The Accidental Proposal (5 page)

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Yes, I’m sure,’ I say, feeling less and less so by the minute.

‘You don’t think you better check?’

I look up at her crossly. ‘Natasha!’

‘Sorry.’ She smiles down at me. ‘I suppose I’m just being over-cautious, Edward. I mean, as long as she’s got a ring on her finger, then you’ve got nothing to . . .’ Natasha stops mid-sentence, as it’s obvious even to me that I’ve gone deathly pale. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t?’

‘It only happened on Saturday night, and I kind of thought that seeing as she proposed to me, then . . .’
Bollocks
. How could I have been so stupid?

‘You expected her to go out and get her own engagement ring?’

‘Well, no, but . . .’ I slump back in my chair. The truth is, I don’t know what I expected. Sam proposing did catch me off guard. And so I didn’t – and don’t – have a clue what to do in the circumstances.

‘You better do something about that, and fast. Otherwise you might find yourself disengaged.’

‘Sure,’ I say, sitting up sharply and grabbing my keyboard. ‘I’ll get right on it.’

I type the words ‘Argos’ and ‘engagement rings’ into Google, but when Natasha sees what I’m doing, she makes a mock-horror face, although on closer inspection, there’s not a lot of ‘mock’ about it.

‘Edward, are you determined to sabotage this?’

‘Huh?’

She nods towards my computer screen. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re looking for an engagement ring there.’

‘What’s wrong with Argos? And anyway, it’s not Argos. It’s Elizabeth Duke.’

Natasha sighs loudly, then walks over to her desk. ‘Tell you what. You can have one of my old ones if you like.’

‘Your old ones?’ Natasha has been engaged about four times since I’ve known her. Trouble was, all of those times were to men who were already married, a fact that Natasha was the last person to discover. The last, that was, until she stormed round and told their wives. ‘You’re joking?’

‘Nope.’ She fishes around in her top drawer, then produces what looks like a selection of jewellery boxes, before walking back across the room and placing them on top of the pile of CVs in my in-tray. ‘Here you go. Help yourself.’

I pick up the first box and open the lid to be blinded by the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. ‘This must have cost a fortune.’

Natasha shrugs. ‘He could afford it. Although not the subsequent divorce, unfortunately, which is why he ended up back with his wife, and I ended up with this.’

I stare at the ring for a few moments before snapping the box shut. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly take it.’

‘Why not?’

I don’t like to point out it’s because I think it might be jinxed. ‘Well, because it’s bad luck. Probably. Besides, I want to choose one for Sam. Myself.’

              ‘Then choose one of these,’ she says, flipping open the other boxes in turn and showing them to me like a game-show hostess.

             
‘No, I mean a new one.’

             
Natasha sighs again. ‘You’re not going to find a ring in Elizabeth Duke. Not one she’ll thank you for, anyway. We women are picky when it comes to this kind of thing. Particularly when we’re going to have to wear it for the rest of our lives. And if you want my advice, don’t surprise her, unless you’re really going to go to town.’

             
‘So where do you suggest I get one from?’

‘Like I said. Go to town.’ She taps the lid of one of the other boxes, where the Tiffany’s logo is clearly visible. ‘There’s only one place a woman wants her engagement ring to come from, and that’s here.’

‘Tiffany’s? But aren’t they rather . . .’ I want to say ‘expensive’, but I don’t mean that in the ‘I’m too tight’ sense. It’s more that Sam just isn’t extravagant.

‘Expensive?’ Natasha snaps shut the assorted ring boxes, then gathers them up and dumps them unceremoniously back into her desk drawer. ‘Trust me, Edward. It’ll be the best money you ever spend.’

