Rory's Proposal (18 page)

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’d think about it?’

‘Think about it?’ echoes Devon. ‘You’ve been thinking about it for the past twelve fucking months. How much longer do you need? I thought this was what you wanted.’

‘It was. I mean it is. I don’t know any more. But it was the night before the final, don’t forget, how could I say no?’

‘He lost anyway,’ she laughs.

‘Yes, but at least I don’t have to blame myself.’

‘But I thought you really wanted to be engaged and married in your thirtieth year. Are you completely forgetting that was the
reason you went to Dublin?’

She is, of course, quite right. However, it has finally occurred to me that once I am married I want to stay married.

‘It’s not like you and Mark, you know. I think you forget that what you have is very special. All those long intimate sex sessions with floggers and everything, I mean,
your sex life is just one long workout. I don’t know why you bother with kettle classes, just use the kettle for the after sex tea. My sex life is one long endurance test and believe me it’s not exactly that long.’

‘And Thomas Rory?’ she asks quietly.

‘Luke said it was all a ploy to get the salon. That someone like Thomas Rory would never look at a
poxy hairdresser …’

I break off at the memory.

‘He said that? What a pig.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘That Luke is a pig, yes I do.’

‘No, that Tom thinks I’m a poxy hairdresser.’

‘No, he sounds too nice. I think he should have told you though.’

‘Told me that I’m a poxy hairdresser?’

Well, that’s charming isn’t it?

‘No, he should have told you who he was.’

‘I hate men.’

‘Rosalind is planning a spa weekend when you get back. She said you need to de-stress.’

‘How can she go to a spa in her condition?’

‘She said if it comes to it she’ll have an underwater birth in their luxury pool,’ she laughs, ‘and you can pant with her.’

‘Kind of her to think of me. Right, I’m off to shop till I drop. I’m going to find a knockout outfit for tonight if it kills me. I’m sick of Luke always telling me to wear something nice. Do you know I only realised yesterday he is always telling me to wear
something nice,
like I would wear crap if he didn’t tell me otherwise.’

‘Go Flora, go girl,’ she says, heartily.

‘Yes I will. I’ll find something stunning if it kills me.’

That’s most likely what it will do too.
But as Luke is the runner up I will need to look good, so armed with my Mastercard I head down to reception and ask where the best dress shops are in Dublin. I’m directed to Brown and Thomas in Grafton Street where I now marvel at the beautiful dresses on the stands.

‘For yourself now would it be?’ asks the assistant.

I lift one of the tags and grab the rail to support myself. £1,500 for a dress? That’s criminal, so it is, as they would say here in Ireland. The assistant smiles
and takes the dress from the rail. This is bad news. If I’m getting the
Pretty Woman
treatment it can mean only one thing; they’ve seen me in the papers.

‘I’m looking for something slightly cheaper,’ I say, sounding less like
Pretty Woman
by the minute.

Slightly cheaper, what am I saying? S
lightly
cheaper than £1,500 in here would be about a grand.

‘I have just the dress for you, a sleek little number that would look perfect on madam.’

I’m sure anything costing a grand
would look perfect on Susan Boyle, let alone me.
I just don’t have that kind of money, or should I say credit. She pulls a gorgeous black dress from a stand and holds it in front of me.

‘Vivienne Westwood, and for you madam I think the lamé strapless feature would enhance your neck, and the oversized bow neckline is just perfect. I would say the dress was made for madam.’

I have an awful feeling that the price isn’t going to be just perfect. I so need a Richard Gere right now. I stare longingly at the dress and imagine Tom seeing me wearing it and reprimand myself crossly. Thomas Rory doesn’t fancy me in the least and I must stop fooling myself he ever did.

‘Vivienne Westwood, that will be expensive,’ I say, trying not to show my disappointment.

‘Reduced madam from £905 to £250 and I tink with a gold clutch bag and satin sandals, yourself you wouldn’t know.’

She’s right about that. If I spend two hundred and fifty quid on a dress, myself I wouldn’t know for sure. But then again, 250 quid compared to 900 is quite a deal isn’t it? Blimey, even my credit can cope with that.

I tap my tummy. She looks at me over her black-rimmed glasses.

‘Lycra,’ she smiles.

‘No, just plain old fat, but if we can do something about it that would be great.’

She laughs.

‘I meant …’

‘Huge pants,’ I say. ‘You meant huge pants didn’t you?’

‘For a smooth hip line, does madam not tink it worth every moment of agony.’

‘For a smooth hip line I’d consider several days of agony.’

