Rory's Proposal (14 page)

I feel my heart sink. I should have known. That’s classic isn’t it? A rich handsome man can only kiss me when he’s pissed. See what I mean? I really am only meant for a
Rich Tea
biscuit man aren’t I?

‘That’s my excuse anyway,’ he says. ‘And by the way, you owe me dinner,’ he smiles. ‘You lost.’

I rummage through my bag for my glasses and pop them on.

‘They suit you,’ he says.

He takes my hand and twirls me around making my head spin even more.

‘Can I take
you
for dinner to apologise? We can discuss those bunk beds as it looks like we may have to use them after all.’

My phone bleeps and I turn from him to check it. It’s a text from Luke.

Wish you were here. I’m doing well. You’ll never guess who the reigning champion is, only your Mr Rory. Do you want me to give him a punch on the nose
?


I gasp.

‘Mr Rory is in Dublin,’ I say.

‘He is?’ says Tom.

‘He’s playing in the tournament. Would you believe the bugger is the reigning champion?’

‘There’s success for you,’ he smiles.

‘I don’t know why you’re so admiring of him. He preys on young women and puts people out of work.’

He groans.

‘A bit below the belt Flo, from what I hear he creates jobs for people.’

I scoff.

‘Huh and where did you hear that?’

‘Look, about your salon …’

‘I don’t want to discuss it. I don’t want money-grabbing Rory to spoil my engagement.’

‘Right,’ he says with a sigh.

This is terrible. I have to be in Dublin before tomorrow. I need to propose to Luke while I’m still twenty-nine. That way I’ll be engaged by the time I’m thirty. Somehow, I feel it is fate to propose to Luke on my birthday. I can’t fail at that too. I think of the salon and push it from my mind. I’ll deal with Mr Rory at the same time; kill two birds with one stone. I have to get to Dublin come what may. Luke is all that matters, reliable dependable Luke. A good-looking rich boy is not my future. I only wish he wasn’t part of my present.

‘Why don’t we explore the area and get some dinner?’ he says. ‘Walk off the champagne.’

Yes, good idea. Let’s get away from these bunk beds.

‘I’d better change,’ I say and head to the loo.

I make a firm decision not to have any wine at dinner. In fact I shall not drink anything while with Tom. Good plan.

‘Another one Flo?’ shouts Gareth from the bar.

Honestly, only I could end up in the middle of Wales in a strange pub with a group of rugby players, and Welsh ones at that. I ask you, the middle of Wales when I’m actually trying to get to bloody Dublin. It’s just typical isn’t it? All I’m trying to do is propose to my boyfriend before I’m thirty. It’s only Dublin I’m trying to get to, not Outer Mongolia. How did a tree get on the track? It’s not like we’ve had gale-force winds. I should have flown. I’d have been there by now and I wouldn’t have had the complication of Mr Rich. It occurs to me that perhaps fate doesn’t want me to propose to Luke before I’m thirty. My whole future depends on a tree. It’s eight in the evening. I should be on the ferry heading towards my soon-to-be-fiancé’s arms. Instead I’m sitting in The Rose and Crown
with Tom and a crowd of men I met only this evening and who seem to spend their time calling each other
boyo
.

‘Red wine for the lady,’ says Gareth, ‘and a pint for you, boyo?’

See what I mean? It seems Gareth and Tom used to play rugby together. We’d just stepped out of a taxi and were about to head into the restaurant when Gareth had called to us from across the street. After lots of back slapping we had gone with him to the Rose and Crown.

‘We used to have a lot of fun until this bugger got too rich,’ Gareth had laughed. ‘We’re here for the rugby. We’re going to thrash you English.’

He’d
grabbed Tom and they’d wrestled each other in what I presumed to be some kind of friendly rugby tackle. I’ve never understood rugby. Luke said it is far too rough a game and that golf is far more civilised. Gareth had assumed I was Tom’s girlfriend and insisted we join him and his partner Rube and what felt like the whole rugby team.

‘It’s Rube’s birthday.’

‘It’s mine too,’ I’d said.

‘When?’ everyone had chorused.

‘Tomorrow,’ I’d said timidly.

‘Another round then,’ Gareth had laughed.

‘You never said,’ whispers Tom into my ear. ‘I hadn’t realised it was so soon.’

I shrug.

‘Food,’ shouts someone. ‘Our table’s ready.’

‘Come on you two,’ says Gareth. ‘You have to join us. I’ve not seen Tom in years and we need to celebrate these birthdays.’