As she sits back down at her desk and switches on her computer, it occurs to me that a trip to Tiffany’s isn’t a bad idea at all. It’ll certainly make me feel a bit more secure knowing Sam’s actually wearing an engagement ring, and not because it’s a badge to say ‘keep off’, or a symbol to the rest of the (male) world that she’s taken, but because it’ll prove she’s committed to the wedding, and more importantly, committed to me. Plus, doing it this way will give
me
the chance to do the whole traditional down-on-one-knee thing, and actually – hopefully – hear Sam say ‘yes’, and that way, there’ll be no doubt in my mind. Even if she is having a few second thoughts, or feels a little bit disgruntled that she had to do the asking, maybe an expensive ring and a traditional proposal might just reassure her. And then the small matter of setting a date should be a formality.

And as Natasha says, if I do decide to go to town as far as the ring’s concerned, then I am going to have to surprise Sam. Because knowing her, if we went to Tiffany’s together, as soon as we got there she’d come over all sensible and refuse to let me buy her anything, telling me we could spend the money on something more, well, practical. Which is ironic, because I can’t think of a more practical investment than something that guarantees me Sam for the rest of my life.

While I’m pretty sure I can guess the kind of ring I need to buy – after all, most of the ones Natasha’s shown me look about the same, with a rock the size of Gibraltar on them – I recognize I could do with some help from someone who’s impressed by sparkly, expensive things, and who loves spending money – especially mine. Which is why, once I’ve checked with Natasha that I can have the rest of the day off, I get straight on the phone to Dan.

11.21 a.m.

We’re on the Brighton to London train; Dan preferring not to drive the Tango-orange Porsche that he owns as it’s raining and – according to him – there’s no point having a convertible if you’re not going to drive it with the roof down.

As usual, despite the weather, Dan’s wearing his sunglasses-and-cap combination, although seeing as we’re the only people who (on Dan’s insistence) have paid extra to travel first class and therefore the only people in the whole carriage, he might as well be naked for all the attention he’s getting.

‘So,’ he says, once he’s flagged down the buffet trolley and ordered us both a cappuccino. ‘You’ve checked with her, then?’

‘Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I didn’t get the chance. But I will this evening.’

‘And you’re prepared to bet several thousand pounds that her answer’s going to be the one you want?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, that’s what this ring is going to cost you.’

I swallow hard and stare into my cappuccino, although given the way the froth already seems to have evaporated, leaving a chocolate-coloured slick on the surface, I’d have a strong case for the trades descriptions people. ‘Surely not
several
?’

Dan removes his sunglasses, though only for long enough to ensure I can see him roll his eyes. ‘You’ve never been to Tiffany’s before, have you, Ed?’

‘So?’ I shrug dismissively, and try to appear more nonchalant than I’m feeling. ‘I’ve never asked anyone to marry me before. Which reminds me. Seeing as I
am
getting married, I need to ask you something.’

‘I’d ask Sam something first, if I were you.’

‘Be serious for a moment,’ I say, as the train pulls into East Croydon. ‘This is important.’

Dan sighs. ‘Not the birds and bees conversation again, Ed?’ he says, staring intently at a couple of girls on the platform in the hope they’ll recognize him. ‘Why don’t I just lend you one of my videos, and . . .’

‘No, not that,’ I say, quickly. I’ve seen Dan’s video collection, and apart from his rather extensive collection of top-shelf Danish porn, he’s also got a little sideline in recording himself with his girlfriends – and not while they’re having a picnic on the beach, if you know what I mean. ‘I just wanted to say . . . I mean, well, I’m obviously planning to do the whole all-singing, all-dancing big church/top hats/marquee-on-the-lawn-type thing, so on the day, will you . . .’ For some reason, I’m feeling quite emotional, and the words catch in my throat, which I find worrying. If I can’t get this out, I’m going to be a wreck trying to propose to Sam tonight. ‘You’re the best man, obviously.’

Dan grins. ‘Well, compared to you, that goes without saying. What was it you wanted to ask me?’

‘No, I mean will you be
my
best man? At the wedding.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He shrugs dismissively. ‘Suppose so.’

‘That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.’

He takes his cap off, and puts it on the table. ‘It’s hardly a surprise.’

‘Yes, but . . . It’s still an honour, isn’t it? I mean, out of all my close male friends, you’re the one I’ve chosen.’

