by Dunn, Matt
With Jane, even though we were together for nearly ten years, marriage was just something we didn’t discuss, maybe because I thought we’d just drift along together until it happened. And while what actually happened was that I let myself go, got fat, smoked too much, stopped caring about my appearance, and therefore (according to Jane) stopped caring about her, so she dumped me, I have my suspicions that an additional contributory factor in the dumping might have been because I didn’t ever get down on one knee in front of her.
The funny thing is, when I think about it now, Jane and I getting married wouldn’t really have meant anything. It would have just been the next thing to do, as if because we’d been together for so long why not just go ahead and make it legal – and where’s the romance in that? Because by then, the proposal isn’t such a big deal whoever does it, the wedding is greeted with a lot of ‘about time too’ jokey comments, and then the next day, we’d have gone back to being exactly who we were beforehand, except I’d have a large hangover, she’d have my surname, and we’d both have a few too many toasters. Nothing would really have been different, so what would have been the point?
Whereas with Sam, it will be different. Her becoming my wife is a step forward – for both of us. And it’s not just me saying ‘hands off’ to every other man; it’s because I want to take the relationship to another level, maybe even start a family. More importantly, I want Sam to know I love her, and that I’m committed to building a future with her. Our future.
I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, then jump out of bed and stride purposefully towards the bathroom, conscious that I need to catch Sam before she heads out to work. Because as far as I’m concerned, that future can’t start soon enough.
7.21 a.m.
By the time I get out of the shower, I’ve changed my mind as to my tactics. While I’m still planning to ask Sam to set a date, I’m only going to do that when she brings up the whole engagement thing, which she’s bound to, especially as she must have told Madeleine all about it yesterday, just like I did Dan. That way, I won’t have to raise it out of the blue and risk being shot down. And this plan is doubly good, mainly because I still haven’t managed to work out how to raise it.
When I walk into the kitchen, she’s standing by the window, dressed in one of her usual figure-hugging tracksuits, and snacking on a packet of rice cakes. Sam certainly practices what she preaches, and expects her clients – past and present – to as well, which is why I’m hoping the half a litre of mouthwash I’ve just gargled with will mask the smell of the packet of sour-cream-and-chive-flavour Pringles I ate from my secret stash when I got home last night. Not that I’m a client any more, although that is how Sam and I met; when I’d hired her to help me get back in shape so I could (misguidedly, according to Dan) try to win Jane back. Little did I know at the time that the emphasis with Sam would shift from the ‘training’ to the ‘personal’ as our sessions progressed. But I’m extremely pleased it did.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ she says, standing on tiptoe to kiss me.
‘You talkin’ to me?’ I say, doing what I think is my best Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver impression, although when I listen to myself, it sounds more like I’ve got a heavy cold.
‘I don’t see anyone else here.’
‘Well, in that case, good morning.’
I smile down at her. Of the two of us, Sam’s the gorgeous one: short, almost boyish dark hair that on her looks anything but, a cute upturned nose, and the kind of dark brown eyes I could gaze into for the rest of my life – which is kind of fortunate, given recent developments. I kiss her again, and she wrinkles her nose at what I can only guess is a whiff of crisp breath.
‘I didn’t hear you come in last night.’
‘I did,’ I say. ‘Honest.’
‘Relax, Edward. I didn’t mean it like that. Did you have a nice time?’
‘Er . . .’ Yes and no is the obvious answer, but it suddenly seems ridiculous to me that the ‘no’ part should be to do with the doubts that Dan managed to instil in me. ‘Okay, I guess.’
She holds the rice cakes out towards me. ‘How was Dan?’
‘Oh. You know. Same old Dan,’ I say, waving the packet away. I’ve tried Sam’s healthy snacks before, and quite frankly, the plastic lid from last night’s tube of Pringles probably has more flavour.
Sam rolls her eyes, then helps herself to another rice cake. ‘It can’t be easy for him,’ she says, walking over to the sink and pouring herself a glass of water. ‘To hear news like that, I mean.’