Tom looks at me.

‘Is that okay?’

I nod.

‘I don’t mind.’

The pub is crowded and we push past the throng to reach the
table at the back. Tom takes my hand and entwines his fingers in mine.

‘Don’t want to lose you at this stage in the game do I? Luke would never forgive me.’

An hour and a half later and I’m sitting so close to Tom that there is little chance of him losing me.

‘More drinks,’ yells someone and before I know it I’m on my third glass of wine and helping myself from the largest display of junk food I’ve ever seen.

‘Good job Luke isn’t here isn’t it?’ Tom says leaning across me to reach for some chips.

‘Luke would want me to have a good time,’ I say, feeling the need to defend him.

He places
pieces of fried scampi onto my plate.

‘Is that what you’re having?’ he asks, as his arm accidentally brushes my breast. I fight back a gasp. Every touch from him evokes a multitude of emotions. He is sitting so close that his hip presses against mine.

‘More wine for Flo, her glass is empty,’ someone laughs.

‘No, really I’ve had too much,’ I protest.

‘No such thing as too much darling.’

‘You can never have too much wine or too much sex,’ someone yells.

‘Well, you sheep-shagging Welsh should know,’ laughs Tom.

‘You’re keeping up with us,’ laughs Gareth, handing me another glass.

He must mean drinking. He can’t possibly mean shagging; I’m not
keeping up with anyone in that area these days. I need to keep my wits about me. I can’t remember the last time I drank so much. I usually only drink white wine spritzer with Luke and even then two is the most.

‘Here’s to Flo and Rube, happy birthday girls,’ toasts Gareth.

‘Happy birthday for tomorrow,’ says Tom. He lifts his glass and clinks it against mine.

Several plates of spare ribs, chips and nachos later, not to mention another bottle of wine and I find myself hand jiving with Rube while Gareth, Tom and the rugby team arm wrestle to much laughter and shouting. Gareth calls for two bottles of Captain Morgan’s rum and Rube and I progress from hand jiving to re-enacting the jive scene from Grease for the patrons of the pub to loud applause and shouting. Somewhere amidst the noise I hear a phone ringing and realise too late it is mine. I fumble drunkenly through my bag, find the phone and see there are two missed calls from Luke. I sway
to the exit, signing to Tom that I have to make a phone call. The cold air hits me with such force that I feel like I’ve been slapped. I reel slightly and hang onto a plant holder, almost pulling the thing off its hook as I slide down onto the wall.

‘Hiya, it’s me,’ I say, in a sing-song voice when Luke answers.

‘I’ve tried calling you all evening,’ he says in an accusing tone. ‘Where have you been? Didn’t you have your mobile with you?’

‘Yes, sorry,’ I hiccup. ‘I’m out with friends and I didn’t hear it.’

‘What friends?’

Christ, does he have to make it sound like I don’t have any?

‘The usual crowd, you know,’ I say.

I rub my eyes to try and clear the blur.

‘How’s it going?’ I slur drunkenly.

‘What?’ he snaps.

‘The tourniquet, how is it going?’

That didn’t sound right somehow.

‘What are you talking about?’

I’m not altogether sure I know.

‘The cricket, how is it going?’

Oh shit, it isn’t cricket is it? What the hell is it? Christ, I can’t remember. I struggle to get my befuddled brain to work. It’s a car isn’t it? I clap my hands as I remember. It’s golf, that’s it.

‘Oh dear it isn’t cricket is it?’ I say laughing. ‘Is everything cricket though, you know at the golf thingy.’

I feel myself slide off the wall and land
on the ground.

‘Shit,’ I mumble, feeling my bum throb.

‘For Christ’s sake Flora, have you been drinking or taking drugs?’

Drugs? Mind you, in Luke’s language that would translate into snorting a line of sugar. And let’s face it, after the amount of wine I’ve drunk I might as well have snorted several lines.

‘Well, certainly something,’ I say. ‘Listen Luke, I want to ask you a very impotent question.’

He sighs.

‘You can be very hurtful when drunk Flora.’

Whoops, Freudian slip.

‘I meant important,’ I correct.

‘In that case perhaps you should ask me when you’re sober. You do realise that too much alcohol is bad for your liver.’

Pardon me for living.

‘Don’t be such a patronising git,’ I say.

I must be pissed. I never ever call Luke a git and most certainly not a patronising one. I may think it but I never actually say it, and most certainly never to his face. Not that I can see his face but you know what I mean. There is an awkward silence. The only sound is me hiccupping.

