The Accidental Proposal

by Dunn, Matt

  ‘Your old ones?’ Natasha has been engaged about four times since I’ve known her. Trouble was, all of those times were to men who were already married, a fact that Natasha was the last person to discover. The last, that was, until she stormed round and told their wives. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘Nope.’ She fishes around in her top drawer, then produces what looks like a selection of jewellery boxes, before walking back across the room and placing them on top of the pile of CVs in my in-tray. ‘Here you go. Help yourself.’

  I pick up the first box and open the lid to be blinded by the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. ‘This must have cost a fortune.’

  Natasha shrugs. ‘He could afford it. Although not the subsequent divorce, unfortunately, which is why he ended up back with his wife, and I ended up with this.’

  I stare at the ring for a few moments before snapping the box shut. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly take it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I don’t like to point out it’s because I think it might be jinxed. ‘Well, because it’s bad luck. Probably. Besides, I want to choose one for Sam. Myself.’

  ‘Then choose one of these,’ she says, flipping open the other boxes in turn and showing them to me like a game-show hostess.

  ‘No, I mean a new one.’

  Natasha sighs again. ‘You’re not going to find a ring in Elizabeth Duke. Not one she’ll thank you for, anyway. We women are picky when it comes to this kind of thing. Particularly when we’re going to have to wear it for the rest of our lives. And if you want my advice, don’t surprise her, unless you’re really going to go to town.’

  ‘So where do you suggest I get one from?’

  ‘Like I said. Go to town.’ She taps the lid of one of the other boxes, where the Tiffany’s logo is clearly visible. ‘There’s only one place a woman wants her engagement ring to come from, and that’s here.’

  ‘Tiffany’s? But aren’t they rather . . .’ I want to say ‘expensive’, but I don’t mean that in the ‘I’m too tight’ sense. It’s more that Sam just isn’t extravagant.

  ‘Expensive?’ Natasha snaps shut the assorted ring boxes, then gathers them up and dumps them unceremoniously back into her desk drawer. ‘Trust me, Edward. It’ll be the best money you ever spend.’

  As she sits back down at her desk and switches on her computer, it occurs to me that a trip to Tiffany’s isn’t a bad idea at all. It’ll certainly make me feel a bit more secure knowing Sam’s actually wearing an engagement ring, and not because it’s a badge to say ‘keep off’, or a symbol to the rest of the (male) world that she’s taken, but because it’ll prove she’s committed to the wedding, and more importantly, committed to me. Plus, doing it this way will give me the chance to do the whole traditional down-on-one-knee thing, and actually – hopefully – hear Sam say ‘yes’, and that way, there’ll be no doubt in my mind. Even if she is having a few second thoughts, or feels a little bit disgruntled that she had to do the asking, maybe an expensive ring and a traditional proposal might just reassure her. And then the small matter of setting a date should be a formality.

  And as Natasha says, if I do decide to go to town as far as the ring’s concerned, then I am going to have to surprise Sam. Because knowing her, if we went to Tiffany’s together, as soon as we got there she’d come over all sensible and refuse to let me buy her anything, telling me we could spend the money on something more, well, practical. Which is ironic, because I can’t think of a more practical investment than something that guarantees me Sam for the rest of my life.

  While I’m pretty sure I can guess the kind of ring I need to buy – after all, most of the ones Natasha’s shown me look about the same, with a rock the size of Gibraltar on them – I recognize I could do with some help from someone who’s impressed by sparkly, expensive things, and who loves spending money – especially mine. Which is why, once I’ve checked with Natasha that I can have the rest of the day off, I get straight on the phone to Dan.

  11.21 a.m.

  We’re on the Brighton to London train; Dan preferring not to drive the Tango-orange Porsche that he owns as it’s raining and – according to him – there’s no point having a convertible if you’re not going to drive it with the roof down.

  As usual, despite the weather, Dan’s wearing his sunglasses-and-cap combination, although seeing as we’re the only people who (on Dan’s insistence) have paid extra to travel first class and therefore the only people in the whole carriage, he might as well be naked for all the attention he’s getting.

