His Convenient Proposal

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘Simon, just set the table, please,’ Ellie responded. She glanced at her watch and then through the open door to the dining room. ‘We’ve only got about ten minutes.’

  Simon stood his ground. ‘Who is this bloke?’

  Ellie drew a deep breath. ‘His name is William Brooke. He’s a musician and I met him when he bought one of my kites—you remember the racing car one you helped me to make? Well, he really liked it and bought it for his nephew. We got talking and he asked me to have lunch with him. That’s all.’

  ‘What kind of a musician?’ Simon asked with palpable foreboding.

  ‘He…he’s a concert violinist.’

  ‘Mum! So that’s what it’s all about! You want me to start playing the violin—yuk! Martie Webster has to practise for an hour a day and it sounds like…it sounds as if he’s strangling cats.’

  Ellie ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed the long indigo cotton-knit dress she’d changed into. She said, ‘Musical appreciation is something that can enhance your life. I’ve always regretted not learning to play an instrument when I was a kid and I didn’t want you to grow up with the same regret. So—’

  ‘You’re the one who banned the bongo drums Grandad sent me for Christmas!’

  ‘That was different, that wasn’t music and I was in imminent danger of going deaf!’ Ellie picked up a ladle and stirred the soup she was tending.

  ‘Mum, I’m quite happy the way I am! You really don’t have to—’

  ‘Simon,’ Ellie spoke rapidly, ‘this has turned out to be a difficult day for me. I tried to put William Brooke off but he’s not answering his phone, therefore I can do nothing but expect him for dinner, so you will set the table because I’m telling you to, and because I’m your mum I’m entitled to tell you to do things and because you’re my son you’re entitled to listen to me. OK? And I’ll tell you something else—you’ll behave yourself tonight because if you don’t I’ll have a conniption—you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

  Simon grinned. ‘The same kind of conniption you had when that guy reversed into you and tried to tell you it was your fault?’

  ‘Oh, much worse!’ She banged the ladle on the counter, then inspected herself for soup splashes.

  ‘All right, calm down, Mum. I’ll set the table.’

  ‘What about behaving yourself?’

  ‘I’m quite happy to behave myself so long as you understand that you don’t need to bring home all sorts of blokes to enhance my life.’ He walked through to the dining room.

  Ellie picked up the ladle and turned to see that Brett Spencer had come into the kitchen via the back door. She couldn’t doubt, from the amusement of his expression, that he’d heard it all.

  ‘Don’t say a word!’ she warned him darkly.

  ‘OK.’ He put a box on the table and drew a chilled bottle of wine from it. ‘Your wine cellar appears to be non-existent so I nipped out to the bottle shop.’

  He came over to the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. Two minutes later he handed her a glass of wine and poured a beer for himself.

  Ellie inspected the pale gold liquid in the crystal glass, then closed her eyes and sipped it gratefully. ‘You couldn’t—’ she stirred the soup gently ‘—also arrange to have me wafted to…to Africa or the moon for this evening?’

  He was standing next to her, leaning against the counter. He was still looking amused. He’d changed, he’d shaved and there was something oddly reassuring about him mixed in with something that sent a frisson tiptoeing down her spine.

  ‘Sorry, no, but it may not be as bad as you think. I don’t suppose there can be two concert violinists in town called William Brooke?’

  Ellie’s lips parted. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yep. Known him for years. Not, I would have thought…’ he looked her up and down ‘…essentially your type, Ellie.’

  Ellie took a gulp of her wine this time. ‘Before I get into what you perceive “my type” to be and how the hell you can know anyway—’

  ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘What?’

  Brett shrugged.

  ‘But that’s impossible!’

  ‘You’ve turned him around?’

  Ellie looked into those wry grey eyes and no amount of threatening to shoot herself stopped the tide of colour that rose to her cheeks. ‘No! I mean I haven’t even tried…I mean…I had no idea! Why would he want to take me to lunch and come to dinner—you must have it wrong!’

