The Right Time (5 page)

‘Well, I've just been thinking lately that –'

‘Blake, is that what you said?' she cut him off. ‘More importantly, did you mean it? You can't kid around about something like this, not with me, not after all this time. It would be cruel. And I've never known you to be cruel, Blake. So you have to tell me, did you really say it's time we got married, and did you mean it?'

Emma's voice had risen considerably and she was breathing hard, glaring at him, waiting for an answer. He just smiled back at her.

‘What?' she said.

‘This really matters to you, doesn't it?'

‘Blake, are you serious? Have you even been listening to me for the past . . . I don't know how long?'

She was still clenching his collar as she brought her face close to his.

‘Em, the shirt!'

‘Screw the shirt!' she said. ‘But don't screw around about this, Blake.'

‘Okay, okay,' he said, gently unfastening her hands from his collar and holding them in his. ‘Let's do it, let's get married.'

Emma whooped, lurching at him with such force they both slid right off the bed and landed on the floor. She kissed him soundly on the mouth and then sat up, straddling him. ‘Hold on,' she frowned. ‘Are you only marrying me because it'll look good at work?'

‘No, not only that,' he said with a wry grin, drawing her down to kiss her again. ‘I am quite fond of you as well.'

Emma realised she didn't actually care. Well, of course she did, but she knew Blake loved her, and that they were a good match, an ideal match in fact. More than Ellen and Tim had ever been, despite appearances. So if the work thing had made him finally come around, Emma really didn't care. She broke away and sat up again.

‘Okay, we have so much to do and not much time,' she said, climbing off him. ‘First things first, you have to propose, obviously.'

Blake frowned up at her. ‘Didn't I just do that?'

‘You can't call that a proposal, Blake,' Emma chided. ‘We have to do this right. Unless you have some other scenario in mind,
a restaurant is best. A little conventional, but it's all about location, location, location. Nothing under two hats, are we clear about that, Blake? And preferably three. And we'll never get in anywhere next weekend, so it'll have to be through the week, but not lunch, okay? It has to be dinner. I have contacts, I'll give you some names, and once you tell them what you're planning, they'll find you a table this week, I guarantee.'

‘Why the hurry?' he asked. ‘You think I'm going to renege?'

‘Not if you value your testicles,' she shot back. ‘No, we have to do it this week if we want to announce it at the anniversary party, which is the whole point. This is the perfect, elegant solution to defuse Ellen's bombshell, move it right to the back of everyone's minds so this can be a real celebration.'

Blake was listening thoughtfully. ‘You wondered if I was doing this to score points at work.' He lifted himself up on one elbow. ‘I'm beginning to think you're doing this to score points over your sister.'

‘Not at all, I'm doing it for Mum and Dad!' she insisted. ‘Blake, honey, I can finally be the one doing the right thing, give them something to be happy about, to celebrate. They might even be proud of me for once. Are you onside?'

He linked his fingers through hers and drew her closer. ‘I am,' he said, kissing her.

Emma responded briefly before breaking away again and jumping to her feet. ‘So first thing Monday, you're going to have to see about the ring.'

‘You expect to get the ring this week as well?'

‘It's not worth doing if you don't have the ring, dummy!' she chided. ‘It's all about the ring.'

‘Honey, I hate to say this,' he said, standing up, ‘but you are a little . . . particular.'

‘A little?'

‘Exactly. How am I going to find a ring you'll be happy with inside a week?'

She smiled. ‘Don't you worry about that, I know exactly the ring I want, and where you can get it. I'll show you online, and then you just have to take my size into Tiffany's.'

He pulled a face. ‘Doesn't sound very romantic.'

‘Are you kidding me? What could be more romantic than an engagement ring from Tiffany's?'

‘That you picked out yourself.'

‘Blake, this is what girls do.'

‘Is it?'

She nodded. ‘No matter what you've seen in the movies, no girl wants to be surprised by the ring. I know you have wonderful taste, Blake, and you'd probably get it right, but why take the risk?' she said, walking towards the bathroom.

‘If you say so.' He turned to inspect himself in the mirror. ‘Emma, look what you did to my shirt!'

