Rory's Proposal (16 page)

‘To your future marriage,’ says Tom, holding up his glass.

I force a smile.

‘Yes, to my future marriage,’ I echo.

We clink glasses and his hand brushes mine and he looks into my eyes.

‘I hope you don’t mind. I’ve arranged a little surprise for your birthday,’ he says and gives me a cheeky grin.

‘What?’ I say excitedly.

‘You might want to change,’ he says, draining his glass. ‘The dress code is smart casual. ‘

I feel my stomach flutter with excitement.

‘But you bought the perfume,’ I protest.

He waves a hand dismissively.

‘That wasn’t much,’ he says checking the time on his phone.

‘We’ve got twenty minutes. Allow me to escort you back to the suite Miss Robson.’

I laughingly take his hand. Oh, if only Luke were like this. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, but how can I not think about it? This time tomorrow and I’ll be engaged to Luke and I’m starting to think that proposing to Luke is a big mistake.

I gasp in wonder at the candlelit table. I’d guessed that Tom had arranged lunch but I never imagined it would in a sheltered spot on the promenade, under a gazebo. I feel tears prick my eyelids as I stare at a banner that hangs above the entrance.

Happy Birthday to a Lovely Lady.

Shimmering crystal blurs before my eyes. Tom pulls back a satin-draped chair and gestures for me to sit down.

‘Happy birthday,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. ‘I hope Luke won’t mind but I’ve got the best champagne on ice, and meat on the menu.’

He gives a mischievous smile.

I feel sure Luke would be livid if he knew but right now Luke is the last person on my mind. After all, when has Luke ever done anything like this for me?

‘I don’t know what to say,’ is all I manage to mumble.

‘You don’t have to say anything, just enjoy.’

A waiter materialises out of nowhere and pours the champagne into our glasses. So much for my great plan of not drinking while with Tom.

‘This is Paul, our waiter for the lunch.’

Paul nods and places the champagne back into a bucket.

‘Happy birthday madam. We have a special selection for you. There is salmon mousse to start or parsnip soup. The main meal is duck in orange sauce with sauté potatoes or roasted lamb shank with roast potatoes and a selection of vegetables. Dessert is profiteroles with cream or chocolate mousse,’ says Paul. ‘Of course,’ he adds with a smile, ‘madam could enjoy both desserts.’

Madam is fully intending to.

After taking our order he leaves us. Tom looks shyly at me over his champagne glass.

‘You don’t mind?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t want it to be over the top but you are thirty after all, and once you’re married I doubt very much you’ll be allowed champagne.’

Tell me about it.

‘I’m sure I will be,’ I say. I push Luke from my mind and sip the excellent champagne.

‘What do you do that you have so much money?’ I ask.

He looks uncomfortable and then seems to compose himself.

‘I own properties. Inherited from my father. It’s a large corporation …’

‘Oh, I know about those,’ I say with venom.

The last person I want to think about during this lovely dinner is Mr Rory. I’ll sort him out when I get to Dublin.

‘About the salon …’ Tom begins.

‘Please, can we not talk about the salon. This is so lovely; I don’t want Mr Rory to ruin it.’

He nods and studies me for a second. He looks about to speak when Paul returns with the starter. My eyes widen in appreciation at the salmon mousse. It’s no good, I can’t deny it. I love my food. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Not today anyway.

I’d worn my favourite lace skater dress by Laura Scott and topped it with a black pashmina. I left my hair hanging loosely around my shoulders and popped my favourite dangling earrings in. I feel pretty and his admiring glances confirm I look it.

‘Thank you so much for this,’ I say as Paul removes our dishes.

‘I wish I could have done more. It’s not so easy on a boat,’ he laughs.

I find myself wondering how much money he does have. The deck is deserted. Surely he didn’t pay to have this part of the deck to ourselves. The main dish comes and I look enviously at his lamb shank. Paul places the duck in front of me and refills our glasses.

‘That looks good,’ says Tom.

‘So does that,’ I say, coveting his lamb.

We laugh and he cuts a piece and holds his fork towards me.

‘Try it.’

I nearly choke on my duck. I can’t remember the last time Luke and I had shared food. Well, that’s not true. I can. In fact I cringe at the memory. I had offered Luke some of my aubergine salad and he had been horrified when I’d passed him my fork.
I’ll take some on mine,
he’d said, pushing the fork away,
that’s how germs are spread.

I sigh at the memory. Tom gestures with his fork.

‘It’s only fair I try the duck,’ he says.

I offer some duck on my fork and he takes it happily. I savour the lamb.

‘That’s excellent,’ I say.

