The Accidental Proposal (6 page)

‘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 being 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.’

‘
Men
gagement? 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 . . .’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snorts Dan, more than a little embarrassed himself. ‘I’m the best man.’

The assistant turns back to me, and I think I can detect a look of sympathy on his face. ‘And do you know what kind of thing your fiancée likes?’

‘Gay-looking men, evidently,’ says Dan.

The assistant sighs. ‘In terms of
jewellery.
’

‘I think so. Although she doesn’t wear a lot.’

‘Or jewellery,’ says Dan.

The assistant ignores him. ‘And you’re happy to choose it? Without her, I mean?’

The truth is, no, I’m not. At least, not a hundred per cent. Not because I don’t trust my own judgement, but it’s just that I’d prefer Sam to be involved in a decision as big as this, because I want her to be involved with every big decision I take from now on. And besides, it’s a huge commitment too, and not just financially. It’s something she’s got to be happy with, and look at for the rest of her life – a bit like me, I suppose. But I also understand that sometimes, doing things for her – and without her – is important too.

I take a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ I say, then point to a ring on the top shelf of the cabinet with the sparkliest diamond I’ve ever seen. ‘In fact, I’d like that one. How much is it?’

12.
14 p.m.

I’m sitting in an armchair in the corner of the shop, vaguely aware of a clicking noise coming from somewhere in front of me, and when the room eventually swims into view, the first thing I see is a concerned-looking Dan snapping his fingers underneath my nose.

‘What happened?’

‘You fainted.’

‘What?’

Dan jabs a thumb over towards the centre of the shop, where the assistant is watching us anxiously. ‘When he told you the price of the ring. Lucky for you this carpet’s so thick or you might have done yourself an injury.’

I try and stand up, but my legs are still a little wobbly, so I lean heavily against Dan’s outstretched arm instead. ‘Ah. And how much was it?’

He nods towards the chair. ‘You better sit down again.’

I feel suddenly woozy, so do as I’m told. ‘When exactly did I pass out?’

‘
Faint
, you mean?’ Dan grins, then looks at his watch. ‘About five minutes ago.’

‘No, I mean before or after I bought the ring?’

‘Before,’ says Dan.

I breathe a sigh of relief, which catches in my throat when I notice the Tiffany’s bag that Dan’s clutching. ‘So, er, what’s that?’

Dan reaches inside, and produces a ring box. ‘I bought it for you.’

‘Dan, I . . .’ For a moment, I don’t know what to say. ‘You shouldn’t have.’

‘With your credit card, dummy. Seeing as I know your PIN.’

‘I was right the first time. You shouldn’t have. And how do you know my PIN?’

‘It’s your date of birth.’

‘Christ, Dan. The one time you actually remember my birthday . . .’ I shake my head. ‘So tell me. How much did I end up spending? Or rather, did you end up spending. Of my money.’

He shrugs. ‘Only about eight.’

My jaw drops. ‘Please tell me that’s hundred.’

‘I could tell you that,’ he says, sheepishly. ‘But it’s not what it’ll say on your next Visa bill. Besides, the one next to it cost ten. So count yourself lucky.’

‘Eight thousand pounds?’ I try to get up again, but Dan pushes me back down into the chair.

‘Relax. You wanted to make a statement. Now you have.’

I take the box from him and open it up. It’s certainly a beautiful ring, although the statement it seems to be making is that I’ll have to sell my car to pay for it.

‘Yes, but . . . eight thousand pounds?’

‘Trust me,’ he continues, echoing Natasha almost word for word. ‘It’ll be the best money you ever spend.’

And as I put the ring carefully back in the bag, I can only hope that he’s right.

1.15 p.m.

We’re pulling out of Victoria – which is a phrase Dan always sniggers at – and, given my precious cargo, for once I’m actually pleased Dan’s made me pay extra to be in first class
, because we’re safely away from the usual collection of druggies and hoodies who tend to use the London to Brighton line as their daily commute from dole office to dealer. Even so, I’m clutching the Tiffany’s bag as tightly as I can.

‘Cheapskate,’ says Dan, for about the millionth time. ‘I still think you should have gone for the ten-grand one.’

‘Well, I thought I’d leave it for you. So you can get it for Polly.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Dan. ‘That chapter of my life is over and done with. And the only way I’ll get my hands on anything of Tiffany’s is if Tiffany is an actual girl.’

I reach into my jacket pocket and hand over a smaller box. ‘So you won’t be wanting these cuff links I bought you. As a best-man gift.’

Dan opens the box slowly, beaming at me when he sees what’s inside. ‘These must have set you back a bit.’

I shrug. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Well, eight thousand of them.’

Dan looks at me sheepishly, then snaps the box shut
and hands it back to me. ‘Got time for lunch when we get back?’

‘Nope. Sorry.’

‘I thought you had the rest of the day off? Don’t tell me you’re going back to the office?’

‘Yes, Dan,’ I say. ‘Seeing as thanks to your wonderful gesture I’m suddenly eight grand in debt.’

‘Ah. Good point.’ He looks guilty. ‘After work, then?’

‘I can’t,’ I say, holding the Tiffany’s bag up reverentially. ‘I’ve got to get this ring where it belongs.’

Dan grins, then leans back in his seat and pulls his cap down over his eyes. ‘Good luck with that, Frodo,’ he says.

6.05 p.m.

I’m walking home from the office after a (fortunately) busy afternoon, anxiously hiding the Tiffany’s bag under my jacket. Not that I think I’m going to get mugged, but more because I’m intending to propose – for the first and, hopefully, only time in my life – the moment I walk in through the front door, and therefore need to be ready to whip it out. So to speak.

I shouldn’t be nervous, of course. Natasha’s given her approval of the ring, if not the salary increase I’ve asked for to help pay for it, and besides, as I keep telling myself – although I’m the only one who seems to actually believe it – Sam’s already proposed to me.