Spiderman 3 (21 page)

PROPOSAL ON THE ROCKS

The Constellation Restaurant was a reasonably upscale rendezvous that was within Peter's financial limits, albeit barely. Originally, Peter had been concerned that he wasn't going to be able to put thoughts of yesterday's debacle behind him, but was now pleasantly surprised to find an increasing spring in his step as he approached the restaurant. During evening hours, an elevator in the front lobby operated express from the ground floor to the Constellation, and Peter stepped into it feeling positively elated. Whatever shellacking his confidence might have taken at Sandman's hands yesterday was all washed away in a flood of good feeling that this evening would turn out well.

Prompted by the cheery ding of the elevator, he stepped out on the top floor and glanced around with uncertainty. He'd never been to this restaurant before, but Mary Jane had spoken of it highly; this was supposed to be her night, and that was all the incentive he'd needed. A wandering violinist passed by, playing a sprightly rendition of "Flight of the Bumblebee."

Peter moved toward the reservations desk, where a maître d' peered down his nose at him and said, "
Bonsoir. he monsieur a-t-il une reservation
?"

"I'm sorry, I don't speak…" Peter was already feeling out of his depth.

His eyes crinkling with carefully cultivated French disdain, the maître d' reminded him, "This is a French restaurant, non?"

"Out."

Heaving the sigh of one who does not suffer fools gladly, the maître d' said, "Name, please?"

"Parker. Peter."

He skimmed down the list, then nodded. "Ahhh, here we are. Parker. For two. You are the first."

"I have a request. My girlfriend will be coming. I have this…" Peter fumbled around in his pocket and experienced a brief, horrified moment when he thought it had somehow discovered a hole and had slipped away… before his fingers finally settled around it. He withdrew Aunt May's engagement ring and held it up. "This ring… and I want to…"

This seemed to cause the maître d' to perk up. "You want to pop the question tonight?"

"Right. I want to do something special."

"Ah," said the maître d', thumping his open hand to his chest as if he were trying to prevent his heart from bounding out of it. "I love it. Romance." He paused, then added, "I
am
French," as if that were in doubt.

"When I signal you," Peter said in a conspiratorial tone, "if you bring the champagne with the ring…"

"… at the bottom of her glass."

Peter gave him a high sign. "Perfect."

"
Magnifique
," replied the maître d', and for good measure, he made one of those popping noises, like a champagne cork, by bouncing his hand off his mouth.

"Also," said Peter, pulling a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket, "I thought at the same time, if the violins could play this song…"

The maître d' glanced at it and, to Peter's relief, nodded in approval. "Their favorite."

Peter handed the ring to the maître d', who held the diamond up for closer inspection. If he thought the size was unimpressive, he at least had enough discretion not to say anything about it. "Take good care of the ring," said Peter.

"With my life," the maître d' solemnly intoned. He gestured for Peter to follow him to the table. "
S'il vous plaît
."

"
Oui
," Peter once again utilized one of the four French words he knew.

It appeared to be enough. "I like you," said the maître d' as he lead Peter past other tables, where elegantly dressed, sophisticated diners were enjoying an evening out. One or two glanced his way, found nothing about him particularly remarkable, and went back to their conversations.

A waiter quickly stepped in to pull Peter's chair back for him, which took Peter by surprise. In the places where he typically dined out, the most interaction he was used to from a server was a bored query of "Do you want fries with that?" He sat down, and the waiter eased his chair in behind him. It was one of the most comfortable chairs that Peter had ever sat in.

He watched the maître d' move off and noticed that a bread basket had been placed in front of him. At least he thought it was a bread basket—it was filled with artistically designed, braided breads and unusual crackers. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to eat them or admire them from a distance. Glancing around, he saw that all the fashionable people seemed to be eating them, although amazingly there were no crumbs to be spotted anywhere.

You swing upside down on threads eighty stories above street level. You can be adventurous enough to have some bread.

He picked up one of the braided sticks and bit into it carefully. It was wonderful, freshly baked.

He waved the stick around in what he perceived was a casual manner and imagined Mary Jane seated across from him. "I ordered some champagne," he said, and realized he was speaking with a French accent. He cleared his throat and continued in his normal voice, "Would you like some champagne?" Then, pretending to see a ring in her glass, he acted surprised as he said, "Oh! How'd that get in there!" He smiled, seeing her getting teary eyed. "Oh, stop. Don't cry."

He acted out the rest of the scenario to his satisfaction, then glanced at his wrist only to discover that he wasn't wearing a watch. Well, that was all right. Certainly she'd be along any minute.

Time passed… and more time… until he lost track. He was munching on the last of the bread sticks and growing concerned. The notion that Mary Jane might be standing him up never occurred to him. Instead he was entirely concerned that… well, who knew what? What if Harry had gotten his memory back and was holding her hostage somewhere? What if she'd run afoul of this Sandman character? What if… ?