  ‘Because he likes you, because he’s interested in your kites—you could probably end up having a nice friendship with Will Brooke. If you were thinking of him in terms of a date, though…’ He shrugged. ‘That’s a different matter.’

  This time Ellie choked on her wine.

  ‘I thought so,’ Brett said.

  ‘How would you know—anything?’ she asked dangerously.

  He gestured in the direction of the fridge. ‘There is the matter of the new hairstyle, which is very attractive, incidentally. And according to Simon you don’t usually paint your nails.’

  Ellie drained her glass and handed it to him. ‘I’ll have another one, thank you.’

  ‘Is that wise? So soon, I mean?’

  ‘It’s about the wisest thing I’ve done for years, Brett Spencer,’ she told him. ‘I have now added to the list of my dates—the list of a back-to-nature freak; an incredibly pretentious artist; an unbelievably pompous father-figure—a gay violinist! I can’t believe it.’

  He poured her another glass of wine. ‘What about the one who tipped Simon five bucks to make himself scarce?’

  She gazed at him over the rim of her glass. ‘He was married. Of course I didn’t know it until, well, I won’t bore you with the details.’

  ‘Ellie…’ Brett started to laugh, and the phone rang.

  She picked it up and said a few words into it, finishing off with, ‘No, no, please don’t worry! I haven’t gone to any trouble at all!’ And she put it down with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Will can’t make it?’ Brett hazarded.

  ‘Will can’t make it,’ she agreed. ‘You have no idea how embarrassed I feel—what a fool I could have made of myself!’

  He grinned. ‘You probably would have realized before it got to that stage—why did he put it off?’

  ‘They’ve got a concert coming up in a couple of days and the conductor has called for an extra rehearsal this evening—I could kiss him!’ She whirled around a couple of times and planted a kiss on the top of Simon’s head as he came back into the kitchen.

  Simon screwed up his face. ‘What’s with you now, Mum?’

  ‘You’re off the hook, kid. Mr Brooke can’t make it tonight.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Simon responded. ‘So there’s just the three of us!’

  ‘Uh, well, I didn’t mean that necessarily. He’s still a nice person and I’d like to see him again but I won’t be asking him to teach you the violin—’ She stopped as the doorbell rang. ‘Must be one of your mates, Simon. Ask him if he’d like to stay for dinner. We’ve got more than enough, now.’

  But as Simon disappeared she said in a rapid undertone to Brett, ‘We could have a problem, you know.’

  ‘With Simon?’

  ‘Yes! Didn’t you hear what he said earlier?’

  ‘I heard. Is it out of the question, Ellie?’

  Her eyes widened and she suddenly had difficulty breathing. ‘Are you suggesting…what I think you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that you need a bit of help—’ He stopped as Simon, close by, could be heard talking to his mate. ‘Later,’ he said.

  But ‘later’ turned out to be nearly a week away because by the time Simon was in bed that evening Brett told her that he had a headache, probably only jet lag, but since he couldn’t seem to think straight would she mind if they postponed their discussion?

  Ellie agreed with alacrity and told him to go to bed.

  The next morning, when he didn’t appear after she’d got Simon of
f to school, she decided she’d better check on him.

  His bedroom was in darkness and there was no movement. She was just about to close the door and let him sleep on when he groaned. She hesitated, then crossed the room to pull one curtain back. The sight that met her eyes as she turned back to the bed was far from reassuring.

  The bed was a mess as if he’d been twisting and turning all night and he himself, as he sat up groggily, looked distinctly unwell. His eyes were heavy-lidded, he was hot and feverish and completely disorientated.

  ‘Brett, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Surely this can’t be jet lag?’

  He stared at her, blinking dazedly until, she gathered, she fell into place, then he dropped his head into his hands with another heartfelt groan.

  ‘I think we better get a doctor,’ she said with some concern.

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but—’

  ‘Ellie, it’s the flu, that’s all.’ He lay back and closed his eyes.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ She crossed to the bed and looked down at him, noting the beading of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘I’ve seen enough of malaria, yellow fever, sleeping sickness, cholera and the like in the past five years to know the difference. Besides which I spent a few days in Johannesburg with friends—one of them had it—it’s rampant in Jo’burg at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to get—’ she thought rapidly ‘—a blood test just to be on the safe side?’

