Rory's Proposal (10 page)

‘Yes, that’s it. I’ll surprise him in Dublin, on my birthday. It’ll be a double surprise.’

There’s no stopping me now. I
picture the scenario. I’ll have to get a ring for Luke, or something that represents my love for him. It will be great.

‘The flights are going to get booked. It’s a big tournament,’ says Dad.

I wave a hand airily.

‘I’ll get there, but don’t say a word about it to anyone. What do you think?’

I’ll be engaged by thirty. After all, we have equal rights don’t we, and it’s not that unusual for a woman to propose is it? I’ll have to plan it properly. I feel myself tremble with the excitement. I’m sure I’ll have more confidence to take on Rory’s if I’m an engaged woman.

‘You should have your eyebrows done more often,’ says Mum. ‘It makes you very positive.’

The ginger wine has a lot to do with it of course.

‘Oh, and about Rory’s, I’ve started a petition and we have stickers. I’m having a protest in a few weeks. I want you to come and support me. You too Yvonne,’ I say. After all every
body counts doesn’t it?

‘You sound like Jane Fonda,’ says Mum.

‘I’d love to,’ says Yvonne, playing with the thread and making my eyes water.

‘Well I suppose we could,’ says Mum
.

‘I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing,’ says Yvonne dabbing at my eye.

‘So, you’ll come?’ I say, helping myself to wine.

Mum sighs resignedly.

‘I suppose so. Will it be in the papers?’

‘I don’t know, why?’

‘I’ll dress like a proper activist if it is,’ she says.

Dad rolls his eyes.

‘I dread to think what one of them looks like,’ he groans.

As long as she doesn’t turn up with pink hair and wearing something outrageous I don’t care. I glance at Dad.

‘I’ll keep her on a short leash,’ he smiles.

‘We have three weeks to prepare,’ I say.

‘I so wish you’d just find a husband,’ says Mum, ‘instead of gallivanting around activating like this.’

‘I think it’s very commendable,’ says Yvonne, lifting her wine glass. ‘Here’s to you and your fight against Rory’s.’ She clinks her glass against mine.

Great, that’s eight people. I need to get more. I wonder if you can rent a crowd. I’ll ask Devon.

‘Wonderful,’ I say.

I’d decided to wear my slinky black dress after scattering my whole wardrobe across the bed. I’d bought it two years ago in Zara and I think it enhances my figure. I’d used large heated rollers to add some bounce to my unmanageable hair and attached some sparkly drop earrings that Devon and I had found at Camden Market. I’d been pleased with my appearance until I had entered the Jacksons’ hall and seen all the other women in their designer outfits. I would have turned around and gone home if Luke hadn’t spotted me. He pushed passed the guests and wrapped his arm around my waist.

‘You look gorgeous Flora. Did you get the car sorted?’

Now is the time to tell him about Tom, but before I can say anything he whisks me into the hall.

‘Okay if I mingle? There are some good contacts here. I promise not to be too long,’ he says, and then whispers in my ear, ‘and then we can go home and check out that basque.’

He squeezes my bum and I suppress a squeal. Ooh maybe there is still time for Luke to propose. I kiss him on the cheek.

‘It’s fine, mingle as much as you like. I’ll check out the buffet.’

‘They have a nice spinach quiche, and the vegetarian spring rolls are delicious. I’ve had two,’ he smiles.

I grimace. They also have some lovely sausages on sticks, an enormous cheeseboard and nice ham from what I’ve seen on people’s plates, not to mention pizza. The Jacksons’ house, or I should say mansion, is heaving with people and a live band is playing
If Not for Me.
It’s all very decadent and snobbish. There is more food going spare than at a rehearsal for the Great British Bake Off. Seriously, the place is bursting with it. A large banner hangs above the table.

Fundraising for those starving in Africa tonight.

Not the best place for the banner. I try to work out if we are fundraising for those who are starving
tonight
. Or if
tonight
we are fundraising for the starving. You have to admit it is confusing. It seems a bit unfair to only fundraise for those starving tonight, don’t you think? What about those starving tomorrow? Or come to that those who starved yesterday.

‘An unusual sign,’ says a familiar voice behind me. I turn sharply, my heart fluttering. It’s him again. In the last few days I seem to be bumping into Tom everywhere.

‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were stalking me,’ I say with a smile.

‘Maybe I am,’ he says, his eyes mischievous. He is so gorgeous that I’m surprised every woman in the room isn’t looking at him. His hair falls beautifully across his forehead and he brushes it back. His eyes are sharp and keen. He is wearing an open-necked shirt and I glimpse a few hairs on his chest. The feelings that run through me seem so unfamiliar. This man is sex on legs. I wish Devon were here. She would love to be this close to him. Then again, maybe not, because whenever Devon is around she always gets the attention. Not that I’m interested in Tom. I’ll be engaged soon and I’m so excited about it that it is all I can do not to ask Luke right away.