She came back over to check the damage, smoothing his collar out with her hands. ‘Wear another one, you have at least half-a-dozen white shirts.'

‘But I wanted to wear this one,' he grizzled.

‘Then I'll iron it for you,' she said, heading back to the bathroom again. She turned suddenly at the doorway. ‘Oh, and you realise you have to come up with something a little inventive for the ring.'

‘Huh?'

‘You know, pop it in a glass of champagne, or on an oyster in the shell, or in the dessert. They'll give you ideas at the restaurant.'

Blake was frowning.

‘You're not still upset about your shirt, are you?' she sighed. ‘I said I'd iron it.'

‘No, it's not the shirt.'

‘Then what?' she asked, leaning against the door frame.

He took a breath. ‘You don't find this all a bit . . . staged?' he suggested carefully.

Emma came over to him, pressing up against him and looping her arms around his neck. ‘It's about setting the scene, Blake, about creating a story we can tell our grandchildren. You're not going to begrudge me that, are you?'

She brought her lips up to meet his, engaging the full strength of her persuasive powers. Emma felt him relax into her, and . . . oh, hold on just a minute, she couldn't have him getting all aroused or they'd never get out of here.

She pulled back abruptly and darted across to the bathroom. ‘We're going to be late if I don't get a move on!' she declared,
glancing back at him. Blake was just watching her, a little glazed-eyed.

‘Oh, and not a word to Gordie and Sal, or anyone else tonight for that matter. Okay?' she added over her shoulder. ‘I don't want anything to spoil the surprise before next Sunday.'

Liz hitched the grocery bag up on her hip and unlocked the door of her apartment. As it swung open she stepped back out of the way.

Ellen gave her a plaintive look. ‘Are you sure about this? You've hardly had any sleep.'

‘How many times are you going to ask me the same question?' said Liz. ‘Would you just get inside before I drop this bag?'

Liz had learned over the years that subtlety did not work with Ellen. She would have been feeling crushed by the way things had played out today, but she would never admit it. She was the eldest, she didn't ask for help, and she didn't accept it easily either. So Liz had resolved not to let her go home alone this evening, and not to take no for an answer.

Emma had no sooner finished her lunch than she'd checked her watch and said she had to ‘dash'. She always had to dash off somewhere. She wore her busy schedule like a badge of honour, always making it clear that she had somewhere more important to be.

Evie had stayed a little longer, but her anxiety had mounted visibly with every tick of the clock. Ellen had finally given her a pass out, and Evie had left, bustling out of the café, much as she had arrived, pink-faced and breathless.

Once it was just the two of them, Liz had looked across the table at Ellen. ‘So what now?'

Ellen had shrugged. ‘Well, like I said, I'm staying in the house and Tim's moving into a flat, as we speak, actually.'

‘No,' said Liz, ‘I mean what
now
. Where are the kids going to be tonight?'

Ellen gave a small sigh of resignation. ‘They're staying with their father at his new place. We thought it was important that they were involved in the process of unpacking and settling in. We really want them to feel like it's as much their place.'

‘So what are you going to do?' Liz persisted.

‘Oh, I guess I'll go home and straighten up, move things around, fill in the gaps he's left,' she said with a half-hearted laugh.

‘Well, you're not doing that,' Liz said plainly. ‘You're coming home with me.'

‘Thanks Liz, but I have to face this sometime.'

‘Don't be so stoic,' she scoffed. ‘There'll be plenty of time for you to face being alone, I guarantee you. Avoid it whenever you're offered an alternative.'

She had finally got Ellen to agree to follow her home, they would just have to make a quick stop on the way. Liz had no idea what was in her fridge, but she doubted there was anything particularly appealing. She had given up buying much in the way of groceries, or fresh fruit and vegetables, because she always ended up throwing most of it out. She could never see much point in cooking just for herself. So they called in to Liz's favourite deli, which just happened to be conveniently located next door to a bottle shop.

As they started to unpack the supplies, Ellen suddenly turned to look at her. ‘What if Andrew wants to come over?'

Liz shrugged. ‘I don't drop everything for Andrew.'

Ellen raised an eyebrow.