  He grimaced. ‘All right, Florence Nightingale.’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ she retorted with a grin.

  By the time the doctor arrived, she’d made Brett shower, she’d made up his bed freshly and she’d made him a hot lemon drink—he didn’t want to eat anything.

  The doctor was of the opinion that Brett was right, it was influenza, with the symptoms possibly accentuated by jet lag, but he also said it never hurt to err on the side of caution. He left after taking a blood sample and cautioning Ellie to allow him plenty of bed rest and plenty of fluids.

  For the next couple of days Brett slept mostly, ate very little and put up with her ministrations, as in trying to keep him comfortable and peaceful without a murmur.

  Then he sat up one morning when she brought his breakfast and swore comprehensively.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She paused beside the bed with the tray in her hands.

  ‘Not you,’ he said urgently. ‘My bloody overnight bag! Has it turned up yet?’

  Ellie put the tray across his knees, took her own cup of coffee from it and sat down in an armchair. ‘No. Sorry, I forgot about it. Is—’ she frowned ‘—it so important? Most people carry books, duty-free stuff and toiletries in their overnight bags.’

  ‘Most people…’ he eyed her sardonically in her fresh yellow cotton dress with little green sprigs on it ‘…carry stuff they don’t want to be parted from in their overnight bags,’ he disagreed.

  ‘Such as?’ She raised an eyebrow at him, then spied the one he’d brought home by mistake. It was standing at the bottom of the bed and she got up and opened it.

  ‘I’ve been through it a dozen times; there’s no clue to the owner’s address,’ he said impatiently.

  She shrugged and began to pull stuff out of the bag item by item.

  There was a book, two magazines, a toilet bag, a small stuffed dog—a child’s toy or a mascot perhaps—some duty-free perfume and a camera. The toilet bag revealed cosmetics, very expensive ones.

  ‘She was a woman—the person sitting next to you who might have picked up the wrong bag?’

  ‘She was a woman,’ he agreed sardonically.

  Ellie pursed her lips, deducing that something about his fellow passenger had not endeared her to him. ‘She doesn’t seem to have anything she can’t live without in this bag,’ she commented.

  ‘Well, I did! I had a very important research file and I also had the disk it was backed up onto.’ He gazed at her broodingly.

  Ellie fought her instincts for a long moment. Brett Spencer might be dynamite when he was fighting fit but over the last days she’d seen another side of him. A side that showed her he hated being sick and that he was restless even as ill as he felt. It had also brought her a lot closer to him physically than she’d ever been. And as she’d watched him try to be a good, grateful patient at the same time as she’d been exposed to him often only wearing short pyjama bottoms, she’d been both awed at how beautifully he was made and she was conscious of a growing affection.

  In fact what she would like to do right now was slip her arms round him and tell him not to worry, she would get his bag back come hell or high water…

  She sat down again, picked up her cup and cleared her throat. ‘OK, give me all the details and I’ll ring them for you. Do you know her name?’

  ‘Kylie Jones. But what I need is an address.’ He looked down at the tray and realized for the first time that she’d cooked him a fragrant herb omelette and there was glass of freshly squeezed orange juice plus a pot of real coffee. And that for the first time in days, he felt hungry. He sighed. ‘Look, I don’t know how to thank you, Ellie, and I’m sorry if it sounded as if I was swearing at you.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ she murmured, hiding an inward tremor as he smiled—admittedly a low voltage one of the real thing—at her. ‘I’ll get on to them right away, but I also have to go to work this morning—will you be all right? I managed to rearrange my days for the last few days but—’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Ellie.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Thank you so much, you’ve been a brick.’

  Oh, dear, Ellie thought as she got ready for work and remembered the feel of his hand over hers, much more of this and I’ll be…what?

  It wasn’t until late that afternoon that she was able to report any progress to Brett.