‘Coming from the vegetarian that’s a compliment indeed,’ he laughs, cutting a large chunk from his meat and placing it on my plate. I do likewise and we eat in companionable silence, occasionally glancing at each other when we think the other isn’t looking. By the time our desserts arrive I’m feeling quite light headed and thinking a second bottle of champagne is perhaps not a good idea. God, I’ve never eaten and drunk so much in my life. Not that I’m complaining mind you. I can barely take my eyes off Tom. He is looking so handsome and his eyes constantly meet mine until finally they lock and we just look at each other. This is so not good. Thank God I won’t be spending another night in his suite. I really don’t think I could trust myself.

‘Thank you so much for this,’ I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at having his eyes on me for so long.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,’ he says sipping a cup of coffee.

Paul clears away our plates and Tom stands, offering me his arm.

‘A stroll around the deck, Miss Robson.’

I take his arm and allow him to lead me onto the promenade. He carefully wraps my pashmina around my shoulders, his hand resting there longer than necessary. We walk silently for some time and then he stops. He looks pensive.

‘Can I give you a birthday kiss?’ he asks.

Oh yes please. I can’t think of anything better. I steel myself to say no however. I can’t possibly kiss him again can I? But before I can reply he has pulled me close and his warm demanding lips are once again on mine. This is becoming a habit. A multitude of emotions overtake me and I’m completely out of control. My arms slide around his neck and his arms hold me upright. He pushes me gently against the rail and his hands caress my neck. Pull away, Flora, pull away, but I’m surrendering instead and it feels so delicious to be in his arms and to drown in his kiss. His tongue gently caresses mine and I feel my legs buckle. Oh my God, this is just terrible. How can I possibly marry Luke when I’m clearly in love with Tom? He releases me gently and looks questioningly into my eyes.

‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘I find that perfume hard to resist.’

I go to answer when there is a crackling from the tannoy.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we advise you that we will be docking in thirty minutes.

‘Saved by the tannoy,’ he laughs nervously.

I’m shaking so much I can barely stand. He leads me down the steps and back to the suite. All I know is that I don’t want to leave him. This is terrible; I’ve come to Dublin to propose to my boyfriend. I have the ring and everything; I wasn’t supposed to fall in love on the way. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, but this time I really do have to think about it.

I stand outside the B&B’s tatty entrance and hesitate. I had refused Tom’s offer of a lift and taken a taxi. I had, however, agreed to take his phone number and am already feeling guilty about that. What soon-to-be-engaged woman takes the phone number of another man and one she has kissed at that? I have no idea where I am or where Luke’s hotel is, or where the golf course is, or even The Gresham Hotel. By the look of things I’m in Dublin’s equivalent to Soho, and I’ve been solicited twice in as many minutes. Seriously, I could have made a small fortune in the time I have been standing outside the B&B. If I’d have known I would be so popular in Dublin I would have come here earlier. I see another man approaching and dive through the doorway. A woman looks at me tiredly from behind a desk.

‘You need a key?’

‘I booked a room,’ I say pulling out my phone.

‘Everyone books a room. How long you want it for?’

‘I’m not sure. My boyfriend …’

She laughs.

‘I’ve heard ‘em called some things but never
boyfriend
.’

‘No, he’s here for the tournament and …’

Her bright pink lips open and she laughs revealing stained teeth.

‘Oh be Jaysus, a tournament, that’s new. You’re going to be fucking busy. You gonna get some kind of medal at the end?’

I sigh.

‘Do you know where The Gresham Hotel is?’

She chews
on her gum.

‘Go way outta that! You having this tournament at The Gresham are ya? You’ll be selling tickets next,’ she says and roars with laughter. She leans over the desk to give me the once over.

‘You won’t get into The Gresham,’ she says knowingly.

‘Is there a dress code?’

She laughs.

‘They don’t let floozies in there. Not even if you’re having a tournament.’

Floozies? What a cheek. I pick my case up tiredly and walk back outside. I wave down the first cab I see and ask for The Gresham Hotel. Do I look like a bloody prostitute? I pull my phone from my bag only to see the battery has died. I lean my head back and go over what I’m going to say to Luke. All I know is I need to see Tom. Twenty minutes and fifteen euros later I am standing outside The Gresham. A doorman welcomes me and offers to take my suitcase as I enter the plush foyer. This is really a bad idea isn’t it, but I can’t stay at the B&B can I?

‘Is it a room you be wanting?’ asks the man behind the desk.

‘I’m actually looking for a guest who’s staying here.’

Then I remember I don’t know his surname do I. How stupid is that? How can I still not know his name? How did he manage to go all this time without telling me his surname? It’s a bit odd that isn’t it? Now I come to think about it actually, it’s very odd. The reception clerk stares intently at me and not only him but two other members of staff.

‘The problem is I don’t know …’

‘It’s Mr Rory you’ll be looking for to be sure,’ says the clerk.

