Rory's Proposal (9 page)

Tom

I check my watch as I enter the office. I’m still wondering how I managed to blow the whole thing with Flora Robson. The office is quiet and I dump my briefcase and jacket on a chair and make my way to the conference room.

‘Evening gentlemen,’ I smile.

‘Everything okay Tom?’ Brent Galway asks, looking at me intently.

‘Yes, great,’ I reply.

‘Good,’ he says, looking at me oddly.

‘How did it go?’ Grant asks.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ I say.

He leans towards me.

‘Why are you wearing that sticker?’

‘What sticker?’

‘Why are you wearing a sticker that says
Say NO to Rory’s and Save our Small Businesses
?’ he whispers. ‘Is there something we should know? You’re not dropping a bombshell or anything are you?’

Damn. I’d totally forgotten about that.

‘Shit,’ I mumble.

‘Go well with
Robson did it?’

‘You could have warned me. She’s not exactly unattractive. You gave me the impression she was an old spinster,’ I say under my breath.

I exhale and peel the thing off. Grant raises his eyebrows.

‘At least I didn’t come back with an anti-Rory sticker,’ Grant says with a grin.

‘Okay okay,’ I mumble. ‘Do you want to keep your job?’

‘Did you tell her who you were?’

‘Not exactly, it all got a bit complicated. I’d be here with a black eye and a broken arm if I had,’ I grin.

‘So you didn’t close the deal then?’ he grumbles.

‘I was thinking you could go to this protest, whenever it is. Be the Rory representative.’

‘Yeah right …’

I pour myself some coffee
and sip at it slowly. I can still smell her intoxicating perfume.

‘Right, let’s get this meeting on the road shall we?’ I say, forcing Flora Robson from my mind. ‘How about ordering some pizza Grant? I don’t know about you gentlemen but I’m starving.’

Two hours later, I lean back tiredly in my chair and watch Grant collect up the folders.

‘You do realise we paid
over the odds for the video shop in Church Lane don’t you?’ says Grant.

‘I know, I know.’

‘The plans are done. The contract signed with the builders, I mean we’ve tied up a lot of people with this deal. You can’t let one woman get the better of us. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes at the shareholder’s meeting.’

‘It was awkward. She had water everywhere. One of the basins was leaking.’

He gives me a cynical look.

‘And when did you become Mr Softie? I’ve never known you come back without closing a deal.

‘Everyone has a price. See if there are other salon sites we can offer but not in the East End, I can’t understand why she asked for that site in the first place.’

‘Do you have any idea of the prices in upmarket London? It won’t be worth buying her salon if we’re going to offer a place in Notting Hill. It’ll be the most expensive site we ever buy at this rate.’

‘Just look and come back to me with them okay?’

‘By the way, we had a meeting with the senior partner at the surgery.’

‘You didn’t waste any time.’

‘That’s why you pay me an obscene salary. They’ll train one of our drivers and we will be okay to take it on. He loved the idea.’

I slap him on the back.

‘Great work.’

‘Of course, this Flora Robson issue could easily be settled. We just make sure her hairdresser business goes downhill,’ he says, avoiding my eyes.

‘We don’t work that way Grant, and you know it,’ I say firmly. ‘This is my company, my reputation. My father built this company on honesty and integrity and now I am CEO nothing is going to change. We don’t do anything underhand. Anyone who does is out, no matter who they are. We’re clear on that aren’t we?’

Grant pulls at his tie uncomfortably.

‘Just a suggestion,’ he says casually.

‘It’s not a suggestion I’m interested in.’

He nods.

‘I’ll start my research on Flora Robson then. I think I’ll rather enjoy it,’ he grins.

‘Just don’t get personal with her,’ I say firmly.

The last thing she needs is Grant hassling her.

‘Spoilsport,’ he laughs.

‘Go home. You work too late.’

I watch him walk from the boardroom and find myself thinking of Flora. I sigh. The last thing I need is a woman on my mind again.