With great relief, he saw Mary Jane finally enter the restaurant and speak a few words to the maître d'. The maître d' nodded, looking rather pleased, and led Mary Jane over to the table. Peter thought she looked a little self-conscious, but he could understand why. A girl as gorgeous as Mary Jane was always having people looking her way with admiration. It had to be hard drawing appreciative stares wherever you went.

Peter politely rose as the maître d' personally held the chair out for her. She sat down and shifted uneasily, which seemed odd to Peter since there was nothing remotely uncomfortable about the chair.

"This place in your budget?" she asked.

Ah, that was it. Money worries. Peter smiled reassuringly and said, "It's a special occasion. You're on Broadway. You're a star."

"I don't feel like much of a star tonight."

"You're a star in my eyes. You'll be in everybody's eyes now." When she didn't react to that, he reached over and took her hand. "I know what you're feeling, but you'll get used to it. Take me: I'm everywhere." He laughed at the absurdity of it. "I see Spider-Man posters in the windows, kids running around with me on their sweaters. I'm a big Halloween item." He saw a trace of a smile on Mary Jane's mouth over that and, feeling encouraged, continued, "I don't know. I guess I've become something of an icon. 'Spider-Man, Spider-Man.' They kept screaming it. I mean, c'mon… I'm a nerdy kid from Queens. So I'm thinking to myself, do I deserve this?"

He hoped he was taking the right approach to the situation. Last time Mary Jane had flipped out on him when he'd started addressing her concerns from his point of view. But he was certain that the way to get through to her now was to make her understand that he could relate to her problems through personal experience. Still, he didn't know how much headway he was making here, and he was about to pursue her worries further when suddenly he saw exactly the wrong person at exactly the wrong time heading their way.

"Hi, Peter!" called a cheerful Gwen Stacy.

You gotta be kidding me. Of all the restaurants in all the boroughs in all New York, she walks into mine.

Peter was suddenly self-conscious. That spur-of-the-moment kiss that had seemed like such a good idea at the time now left Peter feeling extremely vulnerable. Here he'd made this whole big demonstration on the stage, and now the girl with whom he'd performed it was standing there smiling at him, and Mary Jane—to whom he was preparing to propose!—could only scowl.

At that moment Peter would have welcomed an attack from the Sandman just to defuse the situation.

"Oh, Gwen. Hi." He tried not to project anything in his tone or demeanor that might suggest he was doing anything other than politely acknowledging her presence.

"My parents and I were just having dinner here, and I saw you guys." Gwen pointed toward the doorway, and Peter saw a man and a woman waiting there. They had their coats on, obviously about to leave. They must have been dining on the opposite side of the restaurant, and Gwen had spotted Peter as they were on their way out. It took him a few seconds, but then he recognized the man: the police captain who had been at the scene when he'd saved Gwen.

Her father is a cop? A trained observer of people who could tell when someone was uncomfortable or lying or trying to conceal something? Oh, this is just perfect.

Gwen's parents waved to them, and Peter waved back.

Immediately the maître d', mistaking Peter's gesture for his signal, started toward Peter with the champagne. Peter's eyes widened in panic, and he quickly waved the maître d' off. This caused the maître d' to stop where he was, blinking in confusion like a blinded owl. Meantime Gwen's parents, equally bewildered, continued to wave.

While Peter flapped like a crippled sparrow, Gwen seized the initiative and extended a hand to Mary Jane. "Hello. I'm Gwen Stacy."

Realizing that the two hadn't formally been introduced, Peter quickly said, "Oh, right. This is, uh…" To his horror, he blanked on her name for a split second, but recovered quickly and said, "Mary Jane Watson."

"Hi, it's so nice to meet you," Gwen said warmly. "Pete talks about you all the time."

Mary Jane raised a single eyebrow. Never a good sign. "Oh?"

Clearing his throat, Peter said, "Gwen's my, uh, lab cart… lab… partner in Dr. Connors's class."

Gwen rested a hand on his shoulder, a simple friendly gesture. From the look on Mary Jane's face, though, Gwen might as well have been sliding her hand down the front of his shirt. "Peter's something of a genius," Gwen said blithely. "He saved my life in Chemistry."

"Uh-huh."

Oh, this is
so
not good
.

"Oh, and, Pete… something else before I forget," Gwen continued, still unaware of the rapidly dropping temperature in the air. "You're Spider-Man's personal photographer, right?" Peter was about to say that wasn't exactly true, but Gwen went right on, "I hope you don't mind my asking, but if you managed to get a shot of our kiss, I'd love it… for my portfolio, of course." She laughed lightly and said to Mary Jane, "After all, who gets kissed by Spider-Man these days?"

Mary Jane didn't even glance at Gwen. Instead her gaze was boring through the back of Peter's head as she said icily, "I can't imagine."

The loud, clattering noise in Peter's head was the sound of the wheels coming completely off the evening.