  ‘So,’ he says, once he’s flagged down the buffet trolley and ordered us both a cappuccino. ‘You’ve checked with her, then?’

  ‘Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I didn’t get the chance. But I will this evening.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to bet several thousand pounds that her answer’s going to be the one you want?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, that’s what this ring is going to cost you.’

  I swallow hard and stare into my cappuccino, although given the way the froth already seems to have evaporated, leaving a chocolate-coloured slick on the surface, I’d have a strong case for the trades descriptions people. ‘Surely not several?’

  Dan removes his sunglasses, though only for long enough to ensure I can see him roll his eyes. ‘You’ve never been to Tiffany’s before, have you, Ed?’

  ‘So?’ I shrug dismissively, and try to appear more nonchalant than I’m feeling. ‘I’ve never asked anyone to marry me before. Which reminds me. Seeing as I am getting married, I need to ask you something.’

  ‘I’d ask Sam something first, if I were you.’

  ‘Be serious for a moment,’ I say, as the train pulls into East Croydon. ‘This is important.’

  Dan sighs. ‘Not the birds and bees conversation again, Ed?’ he says, staring intently at a couple of girls on the platform in the hope they’ll recognize him. ‘Why don’t I just lend you one of my videos, and . . .’

  ‘No, not that,’ I say, quickly. I’ve seen Dan’s video collection, and apart from his rather extensive collection of top-shelf Danish porn, he’s also got a little sideline in recording himself with his girlfriends – and not while they’re having a picnic on the beach, if you know what I mean. ‘I just wanted to say . . . I mean, well, I’m obviously planning to do the whole all-singing, all-dancing big church/top hats/marquee-on-the-lawn-type thing, so on the day, will you . . .’ For some reason, I’m feeling quite emotional, and the words catch in my throat, which I find worrying. If I can’t get this out, I’m going to be a wreck trying to propose to Sam tonight. ‘You’re the best man, obviously.’

  Dan grins. ‘Well, compared to you, that goes without saying. What was it you wanted to ask me?’

  ‘No, I mean will you be my best man? At the wedding.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ He shrugs dismissively. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.’

  He takes his cap off, and puts it on the table. ‘It’s hardly a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . It’s still an honour, isn’t it? I mean, out of all my close male friends, you’re the one I’ve chosen.’

  ‘All your close male friends?’ snorts Dan. ‘And that would be who, exactly?’

  ‘Well, there’s . . .’

  ‘Exactly. Me. Unless you count Billy Big Issue, that is. Anyway, it’s not an honour. In fact, it’s a bit of a chore, isn’t it? I mean, it’s kind of a distraction from my principal job of chatting up the bridesmaids.’

  ‘Dan, stop thinking about yourself for one moment, please. And besides, Mister Popular, how many of your other friends have asked you to be their best man?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ huffs Dan. ‘Besides, they were probably worried I’d try and sleep with their wives. Or that I already had. Which was true, in some cases. So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass.’

  For a moment, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’d always kind of thoug
ht that in the – admittedly unlikely – event of Dan getting married, I’d be his best man, and that he’d obviously assume the opposite was true. But for some reason, he doesn’t seem keen at all.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, desperately. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Fun? How will it be fun, exactly?’

  ‘You get to make a speech.’

  ‘I do that every day, mate. Or at least, I did. And got paid for it.’

  ‘The drink will be free.’

  ‘I’m a celebrity. I don’t have to pay for it that often anyway.’

  ‘And . . . You get to wear a suit. You know you look good in a suit.’

  Dan thinks for a moment. ‘I do, don’t I?’

  ‘Plus, there’ll be women there. And like you said, bridesmaids.’

  ‘Over the age of sixteen? Although not too much over.’

  ‘I’ll book some specially.’

  ‘Great,’ says Dan. ‘Because the best man gets to sleep with them. It’s the law.’

  ‘So, you’ll do it?’

  Dan gets up out of his seat, leans across the table, and spreads his arms out wide, although it takes me a couple of seconds to realize he’s waiting to give me a hug. ‘Of course I’ll do it, you muppet. I was just yanking your chain.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, as he picks me up off the ground, then drops me awkwardly as the conductor gives us a funny look.

