The Accidental Proposal (8 page)

I take a deep breath. ‘In with Sam, actually.’

Jane flinches slightly, but doesn’t lose her composure. ‘And how is that going?’

I try and detect any maliciousness in her voice, but I can’t hear any, although maybe that’s because it’s difficult to be malicious when your mouth’s clogged up with a mixture of oats and syrup. ‘Good, thanks,’ I say, then decide that it’s now or never. But before I get the chance, Jane beats me to it.

‘Living together, eh?’ she says, before taking another bite. ‘You’ll be telling me you’re getting married next.’

‘Well . . .’ I blow on my coffee, and try to look as innocent as I can. ‘Funny you should say that . . .’

But what happens next suggests that it’s not funny at all because Jane’s mouth falls open, affording me a rather unpleasant view of some half-chewed flapjack.

‘What?’

‘We’re – Sam and I, I mean – well, we are. Getting – you know –
married
.’

I make a jokey-horror face in an attempt to lessen the impact, but it doesn’t seem to work, because instead of congratulating me, Jane swallows the mouthful of flapjack with what looks like the greatest of efforts, then starts to emit a low, wailing sound.

Although it takes me a while, I realize she’s crying. And even though I’ve seen her turn on the waterworks in the past as easily as opening a tap, from what I can tell, these tears are for real. Her shoulders are heaving, and after a minute or so, there’s even what looks like snot coming out of her nose.

I look frantically round the coffee shop, noticing to my horror that people are watching – probably
due
to the low wailing sound Jane’s making, which is actually getting less and less low by the second. I don’t know what to do. I can’t hug her, partly because I don’t think it would be appropriate, but also because I’ve just had my suit dry-cleaned, and the last thing I want is a snot stain on the shoulder.

Cursing the fact that I don’t have any tissues on me, I stand up quickly, and – trying to avoid the black stares from the assembled coffee-drinkers, who probably assume I’m abandoning her – make my way over towards the counter and grab a handful of napkins before hurrying back.

‘Here,’ I say, handing over the wedge of tissues.

Jane looks at the contents of my hand, then up at me, and starts crying even more loudly and, for a moment, I can’t work out whether it’s because the napkins have some sort of emotional significance. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, even though in retrospect it’s probably the stupidest question I could have come up with.

After what seems like an eternity, and after working her way through a large number of napkins, Jane manages to pull herself together.

‘I’m just so happy for you,’ she says, blowing her nose loudly.

‘Oh. Right,’ I say, wondering whether
yeah, right
might be more accurate.

She looks up at me, and tries to force a smile. ‘She’s not pregnant, is she?’

‘No!’ I say, a little annoyed that everyone thinks that’s the only reason Sam would want to marry me.

‘Oh,’ she sniffs. ‘Have you set a date yet?’

‘Yes,’ I say, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I mean, no. Not yet.’

‘It’s all right, Edward,’ says Jane, dabbing at her eyes with the last of the napkins. ‘I’m hardly going to crash the church and shout “It should have been me.” Although, of course, it should have.’

‘Actually, Sam asked me,’ I say, maybe because I think that’ll make her feel better, although the look on her face suggests it’s had the opposite effect. ‘And anyway,’ I add, sitting back down, and hoping I won’t have to make another serviette run, ‘for the millionth time, you dumped
me
, remember. So you can hardly sit here feeling all hard done by.’

Jane stares at me for a moment or two, then nods her head vigorously, which catapults a drop of snot dangerously close to my coffee mug. ‘Sorry, Edward, you’re right. As long as you ignore the fact that we went out with each other for ten years, during which time I waited for you to pop the question, and then when you didn’t and I dumped you for your own good and to give you a kick up the backside to maybe do something about it, you sorted yourself out, lost all that weight, got a proper haircut, and then went off and shacked up with the first girl who showed any interest . . .’ She pauses for breath. ‘No, I shouldn’t be feeling hard done by at all. In fact, congratulations.’ Jane stands up suddenly, and holds out a hand for me to shake. ‘I’m sure you’ll both be very happy together.’