Aha! There it is. My ‘in’. Sam must mean the news of our engagement. I almost have to stop myself from doing a celebratory dance in the middle of the kitchen, although I feel a little guilty at the same time. Because of course it can’t have been easy for Dan to hear about Sam and me getting married, particularly when he’s feeling so low from his recent sacking . . . Ah.
‘You mean the Close Encounters stuff?’
Sam nods. ‘Poor thing. What’s he going to do?’
Damn. ‘He didn’t really mention it, to be honest.’
‘What did the two of you talk about?’
‘Talk about?’ I shrug dismissively, wondering whether she’s fishing to see whether I’ve said anything to Dan at all, although I’m growing increasingly conscious that she hasn’t referred to our being engaged even once. And short of me just coming right out with it, I don’t know how to, even if I dress it up in a funny ‘You know, Dan thinks . . .’ kind of way. It just seems so, well, preposterous that I have to ask her if I got the wrong end of the stick. Plus, what will I do if she says I did? ‘You know. The usual.’
‘You mean his favourite subject. Himself,’ she says, downing her water quickly.
‘No, we . . .’ I look up at the clock on the kitchen wall, conscious that time’s running out. This morning, at least. ‘Listen, Sam. I was wondering . . .’
‘Wondering what?’
I click the kettle on, then follow her into the front room. ‘Well, I wanted to ask you something.’
Sam glances at her watch. ‘Is it a quick one? I’ve got to meet a client by the pier in five minutes.’
‘Er . . .’ I don’t know what to say. I suppose it is a quick one – it doesn’t take long to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, after all – but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to take more than five minutes for me to get round to asking the question. ‘No, that’s okay. It can wait till this evening.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ says Sam, kissing me quickly, then heading for the front door.
That’s the problem, I want to say, as I watch her go. I’m not.
8.51 a.m.
I’m walking into work, feeling a little, well, flat. But I have to stay positive – after all, while Sam didn’t actually refer to us being engaged earlier, she didn’t mention the fact that we weren’t. I have to take that as a good sign.
As I turn the corner into Ship Street, where Staff-IT, the IT recruitment consultancy I work for is situated, a voice I haven’t heard for the best part of twelve months makes me jump.
‘G’issue?’
I look up to see Billy, Ship Street’s one-time Big Issue seller, grinning at me – although whether you can still grin when you’ve lost most of your front teeth is debatable.
‘Jesus, Billy, you scared me. Where have you been?’
‘Where haven’t I been?’ he says, gruffly.
‘I thought you must have moved,’ I say, then realize that’s probably not the most sympathetic observation to make to a homeless person.
‘Nah,’ says Billy, picking up a can of Special Brew from behind his rucksack and taking a quick swig. ‘I’ve been on me holidays.’
‘For a year?’
‘I’ve got a flexible employer,’ says Billy, nodding towards the dog-eared magazine he’s holding. ‘You all right then, Ed?’
‘Not bad,’ I say, pleased that he’s remembered my name. Normally he can’t even remember his.
‘And how’s that gorg
eous girlfriend of yours?’
I’m impressed – unless he means Jane, of course. But then again, he’d have to be very drunk to mix the two of them up, and while judging by the number of empty beer cans I can see in the vicinity, that’s certainly a possibility, Billy actually knows Sam – she’s bought Big Issues from him often enough – whereas Jane used to cross the street to avoid him.
‘Good. Great, actually. In fact . . .’ I take a deep breath, hoping that the more I say it, the more likely it is to be true. ‘We’re getting married.’
For a moment, Billy just stares at me, and then his face darkens. ‘Whatcha want to go and do that for?’
‘What?’ I say, slightly taken aback.
‘Up the duff, is she?’
‘No, Billy. Sam’s not pregnant.’
He scratches his head. ‘So why, then?’
‘Well, because we love each other, and . . .’