‘I don’t believe you sometimes Flora. I phoned to see if you were okay and all you can do is insult me
and swear at me.’

I didn’t swear did I? He can’t possibly mean
git
. That’s not swearing exactly, is it? I struggle to get back onto the wall. Oh God, I’ve drunk and eaten far too much.

‘I didn’t sw … calling you a git isn’t searing.’

I can’t even speak properly any more. The rum has paralysed my tongue.

‘Are you having a good time?’ I ask and punctuate it with a burp. Oh dear. I hear a heavy sigh the other end of the phone.

‘Devon is a bad influence if you ask me,’ he says sternly.

Devon? What’s Devon got to do with anything?

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow when you’ve got your hangover and you can ask me the important thing then. That’s if you can remember it.’

‘Luke,’ I begin.

‘I’m going to bed and that’s where you should be if you ask me,’ he says sternly.

I give the phone the finger.

‘I didn’t ask you,’ I say, but he has hung up.

Sod it. I start to walk back into the pub and then realise I am going the wrong way and am heading to the car park. I turn around and feel my head spin. I hear a train horn and a vague memory of me somehow connected to a train flashes through my mind. The train, the train to Dublin! It will go without us. I stumble into the hot crowded pub and search the throng for Tom.

‘Looking for me?’

I turn at his voice and grab his arm to support myself.

‘The train,’ I say pointing and accidentally hitting someone in the eye. ‘It will go without us.’

I tug his arm and make for the door. He pulls me back gently.

‘It’s okay, they have my number. They’ll call us in plenty of time. They know we need to be on it.’

‘There she is,’ calls Gareth. ‘Let the party resume.’

‘So how is up his own arse Wright then?’ asks Tom.

I turn and struggle to get him into focus.

‘What did you say?’

‘Here you go Flo,’ says someone pushing a glass into my hand and jostling me even closer to Tom.

‘You smell good,’ he whispers, pulling me
closer.

‘Tequila time,’ roars Gareth.

‘Maybe not a good idea,’ Tom says into my ear before moving his lips to land on mine.

‘I don’t want to be a boring old fart,’ I slur, still reeling from the kiss. ‘I’ll leave that to the patronising git.’

The last thing I remember is betting with Gareth that I could indeed drink ten shots of tequila and stay standing and then re-enacting out the whole Grease story and everyone shouting, ‘How low can you go?’ Then everything went black.

I squint through one eye and groan. God, my head hurts. I try to remember if I was in an accident. Everything seems weirdly out of proportion and then I remember my glasses. I lean over to the bedside cabinet only to find it isn’t there. I grab the side of the bed as I feel myself begin to fall. My head feels like it has a dozen builders working away inside it. I pull my knees up and groan again. Where has the bedside cabinet gone? I try to get my brain to function. Why is the flat moving? Where’s Luke and why is the bed smaller? There’s a ringing in my ears. Christ, I’ve developed tinnitus. It’s like I’ve woken up in someone else’s body. I then realise the ringing is my phone. I jump up and bang my head on a roof above me. Shit, I’m in a coffin. I’ve bloody died. I then remember the bunk beds and relief washes over me until I remember who may be in the top one.

‘Shit.’

I lean down to the floor and grab the ringing phone.

‘Hello.’

‘Flora is that you? You sound different,’ says Rosalind.

I let my aching body fall back onto the bed and throw the covers off, and it is then I see it. I stare in horror. I’m wearing a pissing rugby shirt and
only
a pissing rugby shirt. I hate rugby. I would never ever wear a rugby shirt willingly. I hate rugby more than I hate golf. Golf, yes, that’s it golf. I’m on my way to Dublin to propose to Luke who is playing in the tournament. What happened to my great plan not to drink again?

‘That’s because someone stole my tongue and replaced it with a sanitary towel. God, Rosalind, I feel so ill. I don’t think I’m going to make it to Dublin. I’ve not had a hangover like this in years.’

‘You mean you haven’t had a hangover like this since you met Luke and what do you mean you don’t think you’re going to make it to Dublin, aren’t you there yet?’

‘There was a tree on the track, can you believe it? It’s like fate is trying to stop me from proposing to Luke. Do you think that is possible?’

‘What?’

‘That fate is trying to stop me. Do you think maybe I’m not meant to marry Luke?’

‘I’m not altogether sure why you want to, let alone whether you’re even meant to. Look, phone me when you’re there. No, second thoughts, phone me when you’ve proposed. How’s the dish by the way?’