Flora

I park outside my parents’
bungalow and stare suspiciously at the Ford Mondeo parked in the driveway. She’s not invited someone has she? I really want to talk to Mum and Dad about Rory’s and the salon, and preferably without one of Mum’s friends giving her two-penny worth. The door is flung open and my mother stands there decked out in country casuals and Marks and Spencer pearls, and smelling of Jo Malone’s Grapefruit. She’s a cross between the Queen and Joan Collins, and that’s hard to accomplish let me tell you. In fact the whole house smells of Jo Malone’s Grapefruit with a candle
in the lounge and a diffuser in the hallway. Grapefruit overkill or what? She hugs me stiffly, careful not to dislodge her newly sprayed hair.

‘Gordon did it yesterday. What do you think?’

My opinion on Gordon’s hairdressing should never be voiced. I sometimes think Gordon’s full name should be
Gordon Bennett
for the reaction it gets from me. She does a little turn and I see a blue streak running through her white bob.

‘What was he aiming for exactly?’

That is, aside from making my mother look ridiculous.

‘I wanted to be more
with it
. I don’t want to end up like your father with salt and pepper hair. Very
with it
don’t you think? Your dad doesn’t like it, but he’ll get used to it.’

I feel myself sympathise with my dad. Her nails are a dark blue too and I cringe. She sniffs around me.

‘Is that
Charlie Red
you’re wearing?’

No it bloody isn’t. I haven’t worn that since I was nineteen.

‘No, I’ve gone off that a bit,’ I say delicately.

‘Oh have you? Oh dear, that’s a shame.’

That means she has got a carrier bag full of the stuff for me to take home. That will be a nice surprise for Sandy.

‘Yvonne’s here. I thought we’d have a treat.’

Oh God no. Yvonne conjures up anything but a treat. Chinese torture yes, a treat no. A treat is a Crunchie bar with a glass of wine right?

‘She’s going to thread our eyebrows and wax our legs. It’s my treat. I know how you hate spending money on pampering.’

Pampering? Is she insane? Pampering is holding hands with a stranger while they file and paint your nails. Eyebrow threading is masochistic torture that should be used to make terrorists talk. Forget the waterboarding, just hold up the eyebrow threading equipment. That should do it. I don’t know how many Saturdays I have spent avoiding eyebrow threading in Portobello Market because Devon has always been keen. Personally I don’t do pain, at least not voluntarily.

‘Mum, I really don’t …’

‘It’s on me darling.’

That somehow doesn’t make it any more bearable. Hopefully the morphine will be on her too. Being as I’m driving I can’t even have a glass of wine to deaden the pain. Still, I suppose there is some comfort in not paying for my own torture.

‘I’m driving,’ I say. ‘Don’t you need some kind of anaesthetic for eyebrow threading?’

I feel quite certain I will. I need two glasses of wine just to get my legs waxed.

‘Don’t be silly dear, you’ll be fine and Luke will be amazed when he sees you.’

I don’t imagine Luke will even notice. He’s still bemoaning the state of his penis although it looks fine to me. Any hopes I had of getting him to say yes during a mind-blowing orgasm is pretty unlikely now. Anyone would think I’d taken a blow torch to his cock instead of rubbing a little bit of Biofreeze on it.

I follow Mum into the lounge.

‘Hi,’ waves Yvonne holding a glass of wine.

Shit, she’s been drinking too. How many has she had? I’ll end up getting my nose threaded. I certainly won’t be having a bikini wax that’s for sure. I’d like to keep my clitoris. It may not see much action but that’s no reason to let it go is it?

Dad strolls from the kitchen carrying a tray of glasses and a bottle of ginger wine. He kisses me on the cheek.

‘Ooh ginger wine,’ I say, ‘my favourite.’

‘Did you see the hair?’ he whispers.

I nod.

‘Your mother thinks she’s Lady Gaga. I wish we’d never watched that programme on the woman. Your mother has never been the same since. I worry she’ll think Boden is too tame soon.’

I laugh.

