by Lee, Mandy
‘You can’t even trust the hotel staff?’
‘Can’t trust anybody. The roses were dumped out there too. It took me bloody ages to sort them out.’
Grabbing hold of my hand, he guides me towards the dining table, pulling out a chair for me before he takes his place opposite.
‘Dig in.’
While he pours a cup of tea for me and a coffee for himself, I decide it’s time to bring us both back down to Earth. We seem to have slipped off into la-la land, but the roses have kicked my brain into action, reminding me there’s a huge threat hanging over us.
‘This is all wonderful, but what about Boyd?’ I ask. This is the second time I’ve infected the room with his name. ‘Are you going to find him?’
‘We’re working on it. He’ll be dealt with soon enough.’
‘Dealt with?’
‘Dealt with,’ he repeats definitively.
There’s something about the ice in his eyes that leaves me feeling distinctly uneasy. Aware that I’m being watched, I pick up my teacup and take a sip. My thoughts are whirling, and I’m pretty sure he can see it in my face. He promised he wouldn’t go too far, but now that Boyd’s showed the true depths of his depravity, I’m wondering if it’s a case of second thoughts.
‘Those people Bill was talking about …’ I begin.
‘Aren’t particularly nice. But then again, neither is Boyd. Drink your tea.’
I put down my cup. I’m not finished with this. Not yet.
‘You said you wouldn’t have him …’ Unable to say the word, I trail into silence.
‘Killed?’ he asks bluntly.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. He’s asking for my blessing. I’m sure of it. And after what Boyd’s done, I shouldn’t be surprised. If I were hard enough, I’d simply leave Dan to get on with whatever he’s planning. But I’m not hard enough. I couldn’t live with a man’s death on my conscience. Even a man like Boyd. I shake my head, just a little.
‘It’s okay,’ he says quietly. ‘He’ll be warned off. That’s all.’
‘Warned off?’
‘Words won’t do the job, Maya. You know that.’
I tap the side of my cup and stare at a rose.
‘I won’t be personally involved. It’s not a good idea. But we need to let him know we mean business.’
‘Fine.’
When I glance up again, he’s already focussed back on me. We exchange a long, silent look of understanding across the table before he finally speaks again.
‘So, that’s the crap out of the way.’ His face lightens a little. ‘I’ve got you all to myself for a few hours. I don’t want to waste time.’
‘Understood.’
He lifts the lid on the platter, revealing a mound of hot food. French toast, crispy bacon, tomatoes, scrambled egg.
‘Would you look at that? Shall I be mother?’
‘Go ahead.’
Picking up the serving spoons, he shovels a pile of bacon onto my plate.
‘Well done on the exhibition, by the way. You were a star last night. Gordon told me all about it.’
Oh God, the interview.
‘Everything?’ I ask.
‘Everything.’
So, maybe that’s why he veered away from pain last night. No spanking. No biting. Now that I’ve confirmed the whole lack of self-esteem thing, perhaps we’re going pain-free forever. I can only hope I’m wrong. Picking up a fork, I watch as a dollop of scrambled egg joins the bacon and sense an unwanted slump of disappointment. It’s partly down to the threatened cutback on mild masochism, but more to do with a realisation I’ve just had. Suddenly, it’s clear. What I thought I’d achieved myself was simply part of the ruse.
‘You were behind it all.’ I prod the bacon. ‘The exhibition. I thought I’d done it off my own back.’
He slides a tomato onto my plate and pauses, holding the spoons in mid-air.
‘You did,’ he reassures me. ‘Gordon wouldn’t have agreed to showing the triptych if he didn’t think it was brilliant.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He goes back to dishing out the food, adding a couple of slices of French toast onto my meal before he begins on his own. ‘He’s willing to help but he’s got his limits. The truth is he’s smitten with your work. All the attention you had last night, all the admiration – you earned it all. I couldn’t have set that up if I tried.’