  ‘And it will be fun,’ he says, a little red in the face, though whether that’s from the effort of lifting me up or being seen hugging another man in public, it’s hard to tell. ‘Especially the stag night. Hey, maybe we can sell the pictures to one of the glossies. You know, “Dan Davis Attends Celebrity Wedding”, that sort of thing. Might help my profile a little.’

  ‘Dan, it’s hardly a celebrity wedding.’

  ‘I’ll be there, so yes it will be.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but I don’t think Sam would . . .’

  ‘At least let me try. I’ve got some contacts at Hello!.’

  I sigh, and decide to let Dan indulge his little fantasy – for now. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Them too. Good idea. And maybe Heat. I’ve always wanted to be in Heat.’

  ‘Dan, you’re always in heat. And if I can just remind you of something. This is Sam’s big day. Not yours.’

  ‘Sam’s big day,’ says Dan, staring dreamily out of the window, then sitting up with a start as another train thunders past in the other direction. ‘Got it.’

  But by the look on his face, he’s thinking the complete opposite.

  12.03 p.m.

  Even from the taxi, Tiffany’s looks expensive. On Dan’s advice, I’ve phoned the credit-card company from the train to maximize my Visa-card limit, but given that there are no prices visible on the very sparkly items I can see through the double-thickness plate-glass window, I’m worried it might not be enough.

  ‘Excellent.’ Dan rubs his hands together. ‘Retail opportunity ahead.’

  ‘Are you sure this is the right place? I mean, it looks . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to say “pricey”?’ Dan smirks. ‘Or isn’t Sam worth it?’

  ‘Of course she is,’ I reply, quickly. ‘I was going to say, er, closed.’

  Dan makes the ‘yeah, right’ face. ‘You wish. Come on,’ he says, handing a tenner to the cab driver. ‘Nothing says “I love you” like something in a Tiffany’s box.’

  ‘And do they sell just the boxes?’ I say, wondering whether an Elizabeth Duke ring would fit inside one.

  ‘What do you think?’ says Dan, jumping out of the cab without waiting for my answer.

  I follow Dan reluctantly towards the shop, where a liveried security guard ushers us through the heavy glass doors with a brisk, ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ We head on inside, nearly sinking out of view into the thick pile carpet, and, as the doors click shut behind us, we’re met by one of the impeccably dressed assistants, who looks us up and down, as if sizing up our spending ability. Immediately I feel scruffy, although I’m already in my best Paul Smith suit. What he makes of Dan’s low-slung jeans and ‘Give Peas A Chance’ T-shirt, it’s hard to tell.

  ‘What can I help you with?’

  I open my mouth to reply, but can’t seem to get any words out. Instead, Dan clears his throat. ‘The restaurant, please.’

  The assistant frowns. ‘Restaurant?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Dan. ‘We’re here for breakfast. You know, at Tiffany’s.’

  As Dan elbows me in a did-you-see-what-I-did-there? kind of way, the assistant smiles mirthlessly. ‘Very good, sir. In fact, I’ve never heard that one before.’

  ‘Really?’ Dan raises both eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised. No, we’re actually after engagement rings.’

  ‘Second floor,’ says the assistant, nodding towards the lift, before walking off to attend to what I’m sure he hopes are some proper customers.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say – or rather croak – after him, resisting the temptation to add ‘my good man’, before following Dan into the lift and up to the second floor.

  When the doors open and I catch sight of the array of diamonds on offer, for a moment, I don’t want to leave the safety of the lift, but Dan physically pushes me out so I’ve got no choice. We walk over to an expensively stocked glass-topped cabinet, where a man wearing the kind of white gloves normally sported by snooker referees seems to be polishing a non-existent mark on the upper surface.

  ‘Gentlemen?’ he says eventually, having given the glass a couple of extra wipes for good measure.

  Dan puts an arm round my shoulder and gives me a supportive squeeze, no doubt a little concerned at how pale I’ve gone. ‘He,’ he says, ‘needs an engagement ring.’