‘Christ.’ Billy rolls his eyes. ‘If you’re that desperate to give your house away, why not give it to someone like me who really needs it?’
‘What have you got against marriage, Billy?’
‘What d’you think I’m doing out here selling these magazines?’ He drains the rest of his Special Brew. ‘It’s not because I’m after a career as a newsagent.’
I know Billy was married once, to some girl who needed a visa, or something. Though it sounds like it was his Visa card she was more interested in.
‘So, you being on the streets is because of a woman?’
Billy shakes his head, then produces another can of Special Brew from his rucksack and cracks it open. ‘Nope. Because of the drinking.’
‘Oh, sorry. I thought . . .’
‘But the drinking’s because of a woman.’
‘Your wife?’
‘Ex-wife,’ snaps Billy. ‘Take my advice, Ed. Hold on to your freedom as long as you can.’
For a moment, I feel like trying to explain to him that freedom’s the last thing I want. But then again, someone who’s made the lifestyle choices Billy has probably has a completely different definition of what ‘freedom’ actually is.
‘But surely it’s all about finding the right woman?’
‘Of course it is. Of course it is. But that’s like saying all you have to do is buy the right lottery ticket and you’ll win the jackpot.’ He gestures towards me with his can, spilling a couple of drops on my shoes. ‘Women are the root of all evil, you know.’
‘I thought that was money?’
‘That too,’ says Billy, holding out a magazine for me to buy. ‘And speaking of the devil . . .’
9.58 a.m.
I’m sitting in my office, browsing through the morning suit section of the Moss Bros website, and wondering whether Dan and I will look ridiculous in top hats, when there’s a gruff voice from the doorway.
‘Morning,’ grumbles Natasha, though given the miserable look on her face, that should be spelled with a ‘u’ after the ‘o’. Unusually for her, she’s in before ten, and even more unusually, she doesn’t appear to be hung over.
I sit up guiltily. Natasha founded the company, and while now we’re supposedly equal partners in the business since she promoted me last year, she often acts as if she’s forgotten that fact. To be honest, most of the time, I’m too scared of her moods to remind her.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, hurriedly clicking on the ‘close window’ button, although all that does is reveal the travel-agency website I’d been looking at previously while wondering where to take Sam on honeymoon.
Natasha scowls at me, then stomps over to the coat rack and throws her jacket on one of the hooks. ‘I work here, remember?’
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. Natasha’s definition of ‘work’ is somewhat different to mine, although I suppose using your cleavage and long blonde hair to attract new clients could loosely be described as ‘marketing’. Luckily, given the not inconsiderable fee we earn each time a candidate accepts a job, she doesn’t need to do a lot. Of work, I mean. Not clients.
I glance at my watch, then tap it a couple of times to make sure it hasn’t stopped. ‘Yes, but . . .’
Natasha gives me a look that suggests I’d be better off shutting up. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, walking over to my desk and peering at my monitor.
‘I’m, er . . . Nothing,’ I say, nervously. I’ve decided not to tell Natasha about my good news just yet. She’s not the biggest fan of marriage, particularly since most of her boyfriends are already married to someone else.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’ Natasha taps the picture of a tropical island on my screen with a scarily lacquered fingernail. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘Just on honey . . . I mean, holiday. With Sam.’
‘Haven’t you just been on one?’ She tuts, no doubt not looking forward to the prospect of having to do some actual recruitment work if I’m away.
‘That was a year ago. To Spain.’
‘Oh yes. Where you and Sam almost split up. And you’re risking it again?’
‘Yes, well, as I told you, that was a simple misunderstanding.’
Natasha arches one impeccably plucked eyebrow, then nudges my chair with her hip, hard enough to send me rolling across to the other side of the room. ‘As in Sam misunderstood why you’d been seeing your ex girlfriend behind her back?’
‘No. Well, yes, but it wasn’t anything like that,’ I say, walking my chair back towards my desk with a series of dainty steps. ‘I hadn’t been seeing her. Jane just . . . I mean, yes, I saw her, but not in the sense that you see your, er . . .’ I stop talking. When Natasha’s in a mood like this, there’s no reasoning with her.