I’ll show Thomas Rory. A humble hairdresser am I? Right, Bridget Jones pants here I come. I march towards the fitting room carrying the Vivienne Westwood over my arm. Can you believe it, me, Flora Robson, humble hairdresser, carrying a Vivienne Westwood no less. Even I’m beginning to feel like
Pretty Woman
. Five minutes later I’m looking like her. I can’t breathe mind you, but hey, a smooth line is worth every moment of agony. I’m not sure it’s actually worth dying for though, but it does look fabulous. I don’t think I’ve ever looked so amazing. I can’t take my eyes off myself in the mirror. I’m wondering if one of those old-fashioned roll-on things would do just as well. They always seem to work on my mother until they unravel of course, leaving her with bulges in places you wouldn’t expect bulges to be, but at least I would be able to breathe. At this rate I’ll have to invest in smelling salts just to get me through the evening. The assistant seeming to understand my dilemma, delivers handfuls of hold-it-all-in knickers, sturdy pants and Lycra galore until we finally find one that holds everything in apart from my breath.

‘Silk stockings and suspenders,’ she says, assessing me.

Poor Luke will be shooting his load before he’s even managed to un-pop one button, so they’ll be lost on him. But, I suppose, if I should do my party piece of walking out of the loo and across the ballroom with my Vivienne Westwood stuck in my hold-it-all-in pants, at least I’ll have a nice pair of suspenders to show off. There’s always a silver lining isn’t there.

‘A lovely necklace, some sparkly earrings and madam will be the belle of the ball,’ smiles the assistant, looking impressed.

Almost an hour later and I’ve spent five hundred and twenty pounds on a dress, bag and shoes. I stroll along the streets, humming
Pretty Woman
and swinging my bags. I’ll show Thomas Rory. I’m now rather looking forward to the ball. What a shame old Mr Rory won. I check my BlackBerry and see I have time to browse more shops and now I’ve bashed the credit card I may as well carry on. After all, it’s not every day I get to go to Dublin is it? And I do need a necklace and earrings.

‘My God,’ says Luke, ‘you look like a, like a …’

If he says prostitute I’ll knee him in his useless groin.

‘Princess,’ he finishes.

‘The shoes are proving to be a bit tricky,’ I say.

I’d gone for the red high-heeled pumps but I’m rather thinking they’ll be going for me before the evening is out. Still, Luke has plenty of Biofreeze for those aching muscles at the end of the evening.

‘I’ll be proud to have you on my arm,’ he says.

The way he says it suggests he wouldn’t be proud to have me on his arm normally but this time he is. I hide my sigh and pick up my clutch bag. Luke doesn’t look so bad himself in his dinner jacket and bow tie. I find myself wondering what Tom looks like in his.

My confidence wanes as we pull up at the entrance to the Grand Hotel. It’s majestic and is heaving with expensively dressed women and cigar-smoking men. The heady mixture of perfume and cigar smoke reaches my nostrils and I feel myself go from
Pretty Woman
to outcast Baby
from Dirty Dancing
, still, no one puts baby in a corner right? I scan the faces for Tom but can’t see any sign of him. Luke helps me from the cab and we move through the cigar smoke haze and into the grand entrance hall where a doorman offers to take our coats. I quickly straighten my dress and grab Luke’s arm. I spot myself in the grand hall mirror and marvel at how good I look. The hold-it-all-in knickers are certainly doing what they say on the tin and they’re not even sticking up my arse. Hold-it-all-in pants, where have you been all my life? The sheer nylon stockings feel lovely and I actually believe that nothing Luke says tonight could make me feel anything other than sexy and gorgeous. I chose to wear my hair down after finding some fabulous conditioner, mind you, the price was pretty fabulous too but I was past caring then. It seems after you’ve spent a certain amount it really doesn’t matter any more. Large velour rollers had given it a bounce and I now run my hands through it, feeling its silkiness.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ says Luke leading me to the other side of the hall to the busy bar. We pass a table plan and I strain to see where the Rory’s are sitting but Luke has pulled me past before I have time to study it. I again scan the faces for Tom. Maybe he isn’t coming. Luke hands me a glass of champagne.

‘As it is a special occasion we can let our hair down,’ he says with a smile.

Oh, letting our hair down are we, I should have brought the flogger. I take a sip and then I see Tom. He looks so handsome that I choke on the champagne.