‘
All
your close male friends?’ snorts Dan. ‘And that would be who, exactly?’

‘Well, there’s . . .’

‘Exactly. Me. Unless you count Billy Big Issue, that is. Anyway, it’s not an honour. In fact, it’s a bit of a chore, isn’t it? I mean, it’s kind of a distraction from my principal job of chatting up the bridesmaids.’

‘Dan, stop thinking about yourself for one moment, please. And besides, Mister Popular, how many of your other friends have asked you to be their best man?’

‘That’s not the point,’ huffs Dan. ‘Besides, they were probably worried I’d try and sleep with their wives. Or that I already had. Which was true, in some cases. So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass.’

For a moment, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’d always kind of thought that in the – admittedly unlikely – event of Dan getting married, I’d be his best man, and that he’d obviously assume the opposite was true. But for some reason, he doesn’t seem keen at all.

‘Go on,’ I say, desperately. ‘It’ll be fun.’

‘Fun? How will it be fun, exactly?’

‘You get to make a speech.’

‘I do that every day, mate. Or at least, I did. And got paid for it.’

‘The drink will be free.’

‘I’m a celebrity. I don’t have to pay for it that often anyway.’

‘And . . . You get to wear a suit. You know you look good in a suit.’

Dan thinks for a moment. ‘I do, don’t I?’

‘Plus, there’ll be women there. And like you said, bridesmaids.’

‘Over the age of sixteen? Although not too much over.’

‘I’ll book some specially.’

‘Great,’ says Dan. ‘Because the best man gets to sleep with them. It’s the law.’

‘So, you’ll do it?’

Dan gets up out of his seat, leans across the table, and spreads his arms out wide, although it takes me a couple of seconds to realize he’s waiting to give me a hug. ‘Of course I’ll do it, you muppet. I was just yanking your chain.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, as he picks me up off the ground, then drops me awkwardly as the conductor gives us a funny look.

‘And it will be fun,’ he says, a little red in the face, though whether that’s from the effort of lifting me up or being seen hugging another man in public, it’s hard to tell. ‘Especially the stag night. Hey, maybe we can sell the pictures to one of the glossies. You know, “Dan Davis Attends Celebrity Wedding”, that sort of thing. Might help my profile a little.’

‘Dan, it’s hardly a celebrity wedding.’

‘I’ll be there, so yes it will be.’

‘Well, maybe, but I don’t think Sam would . . .’

‘At least let me try. I’ve got some contacts at
Hello!
.’

I sigh, and decide to let Dan indulge his little fantasy – for now. ‘Okay.’

‘Them too. Good idea. And maybe
Heat
. I’ve always wanted to be in
Heat
.’

‘Dan, you’re always in heat. And if I can just remind you of something. This is Sam’s big day. Not yours.’

‘Sam’s big day,’ says Dan, staring dreamily out of the window, then sitting up with a start as another train thunders past in the other direction. ‘Got it.’

But by the look on his face, he’s thinking the complete opposite.

12.03
p.m.

Even from the taxi, Tiffany’s looks expensive. On Dan’s advice, I’ve phoned the credit-card company from the train to maximize my Visa-card limit, but given that there are no prices visible on the very sparkly items I can see through the double-thickness plate-glass window, I’m worried it might not be enough.

‘Excellent.’ Dan rubs his hands together. ‘Retail opportunity ahead.’

‘Are you sure this is the right place? I mean, it looks . . .’

‘I hope you’re not going to say “pricey”?’ Dan smirks. ‘Or isn’t Sam worth it?’

‘Of course she is,’ I reply, quickly. ‘I was going to say, er, closed.’

Dan makes the ‘yeah, right’ face. ‘You wish. Come on,’ he says, handing a tenner to the cab driver. ‘Nothing says “I love you” like something in a Tiffany’s box.’

‘And do they sell just the boxes?’ I say, wondering whether an Elizabeth Duke ring would fit inside one.