‘So where are you thinking of going?’ she says, peering closely at my computer screen. ‘The Maldives? Isn’t that a bit . . . Hold on – honeymoon suite?’ Natasha grabs the desk lamp, switches it on, and angles the beam into my face. ‘Have you got something to tell me, Edward?’
‘Er . . .’ I haven’t felt this uncomfortable with Natasha since the time I decided not to tell her about Jane dumping me. And now, as then, I cave in after about five seconds. ‘Sam and I are getting married.’
For a moment, Natasha looks stunned. ‘What on earth do the two of you want to do that for?’ she says, only slightly less gruffly than Billy earlier.
‘Er, because we love each other?’ I say, only this time, as if I’m guessing at the answer. ‘And because we want to spend the rest of our lives together.’ And because I don’t want anyone else to steal her, I feel like adding. ‘Besides, what’s wrong with wanting to get married?’
As soon as I say this, I realize I might have asked the wrong person. But fortunately, Natasha seems more surprised that someone’s agreed to marry me, rather than at the fact that we’ve simply decided to get married.
‘Let me get this straight,’ says Natasha, incredulously. ‘You asked her to marry you, and she said yes?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ I reply, feeling a little put out at Natasha’s tone, while trying to ignore the feeling of déjà vu. ‘In actual fact, it was me who said yes.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Sam asked me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Is she pregnant?’
‘No!’
‘Are you dying?’
Only of embarrassment. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘I can’t think of a single other reason a woman would propose.’ Natasha looks at her watch. ‘It’s not a leap year, is it?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘And you’re not rich.’
‘Not on what you pay me I’m not.’
Natasha laughs. ‘Okay. Fair point. But you’ve really got no idea why she asked you?’
‘Because she loves me, perhaps?’ I suggest, crossly.
‘No, I meant why she asked. Not why she asked – well – you.’
‘Er . . . Maybe Sam’s the traditional type. Wants to be married before she starts
a family. That sort of thing.’
Natasha rests a hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re sure she’s not pregnant?’
‘No,’ I say, shrugging her off. ‘I mean, yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’d know. Wouldn’t I?’
Natasha raises both eyebrows this time. ‘And you’re sure she actually did. You know, ask you. To marry her.’
‘Don’t you start.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Yes, I’m sure,’ I say, feeling less and less so by the minute.
‘You don’t think you better check?’
I look up at her crossly. ‘Natasha!’
‘Sorry.’ She smiles down at me. ‘I suppose I’m just being over-cautious, Edward. I mean, as long as she’s got a ring on her finger, then you’ve got nothing to . . .’ Natasha stops mid-sentence, as it’s obvious even to me that I’ve gone deathly pale. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t?’
‘It only happened on Saturday night, and I kind of thought that seeing as she proposed to me, then . . .’ Bollocks. How could I have been so stupid?
‘You expected her to go out and get her own engagement ring?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’ I slump back in my chair. The truth is, I don’t know what I expected. Sam proposing did catch me off guard. And so I didn’t – and don’t – have a clue what to do in the circumstances.
‘You better do something about that, and fast. Otherwise you might find yourself disengaged.’
‘Sure,’ I say, sitting up sharply and grabbing my keyboard. ‘I’ll get right on it.’
I type the words ‘Argos’ and ‘engagement rings’ into Google, but when Natasha sees what I’m doing, she makes a mock-horror face, although on closer inspection, there’s not a lot of ‘mock’ about it.
‘Edward, are you determined to sabotage this?’
‘Huh?’
She nods towards my computer screen. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re looking for an engagement ring there.’
‘What’s wrong with Argos? And anyway, it’s not Argos. It’s Elizabeth Duke.’
Natasha sighs loudly, then walks over to her desk. ‘Tell you what. You can have one of my old ones if you like.’