‘But . . .’

As I stare at her outstretched palm, Jane leans over and grabs my hand. ‘Goodbye, Edward,’ she says, pumping it up and down theatrically, before shoving her chair out of the way and storming off towards the door.

I sit there, a little stunned. To be honest, there’s a big part of me that wants her to go, but there’s another part of me that doesn’t want her to go like this. Reluctantly, I stand up.

‘Jane,’ I call after her. ‘Wait.’

She stops by the doorway, then turns round ‘What?’

‘Come back. Sit down. Please. At least finish your coffee.’

For the first time, Jane seems to be aware that other people are watching. She hesitates for a moment, then walks calmly back towards the table, picks up her mug, and downs the contents in one go. It’s a pretty impressive feat, firstly because the mug’s full, and secondly, because it’ll still be too hot to drink. As she starts crying again – which admittedly could be due to her having just burnt her throat – I put an arm round her, and ease her back down into her chair, to a smattering of applause from the room.

‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ she says, eventually. ‘It was just a bit of a shock, that’s all. And I know it’s my fault, and you probably still hate me . . .’

I’m not too stupid to realize that’s my cue. ‘I don’t hate you, Jane. I’d still like us to be friends.’

‘I’d like that too,’ she sniffs. ‘It’s just . . .’ She stops talking, and looks up at me with her tear-stained eyes. Her mascara’s run, making her look like one of the Goths that hang around outside Churchill Square Shopping Centre. ‘I feel I’m being left on the shelf.’

‘That’s ridiculous. You’re only . . .’ I stop myself before I blurt out her age because I’m worried about getting it wrong. ‘I mean, you’re still young. And quite a catch.’

‘No I’m not,’ she says, though not with a great deal of conviction. ‘Even Dan’s likely to get married before me – and he doesn’t even want to. And I
love
weddings.’

And maybe it’s the fear that Jane will start crying again, but I don’t know what comes over me, and I can’t stop myself from blurting it out.

‘In that case, you should come.’

‘What?’

‘To the wedding. You should come.’

‘Really?’

‘Why not? After all, there’ll be lots of people there you know, and besides, you and Sam got off on the wrong foot last time. Although, to be fair, that’s because you were trying to kick Sam with yours.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry about that.’ Jane half smiles. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘And Sam won’t mind?’ she says, a little brighter now.

‘Not at all,’ I say, although I’m pretty sure of the complete opposite. ‘She’ll be delighted.’

Jane takes a deep breath, then wipes her nose on her sleeve, smudging her lipstick in the process, and making her look less like a Goth and more like the Joker from
Batman
.

‘Well, okay then,’ she says, as if she’s doing us both a huge favour. ‘After all, the two of you would never have met if it hadn’t been for me.’

7.13 p.m.

It doesn’t take long for me to cheer myself up again, mainly thanks to the selection of wedding magazines I buy Sam from the newsagent’s on the corner, then spend the rest of the morning browsing excitedly through myself. Even if Jane does come to the wedding, it’s hardly going to spoil my and Sam’s big day, and in fact we probably won’t even notice her, given everything else that (according to the magazines, at least) will be going on around us. And while there seems to be an awful lot to organize if we’re going to have the kind of wedding I’m imagining, I still want to get married as soon as possible. Which is why I need to get Sam to agree to a date. And soon.

The afternoon passes all too slowly, thanks to the series of interviews I’ve got scheduled, and I almost shove the last candidate out of the door in my rush to get home to Sam. She’s sitting at the kitchen table when I get back to the flat, and as I dump the pile of wedding magazines on the chair next to her, she looks at them suspiciously.

‘What are all these for?’

‘Well,’ I say, once I’ve eventually got my breath back from carrying the heavy bundle home. ‘I was thinking. We should, you know, do it.’