‘I think he might be on top of me,’ I whisper. ‘I was so shitfaced last night I don’t know what happened.’

She gasps.

‘You don’t know? You don’t know if Mr Gorgeous is on top of you. Usually one can’t fail to notice these things, even with a hangover. Either you’re getting banged or you’re not.’

‘I mean on top of me as in top bunk on top of me. He has a suite on the train.’

‘Holy shit, can’t be bad. Look, phone me later with the latest instalment. I’ve got to run I’m dying for a pee.’

I look at the time on my phone. 8 a.m. I sit up gently and look around. At least I’m alone in the bed, that’s something of a comfort. I climb gently from it, giving my head as much consideration as possible but still it explodes at the slightest movement. I need aspirin. I look for my glasses, and then I see it. My bra is slung over it and there perched on the top are my glasses. How did a traffic cone get on the train, and more importantly how did it get in our suite? I struggle to focus on things around me but it’s like there is a mist in the room. Shit, I’ve still got my contacts in. With a heavy sigh I pop them out and fall back onto the bed. I’m too scared to even try and remember what happened last night. My mouth feels like the inside of a sewer. No, that’s not true. Compared to my mouth I think a sewer would be sweet. I lean over the bed and take a quick sneaky look at the top bunk and sigh with relief. The sheets are crumpled but thankfully he isn’t there. I pull the blinds back and feel a thousand needles shoot through my pupils. The train is moving along at a rapid pace. Thank God. I look down at my crumpled clothes on the floor and sigh. I pull my jeans on and after putting on my glasses I open the door gingerly and see him sitting nursing a mug of coffee.

‘Morning,’ he says. ‘You look terrible.’

I squint at him.

‘Really, I rather thought I looked like Jennifer Aniston.’

‘No, that’s a delusion and I don’t look like Tom Cruise. I know it’s hard to believe but it’s true. There is coffee, and the loo is all yours. I imagine you may need it. I did warn you about the tequila.’

‘Tequila?’ I say stupidly.

He nods.

‘I don’t think Luke would have been happy. You had seven, I think. I tried to keep you company but I threw the towel in after the fourth. You can drink me under the table it seems. All I know is this morning I have the mother of all hangovers.’

I groan. He looks worse for wear. His eyes are heavy lidded and he hasn’t shaved. I straighten the rugby top and say,

‘How did I get into the bed and more importantly, how did I get into this?’

‘Search me. I don’t even
remember getting on the train. I’ve never drunk so much in my life.’

I avoid his eyes.

‘Did we, you know?’ I say shyly.

He shakes his head.

‘I’d be absolutely amazed if we did, but you needn’t worry. I have strong morals and would not take advantage of a drunken woman and you were most certainly drunk.’

There is a knock at the door and a waiter brings in breakfast. The sight of the bacon and sausages churns my stomach and I groan.

‘Just leave it on the table,’ says Tom, turning white.

The waiter leaves and Tom pushes the food to one side.

‘It’s all yours,’ he says.

I shake my head and take deep breaths.

‘I wish this train would stop moving.’

‘You and me both,’ he smiles. ‘Unfortunately it’s on a mission now and so are you if I remember, to get engaged to Mr Up His …’

I glare at him.

‘Mr Right,’ he finishes.

He gulps his coffee.

‘They were your friends if I recall,’ I say, reaching for a mug and thinking how good he looks even when rough.

‘It was your hand putting the tequila into your mouth if I recall,’ he responds.

I pour coffee into the mug and it is then I see it. I’m wearing the ring off a lager can on my wedding finger. I stare at it for a second and then lift my eyes to him. He shrugs.

‘Not guilty, Although, I’ve a vague memory of something, but don’t ask me what. Something happened,’ he says yawning. ‘In fact quite a few things happened but I can’t remember any of them.’

‘Something happened?’ I squeal.

He nods.

‘What exactly happened?’

He looks thoughtful.

‘No, my mind is a blank. I just have a vague memory of some kind of happening.’

‘Happening?’ I repeat.

I flop into the seat opposite him.

‘I’ve got a ring pull from a lager can on my finger and you say there was a happening,’ I say fearfully.

‘Yes, I spotted that,’ he says with a smile.

He exudes rugged masculinity even when hungover and he is deliciously so handsome that I just want to keep looking at him. Even unshaved he’s appealing. He smells fresh, that
straight out of the shower
fragrance.