‘I don't!' she insisted. ‘Besides, he would have called by now. And I rarely get to see him on weekends anyway. If he's called into the hospital he can sometimes pop in on his way home, say he's been held up with a complicated surgery, or an emergency, that kind of thing. But the weekends are for family.'

Ellen was shaking her head. ‘I don't know how you handle it.'

‘You get used to it,' she dismissed. Then she gave Ellen a wry smile. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I'd do with him if he was here all the time.'

Though more often she wondered if anyone actually believed her when she made offhand remarks like that, or if quietly they
just felt sorry for her. Liz wanted to say, don't feel sorry for me, I have a relationship – such as it is – with a wonderful man who's intelligent, and passionate, and who makes me laugh. I'd rather spend a little time with him than a lot of time with almost anyone else I know. Unfortunately, he was married long before we met; we're victims of bad timing and there's nothing we can do about that, except be glad that we found each other at all. We could have spent the rest of our lives never knowing this feeling.

Liz comforted herself in the knowledge that he wasn't choosing his wife over her anyway, not that she'd feel at all comfortable breaking up a marriage. Theirs was an unusual situation; it was not about his wife – according to Andrew they didn't even sleep together any more. It was about his son. Danny was autistic; he needed continuity, he couldn't cope with even the slightest change to his routine or his surroundings. His father was one of the few people he responded to. His mother was loving, but not exactly emotionally robust. That was how Andrew put it. Liz secretly thought she was hopeless. She was always falling apart at the slightest thing, needing Andrew to take over. She would not be able to handle caring for Danny on her own.

So the universe had conspired to make it impossible for them to be together. At least for the time being. Andrew always spoke of a future when they would be free to be together. They'd hoped things were heading that way after Danny started high school, but then puberty hit. He grew a head taller than his mother, and she was no longer physically able to manage his outbursts. Andrew said that once Danny settled down again, and matured a little, he was sure the boy would gain a lot more independence, and there would come a time when he wouldn't need both parents around constantly, when he would be able to cope with his father living somewhere else, with someone else.

Liz mentally counted the years that would take, fully aware that her chances of having a family of her own were diminishing by the month. And yet that was all she'd ever wanted. When she had finished school everyone had had an opinion about what she should do, mostly the same opinion – of course she had to do medicine. She couldn't give up an opportunity like
that. It would be almost irresponsible. So Liz had accepted a place in medicine, and she'd liked it well enough. In due course she'd become an intern at a large teaching hospital, where she met Andrew. He was not quite thirty at the time; a typically overworked surgical registrar in crumpled scrubs, with ruffled hair, eyes that were perennially tired, but vivid blue nonetheless, and always a ready smile. Most surgeons were a bit full of themselves, it came with the territory, but Andrew was different. He had an inherent sweetness, and deep, genuine compassion for his patients. He handled everything in the same calm, reassuring manner – emergencies, frayed tempers, other doctors' considerable egos, and students' predictable ineptness – and Liz promptly developed a crush, even though she had never been one to develop crushes easily.

And then one night, after too many beers at the staff watering hole, Andrew chose her shoulder to cry on. Danny had just been diagnosed. Liz took him back to her place and the inevitable happened, but when he woke up at daybreak and realised where he was and what he'd done, he freaked. Not at her, he was sweet to her, and terribly apologetic. He blamed himself, berated himself. He did the same when he arranged to meet her for coffee a few days later. He wanted to apologise again; it was unforgivable, he had never done anything like that before, it was just the pressure since Danny . . . and it all came tumbling out again, a little more coherently this time. His marriage was fraying at the edges, his wife was not coping with the diagnosis, much less the child himself, and there was another child as well, a daughter, Samantha, who needed attention and reassurance. It was not unusual for Andrew to work sixty-hour weeks, then he had to come home to a family in crisis. Sometimes he wondered if he should give up medicine, go into something with regular hours, not so much pressure. But his wife wouldn't hear of it. She couldn't go out to work because of Danny, so they needed Andrew's income to cover all the expenses involved in getting their boy the best treatment and therapies available. Andrew didn't know what to do. And Liz said she didn't know what to say. He told her she didn't have to say anything, just having somebody listen was enough. He didn't have anyone else. They didn't sleep together again for six
months, but they did become best friends. They had been each other's best friend ever since.