‘That’s because you’re not used to it,’ Luke says condescendingly. He follows my eyes to Tom. He is with an older gentleman and an elegant woman who is wearing a pale blue ankle-length dress. She is classically beautiful with a firm jawline, full red lips and soft gentle eyes. Her blonde hair has been expertly styled and wound smoothly into a bun so her diamond dangling earrings can be seen in their full glory. A beautiful pearl-studded comb holds her hair in place and she smiles warmly at everyone. So this is where Tom gets his good looks. I look at his father and see a strong chin and steely blue eyes. No doubt the hardness and the deceitful personality have been inherited from the father. From the moment they enter the grand hall everybody seems to gravitate towards them, congratulating Mr Rory Senior. I can’t but help notice the adoring eyes of the women as they look Tom’s way. He is the handsomest man in the room without doubt and I feel myself tremble with anger when I think of how he humiliated me. Using his charm and good looks to flatter me and to think I stupidly fell for it and what’s worse, I fell for him. His eyes meet mine and I turn away. My heart flutters and I shake
so much that drops of champagne spill from my glass. He walks towards us and my heart feels like it is going to burst from my chest. I clutch Luke’s arm tightly.

‘It’s okay, I can handle him,’ he says confidently.

Tom
extends a hand to Luke.

‘Congratulations. It was a great final,’ he says, avoiding my eyes.

‘Thanks. Unfortunately for me your father was the better player.’

‘Yes, golf is all he has to do these days.’

Tom’s eyes flit to me and then back to Luke.

‘I’m sorry about the newspaper crap, Luke. We’ve minimised the damage, especially for the function tonight. It was completely my fault. My friend’s crazy idea of a practical joke I’m afraid. We were simply celebrating a friend’s birthday along with Flora’s and the press have made a big thing out of nothing. I’m really sorry if it has caused you any embarrassment.’

Luke wraps an arm around my waist.

‘We’re enjoying the evening and putting it behind us. I’m grateful you had a seat to offer her on the train,’ Luke smiles.

What the buggery bollocks. Surely I’m hearing things and what Luke really said was,
right, Rory, outside, let’s settle this once and for all. No one makes a fool of me or my girlfriend.
Obviously not though, because we’re not outside are we and Luke isn’t beating the shit out of Thomas Rory. I don’t believe this. Tom nods at me and walks back to his parents.

‘At least he apologised,’ Luke says.

Oh, that’s all right then.

‘I need the gents,’ he says, looking around.

I wobble on my heels as he slides his arm from my waist and then I stand alone like a spare prick
at a wedding. I quickly check my dress is smoothed down and that the hold-it-all-in pants are still holding it all in, and remind myself to breathe as I am seriously thinking this may be the one time I actually may forget.

‘Aperitif madam?’

I turn to a waitress who is offering drinks and take a glass of Campari, knocking it back in one hit. An announcement is made for dinner and Luke reappears to take my arm
and lead me into the ballroom.
A live band is playing and beautifully laid tables await us. Luke checks the table plan and I follow him to a table in the corner.
Tom and his parents are seated at the other side of the room. Dinner is fabulous and I overindulge, much to Luke’s disgust. I’m drooling over the dessert menu when an announcement is made to honour the winning players. The chairman takes the stage and Luke lifts his chin proudly when his name is mentioned. I squeeze his knee. I’m sure we can make things work. I decide there and then to accept his proposal. Luke is the right one for me and we’ll make lots of babies and live happily ever after. Well, hopefully we’ll make babies.
With Luke’s
problem it might be a little bit harder than normal but not impossible and I could try that Master’s and whatsit thing couldn’t I? Just a little squeeze may be all that’s needed. I find myself squeezing his knee a little bit tighter at the thought. Yes, everything will be fine. Of course, I have had a glass and a half of wine at this point, not to mention the champagne, oh and of course the Campari. One should probably never accept a proposal while under the influence. Rather like driving isn’t it? You wouldn’t do that under the influence would you, not without expecting a policeman to pull you up.

‘Excuse me madam, I’m arresting you on the grounds of saying
I do
while under the influence.’

‘Flora,’ Luke whispers, ‘not in public darling.’

Not in public? I’m squeezing his knee, not his bloody penis. Oh God, it was his knee wasn’t it? I look down at my hand just to check.

‘While you deliberate your desserts,
let’s give a huge round of applause to Luke Wright. Come and join us on stage Luke and collect your medal. Ladies and gentlemen a big hand for this year’s runner up, Mr Luke Wright.’

‘Hear hear,’ bellows Mr Rory Senior.

I meet Tom’s eyes
before leaning across to give Luke a congratulatory kiss.

‘I love you,’ he whispers meeting my lips with his. I wait for that explosion of feelings that I have with Tom but there is nothing. No electricity and no tingle down my spine. In fact there is absolutely nothing at all. I watch him take the stage and receive
his medal. I applaud enthusiastically along with everyone else.

‘Speech,’ someone yells.