  She made them some tea and took it into him. ‘You need the constitution of an ox to deal with this kind of thing,’ she said ruefully. ‘They keep putting you on hold and promising to call you back but, anyway, the gist of the matter is this. They cannot reveal names or addresses of passengers but they are doing their utmost to track down the person on the passenger list who was sitting next to you. However, they’re a bit baffled themselves because no one else has come forward with a “wrong bag” claim.’

  She poured the tea and put his cup and a slice of cake on the bedside table. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Health-wise or state-of-mind-wise?’

  ‘I think I can gauge your state of mind.’

  He looked faintly amused. ‘Do I resemble a bear with a sore head?’

  ‘Uh—disgruntled, disillusioned, disenchanted and—’

  ‘Disgustingly weak,’ he supplied.

  She sipped her tea. ‘But better at all?’

  He sat up and reached for his cake. ‘Thanks to your tender loving care, Ellie, yes, I’m starting to feel human again.’

  ‘Good. By the way, it is only the flu, the tests came back this afternoon. And, on your behalf, I threatened the airline that I would ring them hourly on the hour until the matter was resolved.’

  One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘What did they say to that?’

  ‘I think they were tempted to offer me a free flight out of the country!’

  He laughed.

  ‘Anyway, they’re a lot less inclined to fob me off with, “We have this matter in hand, Mrs Spencer”—I—uh—told them I was your wife.’

  He raised his eyebrows but said, ‘You’re a gem, Ellie. How’s Simon? I haven’t heard much of him lately.’

  ‘He’s being very quiet so as not to disturb you. I thought it was wise to keep him away for a while anyway.’

  ‘I guess so. But he seems to have got over all his childhood ailments.’

  ‘Touch wood, he has.’

  Brett drank his tea, then lay back with one arm behind his head and looked at her thoughtfully. She hadn’t changed out of her trim uniform, a white blouse with navy trim and a short straight navy skirt. She wore s
tockings, navy shoes with little heels and her medical badge was pinned to her collar. She looked capable but chic.

  ‘Is that where you acquired your nursing skills? From nursing Simon?’

  She smiled. ‘What skills? All I’ve done is make your bed and keep you supplied with clean pyjamas.’

  ‘You’ve done a lot more than that. You’ve fed me, provided a peaceful environment, medicated me with…tisanes and hot lemon drinks and all the while you’ve been peaceful and restful about it.’

  She thought for a bit. ‘I suppose if I did pick up anything from Simon’s early years it was that to be peaceful and restful helped.’

  He moved. ‘I should be up and about tomorrow.’

  ‘I know this is a bit presumptuous since you’re the doctor, Brett, but my advice is to take it easy.’

  ‘I’m bored,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Well, that’s a good sign, but all the same—if you feel like reading now, how about I bring you some books or—?’

  ‘And lonely.’

  Their gazes clashed. ‘Ah. OK,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘I’m working on a kite so once I’ve got dinner out of the way—Simon is spending the night with a friend—if you really feel like getting up for a bit, you could help or just sit and talk to me.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am. What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Now that is a good sign,’ she told him laughingly.

  When she’d gone to deal with dinner, Brett found himself contemplating several matters. Such as the fact that this might be his home, but nevertheless it now seemed very much Ellie’s home. Her personality was imprinted on it, it ran smoothly thanks to her organisation and both house and garden seemed to have a bloom to them although she’d changed almost nothing.

  The ‘bloom’ of a much-loved home? he wondered. If so, what did that say about Ellie the person, Ellie the woman, Ellie—who had been so wary of his plans for her life but had never moved on?

  Dinner was simple, but it was artistically presented and delicious. Grilled Atlantic salmon, a potato focaccia and a rocket salad with black olives and shredded Spanish onions.

  Afterwards he sat with her for a while in the enclosed back veranda where she had her design desk and all her kite-making equipment and discovered there was more to kite-making than he’d realized. And it came to him when she told him how much her kites sold for and how many repeat customers she had that the nest egg he’d treated so lightly might be much more substantial than he’d guessed.