’d been wickedly happy to oblige, titillated by his titillation.