Luke steps towards the mike confidently.

‘I’d like to congratulate John Rory, he played a brilliant game and it was an honour to play with a true champion,’ he says, to loud applause. ‘It’s been a fabulous tournament and I will be going home not just with this medal but something even more precious. I would like to announce that I’ve also just got engaged to my beautiful girlfriend, Flora.’

‘Well, now, isn’t this a night to beat all nights,’ says the chairman, ‘Here’s to Luke and Flora.’

What the …? Oh bloody Nora. Two engagements in as many days. My mother will be beside herself with joy. Only me, this could only happen to me. There I was, so desperate to be engaged before I hit thirty, because let’s face it; an engagement seemed further away than Timbuctoo. All I wanted was a ring on my finger and a wedding date and now I’ve managed to get engaged, not once but twice and I still don’t have a sodding ring on my finger. That’s about right. Our table companions are congratulating me and all I can think about is dessert, and how there had better be chocolate on the menu. I somehow doubt they have Crunchie bars in the Tampax machines in the loos here. Now, there’s an idea. Every woman needs chocolate at period times doesn’t she? Every Tampax box should have one and every machine should pop one out along with a tampon. What am I thinking? I’m either in shock or I’ve drunk more than I thought.

‘We have a tempting selection of desserts for you to choose from. The waitresses will be bringing them out in a few minutes and you can help yourself from the dessert table, but first …’

There is loud applause before he can finish.

‘John Rory, please make your way to the stage.’

As they pass Luke and John Rory shake hands, and then Luke makes his way back to our table.

‘I wanted the whole world to know that you’re going to be my wife,’ he says, before kissing me.

No you didn’t, I think. You just wanted Tom to know. I empty my glass and watch John Rory receive his trophy and applaud along with the rest of the room
and then thankfully it is time for dessert.

‘I’ve got to go around the tables. It’s tradition. Will you be okay?’ Luke asks.

Oh yes. I have a tradition of my own, going around dessert tables, and tonight nothing is going to stop me. I nod. My face feels flushed from the alcohol and I am slightly anxious at the thought of walking to the dessert table in my heels. But hey, when has anything come between me and a dessert table, especially when Luke won’t be around to see what I’m piling on my plate? I take a deep breath and pull myself up and concentrate on walking to the dessert table that is the furthest from Tom. The selection is heavenly. I stare at the chocolate-covered cream puffs and sigh with pleasure. I’m sure if there is such a thing as a chocolate orgasm then I am having one right now.

‘The Italian trifle is divine,’ says a woman.

‘Is there jelly in that?’ I ask. ‘I don’t like jelly.’

‘Trifle without jelly isn’t trifle,’ says the woman.

‘No madam,’ smiles the waiter. ‘It’s tiramisu.’

‘I’ll have a little piece please and two chocolate-covered puffs but without the whipped cream on top and a slice of the chocolate cheesecake …’

‘But only if it has a biscuit base,’ says a familiar voice.

I try to ignore him but my legs begin to tremble and my heart beats faster, and although chocolate excites me it doesn’t excite me that much.

‘Would madam like some lemon curd tart, it’s very good.’

‘I don’t like lemon in desserts,’ I say.

‘And for you sir?’ he asks Tom.

‘I’ll have the bittersweet chocolate tart, two slices please.’

I turn to walk past him and accidently brush his arm feeling
emotions that only he can evoke.

‘I’m having mine outside,’ says the woman. ‘It’s too hot in here.’

‘I’ll join you,’ I say, grateful for the cool air on my flushed cheeks.

We sit on a bench in the magnificent gardens and I devour the chocolate cheesecake without an ounce of guilt, grateful for my new best friend, the hold-it-all-in panties.

‘You know I’m finding it genuinely bizarre that you seem to be engaged to two men at the same time,’ she says, flinging off her shoes and exposing bright pink painted toenails.

‘You and me both. For years I couldn’t seem to get engaged to anybody and now I’m supposedly engaged to two men, and frankly I can’t stand either of them. One wants my business and will go to extreme ends to get it and the other won’t let me eat anything …’

I follow her eyes to my plate.

‘Yes, well, he’s not looking is he? I don’t mean he starves me, but God, you should see the crap he wants us to eat. And then there’s the …’ I lower my voice, ‘the peaking too soon problem …’

Oh no.
I’ve certainly drunk far too much.

‘What I meant was …’

She smiles.

‘Doesn’t sound like the man you should be getting engaged to if you don’t mind me saying,’ she says, wrapping her silk shawl around her shoulders. ‘I think I’ll go back in. See you later, enjoy the party.’