What? How would he know I’m looking for Mr Rory? What have Ryan and Sandy been doing since I’ve been away? I only said get plenty of signatures, not start a worldwide campaign. Still, it’s good for the cause if people in Dublin know what kind of person Mr Rory is. By the time I get home I should have got some good publicity. Bloody hell, I’ll be in the papers next. I turn to look at the clerk and my eyes fall on a display at the front of the desk. OH MY GOD,
I am in the papers.
A copy of the
Daily Mail
is displayed on a newsstand and I’m on the front page, or someone who looks frighteningly like me is on the front page, but I feel quite sure it is most certainly me. I grab the paper with trembling hands and stare at the picture of Tom and myself. I’m snuggled up to him and he is kissing me on the cheek. He has one arm around me and oh my God, is that his other hand resting on my breast? I feel my whole body grow hot. The photo is from last night and it is most certainly me because I am wearing the rugby T-shirt. I don’t understand. Why would the newspapers be interested in me, and Tom and the rugby players? Did we do something really embarrassing? Please don’t say we stripped off in public and did a rendition of Grease. Luke will never forgive me. No, that wouldn’t make the nationals would it? What did we do? I scan the headlines bracing myself for the worst and feel my legs buckle.

Engaged

Rory’s heir Thomas Rory falls for humble hairdresser after making a bid for her salon.

I stare at the bold black words.
Humble hairdresser,
what a cheek. Then it sinks in. Thomas Rory. Tom is Mr Rory … my stomach churns and I fight the urge to throw up. What if Ryan and Sandy see it? It’s the
Daily Mail
. It isn’t a case of what if. Of course they have seen it. Ryan never misses his fix of the
Daily Mail
. They’ll think I’ve had a breakdown or something. All my clients will have seen it. While Sandy and Ryan get signatures for a petition against Rory’s I’m getting bloody engaged to him. Jethro will send a banger round to me, forget about Rory’s. This couldn’t get any direr. I step closer and stare at the tabloids. My mind reels as I struggle to remember the newspaper Luke reads but my brain is numb. I pick up another of the papers and stare at it stunned.

Rags to riches for hairdresser girl Flora Robson

Hairdresser hits the jackpot and bags multimillionaire Thomas Rory following Rory’s bid for salon.

Tom is Mr Rory; I can’t believe it. He is the son of John Rory, who’s playing in the tournament. Tom has been lying to me this whole time. I feel my body grow hot from the humiliation. How could he?

‘I’ll phone through to Mr Rory’s room for you,’ says the clerk and dings a bell on the reception desk.

‘No,’ I say loudly, and thump the bell after him. I pull my case from the porter.

How could he? He lied to me. He lied barefaced. Tom, my lovely nice Tom is no other than fucking Thomas Rory. He’s the Rory who’s been trying to buy my salon. It all makes sense now. He’s taken the business over from his father. He said he worked for a family business. The bastard, the no good shagging creep. What a git. I stare
at the headline until my mind boggles.
Hairdresser bags multimillionaire?
They make me sound like a gold-digger. This is terrible. No, more than terrible, it’s catastrophic. All this time he had known how much I didn’t want to sell the salon. All the nice things he did. The birthday present he bought me, all those nice gestures he made, and they were all in a bid to get my salon. The kiss, the dance, the kindness he showed me, it was all false. I feel myself cringe. Of course he didn’t fancy me. I feel the tears roll down my cheeks and brush them away angrily. How dare he? Of course someone like him would never look twice at me. Stupid stupid Flora. I stamp my foot angrily and fight back the tears of humiliation. What’s worse is that everyone will know what a fool I’ve been, and that includes Luke. I have probably lost Luke for ever now. I remember Tom’s arms around me, our kiss, and his bright blue eyes. He’s just one big fake and the worst thing, the really worst thing is that I’d begun to fall in love with him. I had started to fall in love with the enemy and that was exactly what he wanted, no doubt.

I read the headlines again. How dare they, how dare they? What do they mean from rags to riches? I’m not sodding Cinderella. I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him. I’ll rip his insides out with my bare hands and then I’ll … I’ll sue the newspapers, that’s what I’ll do.

‘Hey, aren’t you her, the hairdresser who’s bagged a millionaire?’ cries someone.

I snatch every newspaper that has me on the cover. I’m shamefaced to admit they’re not the best newspapers, still, that’s good in a way isn’t it? It means that Luke most likely hasn’t seen it. I ask the clerk to call me a cab. By the time it arrives a small group of guests have gathered to gawp at me. I dive into the cab and slide down in the seat.

‘Where to?’ the cab driver asks.

‘Can you just drive,’ I say tearfully.