‘How are you Flora?’ he asks.

‘Well, I’ve been better,’ I say. ‘It seems I’m to have my eyebrows threaded.’

‘Yes, good Lord. I imagine that’s going to be painful.’

‘Thanks Dad.’

‘Just knock back the ginger wine. Your mother will be knocking back the red. I’ll run you home if you’re over the limit. You can pick up the old jalopy tomorrow.’

‘I wish you two would not talk about me as though I’m not here,’ grumbles Mum.

‘So what’s happening to the salon?’ asks Mum, helping Yvonne to set up her bed between the coffee table and the small bookcase that houses Mum’s treasured Barbara Cartland novels. I’ve decided if my mum ever attempts to look like her heroine I am divorcing her. Lady Gaga is one thing but Barbara Cartland, that’s surely grounds for matricide isn’t it?

‘I’m not selling,’ I say. ‘They came round with perfume and chocolates and … that reminds me did anyone come to see you and ask what perfume I liked?’

Mum looks thoughtful and lifts her eyes to the ceiling and Dad starts humming.

‘Did they bring your favourite
Charlie Red
?’ asks Yvonne.

When will everyone realise
Charlie Red
has, in fact, never been my favourite?

‘You’re both as guilty as hell aren’t you? What did they bribe you with? Don’t tell me, it was Boden wasn’t it? Or was it Jo Malone?’

Mum looks at Dad.

‘It was two tickets to the opera at the Royal Opera House.’ She turns to Yvonne and adds, ‘In a box.’

‘A box,’ says Yvonne, awe stricken.

‘I’ll put
you
in a box,’ I say angrily turning on my mother.

‘Oh dear Flora, don’t be like that. They said they were going to give you a nice selection of
Charlie Red
as well as chocolates. I said you had a sweet tooth.’

‘But you don’t even like the bloody opera. You complain that Andrea Bocelli gets on your nerves.’

‘But a box at the Royal Opera House, well it’s something isn’t it?’

I shake my head.

‘You’d sell out your
daughter just to get a box at the Royal Opera House. I don’t believe it.’

‘I really feel that salon is what’s holding Luke back from proposing,’ she says petulantly. ‘Besides, Mr Richards was very sweet. He went out of his way to check what you liked.’

‘I bet he did.’

‘Who’s first?’ asks Yvonne.

‘Her,’ Mum and I say in unison.

‘You’re younger,’ says Mum.

‘What’s age got to do with it? It’s eyebrow threading not open heart surgery.’

I climb onto the bed, might as well get the torture over with quickly. My legs could do with a wax.

‘Heavens, you’re turning into an ape,’ says Yvonne as I pull my leggings off. ‘When did you last wax?’

‘I’ve been shaving,’ I say, thinking I really shouldn’t feel this guilty about hairy legs.

I hold my glass out to
Dad.

‘A refill darling?’ he asks, reaching for the ginger wine.

‘Anyway that’s not true about the salon,’ I say. ‘Luke likes a successful woman.’

‘Well, he obviously doesn’t want to marry one.’

‘Legs or eyebrows first?’ asks Yvonne.

‘Neither actually, but if I’m being treated,’ I glare at Mum, ‘then legs.’

I knock back the
wine and hold the glass out again.

‘Rory’s Supermarkets are taking over everywhere,’ Yvonne says, applying warm wax to my calf. ‘Just a half leg is it?’

She sounds like a butcher. Still, she’s not far off being one.
I wish she’d stop drinking. She’ll be paralytic by the time she gets to Mum.

‘I don’t show off the top half.’ I say in a strangled voice.

‘They’re building one near us too. A small one, but hell it’s progress and I hear Burt at the shoe shop was made a good offer so they’ll be off like a bride’s nightie,’ she says, whipping off the wax so fast I don’t have time to breathe let alone scream.

‘But I can’t sell up,’ I say, pulling out my soapbox. ‘These big corporations are ruining small businesses.’