‘Here? On the kitchen table?’ Sam widens her eyes at me. ‘Steady on, Edward.’

‘Be serious, Sam. I mean, what about a date?’

She pats me on the hand. ‘That’s sweet of you, Edward, but you don’t have to keep asking me out on dates. I mean, we’ve been together for eighteen months, and we’re engaged now.’

‘A date for the wedding.’

‘Oh,’ says Sam. ‘Sorry. Right. Well, er . . .’

‘Because I was thinking sooner rather than later. You know, why wait?’

‘Well, because I might meet someone better, and . . .’ Sam catches sight of my expression, then grins at me. ‘I’m joking, Edward.’

I reach into my pocket and remove my mobile phone, then click on the calendar option. ‘So when would work for you?’ I say, rather formally.

‘What’s the rush?’

‘The rush is . . .’ I can’t tell her there’s no actual rush, it’s just that I’m so relieved we’re actually engaged now that I don’t want to risk her changing her mind. But I might as well be honest. Sort of. ‘The rush is that I just want to be married to you.’

Sam leans across the kitchen table and picks up her diary. ‘That’s lovely, sweetie. But these things take a bit of time.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we’ve got to make sure my mum and dad can make it, for one thing.’

‘Do they have to?’ I’m scared of Sam’s dad, who’s got a little too much of the East End gangster about him for my liking, particularly when you consider his early retirement to Spain and the shotgun he keeps above the fireplace in his villa. At least I haven’t had to ask him for his daughter’s hand, given the fact that Sam proposed to me first, because I’m not sure which of my body parts he’d have wanted in return. ‘I mean, I forgot they had to. Come from Spain, I mean.’

Sam picks the pile of magazines up from the chair next to her and puts them on the table, then indicates that I should sit down. ‘And they’ll need a bit of notice; they’ve got to arrange their flights, after all.’

‘Which is why we should at least decide on a date,’ I say, obediently sitting down next to her, ‘so they can go ahead and book them. Plus, we’ve got things to book too. Have you thought about which church, for example?’

Sam frowns at me. ‘Which church?’

‘I mean, I don’t even know what team you support.’

‘What team?’

‘You know. Catholics, or the old Church of England.’

‘Which one are you?’

I shrug. ‘The one where you get the wine and the little snack.’

Sam laughs. ‘You make it sound like a tapas bar.’

‘Because we ought to go ahead and check. Make sure they’re free on the day. Meet the vicar. That sort of thing.’

‘Ah.’ Sam swivels round on her chair to face me. ‘I actually thought we might go for something a bit more low key, you know? I’m not particularly religious, and all that church stuff, well, it’s a bit hypocritical if you don’t actually
believe
, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, yes. I’d be making all these promises in front of someone I’m not sure actually exists. And there’s all that ceremonial stuff too . . .’ She takes my hand. ‘Surely the important thing is we
get
married? Not
how
we get married.’

For some reason, I’m a little disappointed. I’d always kind of assumed that when I got married, I’d do it the traditional way, in a church with everything that goes with it. And yet Sam seems to be quite happy to go for the registry-office option, which to me is about as romantic as signing a contract to buy a house.

‘Yes, but don’t you think that sometimes it’s for other people too?’ I say, hoping Sam will think I mean family and friends, though I really mean me.

She gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Edward, as far as I’m concerned, I wouldn’t mind if there was no one else there except the two of us. All that other stuff – the cake, the meringue dress . . . It’s just, well, dressing.’

‘Cake?’ I’m suddenly alarmed that my one excuse to eat something unhealthy in public seems to be going out of the window. ‘We’ve got to have a cake!’

‘I was just using that as an example. Anyway, why are you so fixated on this? I didn’t have you down as the religious type.’

‘I’m not. I just . . .’ I decide there’s nothing for it but to go with the truth. ‘I want to make a big statement to you and how I feel about you, in front of as many people as possible, including, you know, him upstairs. And it might sound a bit girly, but that’s kind of how I’d always pictured it.’