I look out of the window. More snow is falling now, smothering the park. It’s freezing outside, but try as it might, the cold can’t reach me. Even without high-end double-glazing and a state-of-the-art heating system, I’d still be glowing with warmth. It’s true. None of those people would have faked their admiration for my work, and Gordon wouldn’t risk his reputation as a favour for Dan. A smile creeps across my face. Maya Scotton, the artist, has finally made her mark.
And she needs to apologise.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Being a difficult arse.’
‘You’re just being yourself.’ Satisfied with his own massive plateful of food, he lays down the spoons. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, I can be difficult too.’
‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
He glances at my side plate, chews at his bottom lip.
‘When you’re the big I-am in the art world, and I’m an art gallery-owning ex-CEO of a building company, will you still love me?’
‘How could I ever stop?’
He hesitates.
‘Tell me something,’ he says, picking up his knife and fork. ‘When we first met and I behaved like a total prick, making one mistake after another, you stuck with me. Why did you do that?’
‘I must have seen the possibilities. It’s like when people go and look at a house, when they’re thinking of buying it.’
His forehead creases. He’s clearly not following.
‘Some people can’t see past the furnishing and decoration,’ I explain further. ‘Other people see the potential. They see what’s at the heart of it.’
‘And that’s you?’
‘I think so.’
‘So, I’m some shabby old house?’
‘Very badly decorated, complete with appalling furniture, shag pile carpets and a disgusting avocado bathroom suite.’
‘I think you’ve extended that metaphor far enough.’
He looks at me some more, totally relaxed now, and a hint of devilry creeps into his eyes. Shaking himself into action, he cuts a slice of French toast.
‘Eat,’ he orders.
I pick at a piece of bacon and slip it into my mouth.
He tuts, pointing his knife at my plate.
‘Use the napkin.’
‘I’m alright.’ I munch on, happily.
‘I said use your napkin.’
Well, this is weird. After all this time, Daniel Foster’s finally decided to reveal he’s a stickler for good habits at the table? Well, if he has, then he’s on a hiding to nothing. I’ll eat my own way.
‘I’m really not a napkin kind of girl.’
His face straightens. His eyes steel over. He speaks again, his tone low and determined, emphasising each word.
‘Use … your … napkin.’
‘Stop being so bloody bossy.’
‘Use the sodding napkin.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
With a huff, I pick up the napkin, hear the clink of metal and immediately catch sight of a ring on the side dish. My heartbeat triples.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, waving my napkin over the ring.
‘Uh?’ As if nothing out of the ordinary’s going on, he tucks into his scrambled egg.
‘This?’ Holding the napkin in one hand, I point at the ring with the other.
‘Oh, that?’ He leans forward, squinting at my side plate. ‘Looks like a ring.’ With another shrug, he shovels up a second forkful of egg.
‘What’s it doing here?’
The egg disappears int
o his mouth. He chews, swallows, and licks his lips.
‘Dunno.’
‘Dan?’
With a sigh, he puts down his knife and fork, and picks up the ring.
‘Maybe it’s the maid’s,’ he suggests, turning it in the light.
‘Of course it is.’ We’re playing another game of silly buggers, and I’m definitely going to win. ‘But it’s expensive. She’s a careless woman leaving it here.’
‘Definitely a careless woman,’ he muses, examining the ring as if he’s never seen it before. ‘I’d say it’s made of platinum. Perfect for the woman who prefers silver to gold but deserves to be treated to something really special.’
‘The maid’s a lucky woman.’
‘And careless to boot. That’s a diamond in the setting.’ He squints again. ‘In fact, I’d say this is a one carat diamond, flawless clarity, D grade, completely colourless, excellent cut.’
‘You’re jewellery expert, all of a sudden?’
‘Yes I am,’ he says chirpily. ‘It was one of the things I researched on the internet from my hospital bed. I also learned all the flags of the world.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. Go on. Test me. Slovakia.’