No wonder the bastard wanted to talk about the salon. I’ll kill him, I’ll seriously kill him. How dare he make me look so ridiculous? Oh Jesus, how do I explain this to Luke? I pull my phone out of my bag with shaking fingers and then remember the battery is dead. The truth is I’m not good enough for Luke. I’m just a simple hairdresser. I always felt I wasn’t good enough and Thomas Rory has just confirmed it.

‘Bugger,’ I say, throwing the phone back into my bag.

‘Everything okay?’ asks the driver.

Oh yes, everything is hunky-dory. After all I’m engaged to a multimillionaire aren’t I? How did that happen, when did that happen, more importantly how did I let it happen? Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. What am I thinking? I’ve got to bloody think about it. I let my muddled brain wander back to last night and slowly bits start to click together. Didn’t Jeff, one of the rugby players say he was friends with the editor of
The Sun
? I drop my head into my hands and groan. I’ll hire a hit man and kill the bloody lot of them. Then I remember the ring pull and Tom sliding it drunkenly over my finger. No wonder they were texting me with congratulations. I’m never ever going to drink tequila again. I need to get my battery charged. I need a room but the only room I can think of is Tom’s at The Gresham. How could he do this? Why didn’t he tell me who he was?

‘I need a hotel room,’ I say in a shaky voice.

‘Are you away in the head? Everywhere is booked. There’s a golf tournament. It’s the turd today. Should be a good un.’

‘Turd?’ I repeat. Is he referring to Luke by any chance? Let’s face it all the men in my life are turds. I mean, what am I doing coming all the way to Dublin to propose to a man who tells me how much alcohol I can drink and what I can put into my mouth and who ejaculates before I’ve even got my shoes off?

‘Who’s the turd?’ I ask, dabbing at my eyes.

He looks at me in his rear-view mirror.

‘Turd round, it’s the turd round. It’s the final tomorrow.’

‘Ah, the
third
round,’ I say, finally understanding.

‘No the turd round.’

‘Whatever. It doesn’t matter what it costs, just get me to a hotel.’

‘Oh well, sure look it,’ he laughs and takes a sharp right. ‘I’ll take you to The Clarence to be sure. It’s owned by Bono himself.’

‘I don’t care if it’s owned by Mr Blobby just get me there as soon as you can.’

He stares at me and then exclaims,

‘Get outta that garden, aren’t you that woman in the papers today who just got engaged to Rory’s son?’

I sigh.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Be Jaysus, you’re the spitting image.’

Twenty minutes later I am booking myself into one of the most exclusive hotels in Dublin and I am determined that that bastard Tom Rory will pay for it. I’m led to my luxury room and as soon as I am alone I plug in my phone charger and run a hot bath. As soon as I plug the phone in it starts ringing. I’m almost terrified to answer it. It bleeps and trills so much that I
turn the sound off. I step into the warm bath and feel the tension ease from my body. I lay there until the water grows cold, going over all the things Tom had said to me. I finally climb out reluctantly, knowing it’s time to phone Luke. After all I can’t put it off forever can I? I sit on the bed and rehearse what I am going to say but nothing sounds right.
Luke, hi it’s me, I thought I should phone to explain about the engagement thingy in the newspapers.
No, I can’t say that can I? Supposing he hasn’t yet seen the papers, although that is a bit unlikely considering they are everywhere and I’m splashed all over them and, what’s more, looking my absolute worst.
Luke it’s me. I just wanted to say I love you and …
yes and what exactly? Oh God, why don’t I just throw myself off the top of the hotel and be done with it? As I’m trying to decide what to do my room phone rings. I pick it up and speak cautiously.

‘Hello.’

‘Flo,’

Just his voice makes me come over all tearful. How could I have been so stupid? I feel my hands shake so much that I can barely hold the phone.

‘How dare you. How dare you phone me. You’ve ruined my life. How did you know where I was?’

‘I’ve been phoning all the hotels. Look Flo, you have to listen to me …’

‘I don’t have to listen to you. You’re a conniving, deceitful and …’ I fumble for the worst words possible. ‘The most horrible person I know. I hate you. You’re trying to take my business and you’ve done it in the most dishonest way and …’

‘Flo, it wasn’t like that …’

‘And now you’ve ruined my engagement. I’ll never forgive you …’

‘Flo, you’re too good for him …’

‘How dare you. And don’t call me
Flo
. You don’t know Luke. He’s perfect for me.’

What am I saying? No one could be less perfect for me than Luke. I snatch a tissue from the bedside cabinet and wipe away my tears.

‘Flo, I’ll talk to Luke. I’ll be seeing him. The tournament ball is tomorrow. I’ll explain everything to him. I should never have got drunk. It was, no doubt, Gareth’s stupid idea of a joke.’