‘I could smell your perfume as I came in from the patio, I knew you were here.’

‘Oh really, is it that strong?’

I sniff my wrist. I wish Luke had said something.

‘No, it has a real pheromone effect,’ he says pretending to sway in ecstasy. ‘What is it?’

I blush. My scent is turning him on, is what he’s saying. Wait till I tell Devon, I can barely speak, I’m feeling so breathless.

‘Mugler, Womanity.’

‘Ah, it suits you. Are you here with Luke?’ he asks looking around.

‘Yes, he’s mingling.’

‘Are you allowed a drink?’ he asks.

‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be?’ I laugh.

‘I don’t know, maybe you have to drink healthy juice or something. They’ve got champagne on the patio, and desserts. I think you’ll like them.’

I look for Luke but can’t see him anywhere and then I spot Grant Richards and feel myself fume. The further away from him I get the better. I follow Tom. I tell you, I’m anyone’s for a profiterole. The fresh air hits me and I breathe in gratefully. Heaters are at each end of the patio and under a canopy are desserts and champagne. Another banner hangs above the food and I find myself tutting.

‘It’s a bit of a contradiction isn’t it?’ he says his eyes following mine. A small group pass us and acknowledge Tom. My eyes feast on the desserts and I look behind to see if there is any sign of Luke.

‘What would you like?’ Tom asks, holding a plate.

My eyes scan the desserts in a second. Eating dessert at functions when Luke is around has become quite a skill for me. I memorise everything and make a choice in my head.

‘I’ll have a small slice of the lemon meringue, but only if it has a biscuit base. Two profiteroles, a small dollop of cream, on the side not on the profiteroles, a spoonful of chocolate mousse, and a tiny piece of cheesecake but only if it has a biscuit base, I don’t like pastry.’

He stares at me.

‘Cheese and biscuits?’ he asks after a few seconds.

‘Yes please as long as it’s not Gorgonzola. That smells like a pig farmer’s bunions. I hate it.’

He laughs.

‘I’ll be right back.’

I watch as he approaches the table, slapping a few people on the back as he does so. He returns with two plates and we sit on a bench overlooking the lawn. Food somehow tastes better when it’s forbidden. He dips a strawberry into the champagne and pops it into his mouth.

‘How are things with your salon?’ he asks.

I look lovingly at the cheesecake in my dish.

‘Good actually, I’m organising a protest. My mum and her friends are coming, and loads of other people.’

‘I’d like to talk to you about your salon …’ he begins when Henrietta Jackson wanders towards us.

‘Hi guys, what do you think of our little fundraiser? Brilliant isn’t it? I can’t tell you how much work has gone into it. I’m absolutely exhausted. And Tom, I can’t thank you enough.’

He shrugs and I wonder what she’s thanking him for. Her black shiny hair hangs beautifully around her shoulders and she has on the most stunning dress. Her make-up is immaculate and diamond stud earrings sparkle at her earlobes. I openly admire the chiffon of her dress.

‘That’s a lovely dress,’ I say.

‘Paris darling, where else?’ she says flicking back a stray hair.

Where else indeed. A string of pearls adorn her neck and on her wedding finger is the hugest bling I have ever seen. I could gladly murder her. Her smoky grey eyes survey me. I’m wondering how much organising she had to do for the party aside from go through her address book of course. I can’t imagine that exhausted her that much, especially when she is overrun with hired help. Seriously, her house is something out of
Downton Abbey
.

‘It’s very nice,’ I say.

‘Aw, thank you, you’re so sweet. That’s a pretty little dress you have on too. Where is that from?’

‘Good old London,’ I say, forcing a laugh. ‘Oxford Street, Zara to be exact.’

‘Oh, how quaint,’ she says, but
how common
, is what she means. The wrinkling of her nose says it all.

The way she said
pretty little dress
deflates me. I feel like the poor relation. My little black dress suddenly feels too tight, too cheap, and exceptionally unfashionable. I finger my cheap drop earrings and stare jealously at the bling on her finger. Christ, that alone would feed the whole of Africa, not just those starving tonight. It is new, I’m certain of it. I’m sure the last one she wore was a sapphire. I wouldn’t mind a sapphire. To be absolutely honest I wouldn’t even mind a zirconia as long as it sits on my marriage finger. I don’t believe it. I can’t even get one little single solitaire on my finger and she has two. Does everyone have a ring on their finger except me? I bet everyone is talking about me, how I can’t get a man to marry me. Still, by the time we get back from Dublin I’ll be engaged. Thirty and engaged, I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present.