‘Bollocks to the flags of the world. Let’s discuss the jewellery situation.’
‘Okay.’ He focusses on the diamond again. ‘I’d say this was acquired from Tiffany’s Fifth Avenue flagship store. It must have cost a bomb. Very simple though. Very classy. Just like you.’
‘Simple?’
‘I don’t mean, you know, lacking up here.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Although you are a bit slow sometimes …’
‘I think that’s enough of the insults, shit head,’ I cut in. ‘You’d better call the concierge and get the ring back to the maid.’
‘Maybe later. I quite like it. I wonder …’
He motions for my hand.
‘What?’
‘I’m sure she won’t mind if we just muck about with it for a bit. Try it on.’
Feigning nonchalance, I offer him my right hand. He shakes his head and points at my left hand. I offer him that instead. He tries the ring over my thumb, shakes his head and moves on to my index finger, middle finger, and finally my wedding finger.
‘Oh, would you look at that?’ He slips it on and taps the diamond. ‘Perfect fit.’
I pull back my hand and stare at the diamond.
‘What do you think?’ he asks.
‘It’s bloody lovely.’
‘Keep it on.’
‘But it’s the maid’s.’
‘She won’t miss it. I bet she’s got a drawer full of the things.’
Seemingly done with the ring situation, he goes back to his breakfast. I’d do the same, but it’s difficult to play along with a game when your heart’s racing at a million miles an hour. Instead, I admire the ring, watching as light flickers through the diamond.
‘So,’ I venture at last. ‘Does this actually mean we’re engaged?’
‘What?’
‘Engaged? That thing you do before marriage.’
‘Oh that.’ Putting down his knife and fork, he takes a swig of coffee. ‘I suppose so. Is that a problem?’
‘Not really. I just think I might have preferred to do this the traditional way. You know, the romantic way.’
‘Oh, are we thinking inside the box again?’
‘Probably.’
‘So, what’s the traditional way? The romantic way?’
For a split second, I wonder if he actually knows the traditional way for anything. After all, he’s hardly had the most conventional of upbringings. But then again, he’s no idiot. In another split second, I decide he’s stringing me along for the heck of it.
‘Well, first you have to propose, and then I have to say yes, and then you put the ring on my finger. And you need to do all of this on one knee.’
‘Mmm.’ He seems to think for a moment. ‘I did propose … more than once if I remember rightly.’
‘Fair enough,’ I mutter, recalling the fact that he did indeed propose, prompted by a mad outburst in front of a Chinese billionaire, on three different occasions. And each one of them is seared into my brain.
‘And you did say yes,’ he reminds me.
‘When?’
He sits back, distinctly smug.
‘When I was in hospital. I heard you.’
‘You did?’ I know exactly what he’s going on about. My gushing acceptance at his bedside. I thought he was asleep. Clearly not. ‘Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating?’
‘Absolutely.’ He points at my hand. ‘And now I’ve put the ring on your finger.’
‘But you weren’t on one knee.’
‘The one-knee thing. That’s important?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not two knees?’
I hold up a finger. ‘One.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s just that I’m sure it’s more comfortable on two knees.’
‘Dan.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He holds out his hand, palm upwards. ‘Give me the maid’s ring.’
Obediently, I remove the ring from my finger and hand it to him. Pushing back his chair, he comes to my side of the table, smiling down at me all the time. And then he lowers himself onto one knee. It’s only slight, but I catch another wince.
‘Bloody hell,’ I gasp, remembering only too late that he’s still recovering. ‘Get back up again. Your leg.’
‘Sod the leg. I’m alright.’ He settles himself and holds up the ring.
I stare at it, and then I stare at him.
Bloody hell, it’s happening. He’s actually doing it. The man I love is right in front of me, and he’s on one knee, presenting me with a mega-expensive Tiffany engagement ring, and he’s about to say the words. For some reason, I want to clap and squeal and laugh like a maniac. But that might ruin the moment. Instead, I adjust my position and face him, doing my very best to seem all dignified
‘Now … Maya Scotton,’ he begins.