‘They even bought Mary, Burt’s wife, chocolates when they last came round,’ she adds, tearing at my skin for the second time. I fight back a scream.

‘Yes, well I got offered those too, I told them to take them back and stick them up Mr
Rory’s arse.’

‘What about the perfume?’ asks Mum.

‘Up his arse.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I said he could forget sending flowers too because they’ll end up his arse as well.’

‘I reckon he’ll be running out of room up there,’ says Yvonne, pouring wax onto my toes.

Dad coughs.

‘It’s a damn shame that,’ he says, glancing through the
Radio Times
.

‘You’re worried about Rory’s arse?’ I ask.

‘Roger,’ snaps Mum. ‘Don’t be coarse.’

‘I like Rory’s,’ says Dad. ‘It’s a good little supermarket. It could be worse.’

‘Dad,’ I gasp.

‘I’m just saying. They’re a decent company.’

I harrumph loudly.

‘Decent company my backside.’

‘I know their solicitors, and from what I’ve heard Rory’s are not underhand. Everything is always above board with them, and they are very generous.’

‘I don’t believe this. The bastards have got to you too.’

‘It’s not quite like that,’ says Mum.

‘Oh no, a box at the Royal Opera House?’ I remind her.

‘Yes well …’ she stutters.

‘I’m not selling,’ I say, feeling like I’ll be saying that in my sleep soon. ‘Is there anything legal I can do Dad?’

‘Don’t be silly Flora. You should be looking for a husband not having airy-fairy ideas about taking on a
corporation,’ says Mum.

‘No, there isn’t. You can refuse to sell but with everyone selling around you …’ he trails off.

I turn onto my stomach and accept an After Eight
from a box Dad is handing around.

‘I met someone, really nice actually. His name’s Tom.’

‘Ooh,’ says Yvonne excitedly, throwing back her wine and nodding at my dad to pour more. Christ, she won’t be able to see straight soon. I’ll end up with threaded eyelids. I’ve not got great eyelashes as it is. I really can’t afford to lose any more.

‘Is that sensible dear?’ says Mum worriedly.

For a second I think she is talking to Yvonne about the wine and then realise she is actually talking to me.

‘I only had lunch with him. He banged me in the car park.’

‘Good Lord,’ says Dad.

‘No, my car not me.’

‘I was about to say, that was daring of you,’ says Yvonne excitedly.

‘He’s very nice, rich and good looking. I have his email address. I just think Luke is never going to propose and now this thing with the salon. I don’t know what to do. Devon got engaged too. I feel like I’m on the shelf …’

‘You are on the shelf,’ agrees Mum.

I sigh. Maybe she’s right. Two years is stretching things a bit isn’t it? Luke probably has no intention of proposing. We’ll drift along for years like this if I leave it to him. I had this thing about getting married in my thirtieth year but I don’t think he is going to take the initiative. I pop another After Eight into my mouth and as the minty flavour melts on my tongue it comes to me. How stupid, why didn’t I think of it before?

‘I’ll propose to him,’ I say.

Yvonne turns me onto my back.

‘What if he says no?’ she asks, lurching towards me with her thread.

I feel a prick above my left eye and gasp. That’s a point, what if he says no? He won’t, surely. After all, we’ve been together for two years. We’ve just got into a routine that’s all. I feel a tremor of excitement at the thought. This time next month I could also have an engagement ring on my finger, if I could just get engaged in time for my birthday. In fact …

‘I’ll propose on my birthday. Ouch, Christ Yvonne, you’re scalping me of eyelashes.’

‘But won’t Luke be in Dublin on your birthday?’ says Mum gently.

‘It’s the tournament, he can’t miss that, he’s the best in the club,’ says Dad, looking concerned.

Oh, well that’s that then. God forbid I should come before the sodding golf.

‘Go to Dublin,’ says Yvonne, taking a break to top up her glass. I gingerly feel my eyebrow, just to check it’s still there. Ooh, it feels rather good. I take a sip from my glass and it hits me, not the wine obviously, but my great idea.