‘Is that new?’ I say, pointing to the bling.

‘Oh this little thing?’ she says, flashing the little thing in my face. I hate the bitch, I really do. I swear she is looking at my wedding finger.

‘I’ve had this for yonks. Martin bought it for me on our third anniversary.’

Well, that was only last year, wasn’t it?

‘It’s lovely,’ I say.

‘When are you and Luke going to tie the knot? Isn’t it time the bugger asked you? He’s such a cock making you wait.’

‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ I say, wishing she wouldn’t mention Luke and
cock
in the same breath. It’s clearly evident where her brain is going isn’t it? She has always fancied Luke. I bet she would never mistake Biofreeze for K-Y Jelly.

‘Where is the handsome bugger?’ she asks, looking around. ‘I want to thank him for his donation.’

My reflection in the patio doors catches my eye. From this angle I can see my bum, and it really does look big in this. Oh my God, all of me looks big. Let’s face it, I imagine it looks big in anything not just this. I must lose some weight, I tell myself as I reach for my dessert dish. Oh no, is that a split under my armpit. I really must lose some weight, I really must.

A man in a colourful waistcoat and long scarf joins us. He is holding an electronic cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.

‘Divine Hen, just divine darling, I cannot believe what you do. It’s fantastic. So much giving.’

He makes her sound like Mother Teresa in Prada.

‘Thank you Basil,’ says Henrietta basking in the glory.

‘Don’t you think it’s marvellous,’ he says turning to me.

‘Well, I …’

A loud booming noise quietens the hall as the Master of Ceremonies takes the stage and I step inside to see what is happening.

‘Champagne for the toast,’ says a waitress offering me a glass from a silver platter. I take it and look for Luke, but he is nowhere to be seen. For a second I think my ears are deceiving me when the host calls Grant Richards to the stage.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know Rory’s are sponsoring our fundraiser tonight. So please give a big hand to their representative for the evening, Mr Grant Richards.’

I follow everyone’s eyes to see Grant Richards strolling towards the stage. I seriously can’t believe this. I catch a glimpse of his smug face.

‘Good evening everyone. I hope you’re having a marvellous time. I must first thank Henrietta Jackson, for all her hard work …’

There are lots of ‘hear hears’ echoed around the room and Grant smiles like the bloody Cheshire cat.

‘As you know there will soon be a new Rory’s supermarket in this
locale and as part of our community support programme, both local and worldwide, may I, on behalf of Rory’s, present a cheque for ten thousand pounds towards this wonderful cause.’

He waves a hand and two people walk forward with a huge cheque. I should have brought a larger handbag to throw up into.

‘Fantastic,’ the MC shouts. ‘The children of Africa thank you.’

Obviously doesn’t take much to get this guy excited.

‘Rory’s pleasure,’ says a smug Grant Richards. I think I hate the bugger more than Mr Rory himself.

‘And before I step down, as I’m sure I’m overstaying my welcome up here,’ he laughs.

Too right.

‘Not at all,’ the MC laughs and everyone cheers in agreement.

‘Rory’s have some good news for the community. We’ve just launched a new programme to help the elderly and busy families.’

‘Well, that’s marvellous news isn’t it folks?’

Grant Richards smiles smugly.

‘From next month those who struggle to get their prescriptions from the surgery can ask to have them delivered by Rory’s, direct to their homes and free of charge.’

I choke on my champagne. I see Grant Richards look at me and smile. The bastard, the conniving deceitful lying and idea-thieving little prick. I could kill him. I wish I was skilled in knife throwing. So help me God, I’d aim a cheese knife in his direction. Someone knocks into me while clapping overenthusiastically, spilling champagne down my dress. By the time I’ve wiped it with a tissue and dabbed my watery eyes, Grant Richards has gone and I can’t spot his smug face anywhere. It’s all I can do not to cry.

‘I don’t believe it,’ I say to Tom. ‘That’s the guy who came to the salon. I can’t believe he stole …’ I break off as tears threaten.

I feel the comforting touch of Tom’s hand on my arm.

‘And who might you be?’ Luke says rudely, appearing out of nowhere. ‘And what have you done to your dress? You’ve spilt something down it’.

‘Luke,’ I say softly, ‘this is Tom, he reversed into my car, you remember, the broken brake light?’

Luke surveys Tom.

‘I hope you paid for it,’ he says.

‘It was my fault, Luke,’ I whisper.

Tom grins.

‘Yes, of course,’ he says without taking his eyes off Luke.