  The assistant looks at me briefly, and then smiles at Dan. ‘Well,’ he says, nodding down at the cabinet in front of him, ‘you’ve come to the right place.’

  Dan grins back at him. ‘And none of your cheap crap, either. This is for someone really special.’

  The assistant studies me for a second or two, perhaps trying to work out how I’ve managed to get someone really special. ‘Just walk this way,’ he says, leading us over towards another – even more expensive-looking – cabinet in the corner. ‘What sort of budget did you have in mind?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Dan looks across at me. ‘Edward?’

  I puff air nervously out of my cheeks. ‘What’s, um, usual?’

  ‘Well,’ says the assistant, ‘without wishing to be indiscreet, three times a gentleman’s monthly salary is usually the thing.’

  By the looks of the rings in the cabinet, they might be three times my yearly salary. ‘Okay. How much is that one?’ I say, pointing to an understated silver ring with a number of diamonds set into it, although I make the mistake of touching the glass, which leaves a large fingerprint.

  ‘An excellent choice,’ says the assistant, without answering my question. ‘Did sir wish to try it on?’

  Dan winks at me. ‘Perhaps later.’

  As Dan sniggers, I dig him in the ribs. ‘He means the ring, stupid. And, er, what good would that do?’

  ‘Why, to see if it fits, of course,’ says the assistant, wiping at the smear on the glass.

  ‘I already know what size I need,’ I say, having sneaked home earlier to measure the ring Sam bought from one of the hippy stalls on the seafront.

  ‘Don’t you want to see how it looks in situ?’ says the assistant, patiently.

  ‘Inside you?’ says Dan.

  I shush him, then shrug, and hold my hand out. ‘Okay.’

  The assistant reaches into the cabinet and hands the ring to me, but I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do next. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure where, I mean, which is my, you know . . .’

  ‘Ring finger?’ Dan sniggers again. ‘Left hand, next to the little finger.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  He grins. ‘I didn’t get where I am today without b
eing able to spot whether someone’s married or not.’

  I resist the temptation to ask Dan exactly where he is today, then slip the ring on. But when I hold it up to the light, it looks a little . . . dull.

  ‘What do you think?’ I say to Dan, who seems to be studying his reflection in one of the taller cabinets.

  ‘Okay, I suppose.’ He shrugs. ‘I’d prefer something a bit more showy. But then again, it’s not for me, is it?’

  ‘That’s helpful, Dan.’ I turn back to the assistant, because sadly, Dan’s right; it is just okay. ‘Have you got any with’ – I swallow hard, wondering what the effect on my wallet is going to be – ‘bigger diamonds? Perhaps even, you know, sticking out.’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course,’ says the assistant, haughtily, ‘but they’re for our female customers, traditionally.’

  ‘Your female customers?’ I repeat, more than a little confused.

  ‘Yes,’ continues the assistant. ‘We find that these mengagement rings are usually more practical if they’re a little less showy.’

  ‘Mengagement? You thought . . . No. It’s not for . . .’ As the assistant’s face reddens, but not as much as Dan’s, I start to laugh. ‘It’s for my fiancée. And she’s a girl.’

  ‘It can be hard to tell sometimes,’ stutters the assistant.

  ‘Not for me, it isn’t,’ says Dan, gruffly. ‘Christ, Edward. First of all when we bought your bloody car, and now . . .’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Why does this keep happening? I mean, do I look gay to you?’

  ‘Dan, two incidences in two years is hardly evidence that it “keeps happening”.’

  ‘It’s two more than I’d like.’

  ‘And besides, what does “look gay” actually mean?’ I say, pulling the ring off my finger, panicking for a moment when I have a job getting it past my knuckle. ‘Although you are very well turned out, so—’

  ‘So nothing!’ snaps Dan. ‘Unless, of course, it’s you.’

  I’m just about to respond appropriately when the assistant clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, taking the ring from me and setting it back down in the cabinet. ‘I just assumed that when you said “he” needs an engagement ring . . .’