‘I’m going to Dublin to propose to Luke,’ I say removing the ring from my finger.

‘I wouldn’t let a Heineken can ring get in the way. I’m sure the something is nothing.’

‘Did we?’ I ask hesitantly.

‘Not that I recall.’

‘Do you recall anything?’ I snap.

‘Not really.’

‘As long as I didn’t marry some sheep-shagging Welshman,’ I say.

‘No, I believe you have to say I do, or I don’t, or is it I will, or I won’t. Anyway you weren’t capable of saying much at all if I recall.’

‘Fifteen minutes to the ferry,’ calls a voice.

I walk to the loo.

‘I’m going to freshen up,’ I say.

‘Happy birthday by the way, and I would have bought you something but I didn’t know.’

I stop with a start. I’m thirty. Thirty and not engaged.

‘Thank you,’ I say, before rushing into the loo and throwing up.

A great start to my thirties. You’d think by now I could hold my drink.

I step aboard the ship.

‘Welcome on board the Ulysses,’ says a pretty stewardess.

I turn to Tom.

‘Thanks so much for the train adventure.’

‘You’re welcome. Just call me next time you want a good time, and a massive hangover and I’ll be there.’

‘Without your Welsh friends next time,’ I smile.

‘I expect they’ll be too busy shagging sheep,’ he says with a wink and my stomach flutters.

‘I’m off to find some aspirin,’ I say, reluctant to part from him.

‘They’ve got everything on the boat. Good luck with your proposal which I’m sure will be a great success. He’ll be a fool to turn you down.’

‘Right now I’m dying and don’t believe I’ll make it to Dublin. I’ll die a spinster on this bloody ferry,’ I moan.

‘You’ll be okay,’ he says.

I groan.

‘Did we have a good time at the pub? It would be nice to know all this was worth it.’

He rests his hand on my hip and I feel that now all too familiar surge of emotion that only he can produce. He kisses me gently on the cheek.

‘Yes we did. It was fun. We were celebrating your birthday.’

I find myself wondering how Luke will want to celebrate my birthday. He’ll take me to a vegetarian restaurant no doubt, and we’ll have healthy juice and a sugar-free dessert. The memory of my phone call with him comes back to me.

‘I called Luke a patronising git,’ I say.

‘That doesn’t surprise me. You said a lot of things. The last thing I remember you saying was ‘I can drink you bastard rugby boyos under the table.’

I groan again.

‘Well, see you around, I’ll probably bump into you somewhere on the ferry,’ he says.

I nod and climb the stairs to the seating area. The place is packed but I find a seat at the back and gratefully flop into it. A young child bounces into the seat beside me and opens a bag of cheese and onion crisps. I fight back a gag and look on miserably as her mother and screaming sibling claim the seats opposite me. I stare at the mother’s badly highlighted hair, that’s a do-it-yourself job if ever I saw one. The woman gives me a tired smile before unbuttoning her blouse and popping out a monster blue veined breast. She pushes the baby’s mouth onto the nipple and it proceeds to slurp away like no tomorrow.

‘I wanna a drink,’ yells the other child, spitting bits of cheese and onion crisps as she does so. She swings her legs, kicking me in the shin. Maybe she can have a go at the other breast. At least that way they’ll both be quiet and I can get some peace. I pull my legs away from the ferocious female Damien.

‘Sorry,’ says the mum. ‘You got kids?’

No, and when I do, they won’t slurp
at my nipple like that little animal on yours that’s for sure, and they certainly won’t kick strangers and dribble cheese and onion crisps down their front. I doubt they’ll be allowed crisps anyway. I also doubt Luke will allow me to pop out my
veiny breasts in public. Knowing Luke he won’t even want to see my veiny breast in private, come to that.

‘I’m thirsty, I wanna drink,’ demands the monster.

‘No, I’m actually going to Dublin to get engaged, so I guess I’ll be having them soon,’ I say.

‘If you want my advice …’

I don’t actually.

‘Think long and hard. Having kids changes your life,’ she says, pulling the baby off her nipple with a slurp and popping the other one out. Oh God, one was enough but the sight of two makes me feel
nauseous.

‘I use to buy my undies from Marks and Spencer. You know where I get them now?’

I shake my head. I’ve no idea. I do know that her hair hasn’t been near Toni and Guys though.

‘Poundstretcher. Can you believe that? Poundstretcher bloody thongs, that’s sex appeal for you.’

Well, I can believe it. With your hips they must have stretched quite a few pounds.