‘Yes, Daniel Foster?’
‘A few months ago, you walked into my life wearing a ridiculously short skirt.’
‘I did.’
‘Be quiet. You’ll ruin my train of thought.’
‘Sorry.’ A giggle escapes.
‘The first time I ever saw you, I only saw your backside and as you know, it gave me a massive hard-on. I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you right then.’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘Well, I fell in love with your backside, that’s for sure. And then I heard your voice – and yes, you were pretty rude to me …’
‘You were rude to me too.’
‘Oh yes. So I was. Be quiet.’
‘Sorry again.’
‘Where was I? Ah, yes. So, after I’d fallen in love with your backside, I then fell in love with your incredibly rude voice. And then your face, the first time I ever saw it.’ He coughs. ‘And your boobs. When you poured water down your incredibly tight blouse. Anyway, enough of this …’ He waves his hand, as if he’s trying to wave away the triteness. He becomes serious, but it doesn’t last for long. ‘Maya, you and me, we’re meant to be together. Always. We’re like cheese and wine … strawberries and champagne … Batman and Robin.’
‘Batman and Robin?’
‘I’m struggling here. What I’m trying to say is we’re perfect for each other, in our own imperfect ways. I fell in love with you as soon as I met you and I fucked up big time, but you gave me a second chance, and a third … and a fourth. When I came at you full-on, you didn’t run away.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Well you did a bit, but you always came back.’ He slows down, emphasising every word. ‘You believed in me. You looked past the appalling furniture and the shag pile carpet and the disgusting avocado bathroom suite. You saw the real me … and you saved me.’
He takes a jittery breath. Good God, Daniel Foster’s actually nervous? He thinks I’ll say no?
‘I love everything
about you, Maya … apart from your cooking.’ He shakes his head. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Will you do me the honour of being my wife? Because I love you. I fucking love you. I can’t exist without you. I need you and I want you. I’ll make you the happiest woman in the world, ridiculously happy, so happy, ordinary people are going to think you’ve lost it. You might even get committed.’
‘Finished?’
‘Think so. Maybe.’
He frowns, clearly convinced he’s just made a hash of the whole thing. But my God, he hasn’t. My heart’s on fire with happiness.
‘Say it again.’
‘What? All of it?’
‘No, just the marry me bit.’
A small, relieved smile creeps across his lips.
‘Maya, will you marry me?’
I make him wait for a few seconds. He gazes into my eyes, the blue whorls filled with hope.
‘Yes,’ I breathe finally.
‘Well, thank fuck for that.’
He slips the ring back on my finger, stands and draws me to my feet.
And then he kisses me … thoroughly.
Chapter Twelve
I step out of the shower and inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. Wet hair, tangled and matted; green eyes, slightly glassy from lack of sleep; a little thinner than usual. Still nothing special, nothing to shout about.
‘Don’t think that,’ I whisper, needing to hear the words spoken.
I’m still struggling to understand how it all happened, how I went from lonely, friendless misfit to this: a successful artist engaged to a thoroughly wonderful man. I can’t help the confusion. After all, in my eyes, I’m still that awkward, oddball child. I raise my hand and examine the ring. Simple and beautiful, just like everything in our world, it’s a symbol of Dan’s commitment to me, a sign of his belief. And now I need to repay him. I need to believe in myself because that’s what he wants for me. It’s a journey I’ve started on, and I’ve still not reached my destination, but one of these days, I’ll get there. I know I will.
After towel-drying my hair, I tug a brush through it and wander back into the bedroom, glancing at the rumpled covers on the bed where we spent the entire morning, cuddling, talking, filling each other in on what we’ve been up to over the past few weeks … and making love. A quick freshen-up was definitely in order. I’m just surprised he didn’t join me in the shower. Instead, suddenly preoccupied, he opted to make himself a coffee.
