The Accidental Proposal (9 page)

Sam puts her diary down on the table, then leans over and kisses me. ‘Oh, Edward, that’s lovely of you. But I already know how you feel about me. And you’ve already made a huge statement.’ She fingers her engagement ring. ‘But our wedding day should be something to be enjoyed. Not endured. Which I’m worried it might be if we go down the traditional route.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ I start to object, and then stop myself. After all, what Sam’s saying makes perfect sense. What’s important
is
the two of us, and not some big affair. And thinking about it, I suppose less to organize means we can do it even sooner. With a sigh, I lean over and pick her diary up, flicking through the pages until I find the first available Saturday. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then we might as well go for the earliest date possible. How about the twenty-fifth?’

‘Of April? But that’s . . .’

‘Three weeks away?’ I smile at her, trying to ignore the feeling of panic that’s suddenly building up inside me, not only because by suggesting something so soon, I might have given her the perfect excuse to postpone indefinitely or even back out, but also because if she does say yes, then I’ll be getting married
in three weeks
. ‘Like I said, if we’re only having a small do, and not doing any of this stuff . . .’ I tap the pile of wedding magazines dismissively. ‘Then that shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘I suppose not . . .’ Sam thinks for a second or two, and then puffs air out of her cheeks. ‘Works for me.’

‘Don’t sound so enthusiastic.’

‘I’m sorry, Edward. The twenty-fifth would be lovely.’ She takes the diary back from me and writes the words REGISTRY and OFFICE in capital letters underneath the date, and then catches sight of my expression. ‘Are you disappointed? Not doing the whole church thing?’

‘Well, I . . . No. I mean, it’s your day, isn’t it?’

I smile at her half-heartedly, feeling a little better that at least we’ve set a date. Trouble is, now there’s a different element of doubt in my mind: Why doesn’t Sam want a big wedding?

I just hope the reason isn’t simply that she doesn’t want a big wedding
to me
.

11.52 a.m.

Work’s pretty busy this morning. Natasha’s keen for us to impress a client we’re trying to land, and since – for a change – it’s a female client, this means she and I actually have to do some head-hunting, rather than rely solely on Natasha’s other specialist ‘skills’. I’m so busy, in fact, that I don’t get a chance to phone the registry office to check they’re free on the twenty-fifth until late morning. Fortunately, there’s been a cancellation, although I don’t like to ask why that is, and there’s a slot available at four o’clock, which I book, even though the registrar informs me that we have to be in and out in fifteen minutes. When he jokes that it will be just like my wedding night, it’s all I can do to force out a polite laugh.

6.04 p.m.

I’m in Tesco’s with Mrs Barraclough, my stone-deaf eighty-something-years-old ex-upstairs neighbour. Even though I don’t live in the flat beneath her any more, I still take Mrs Barraclough shopping every Wednesday, ever since she became too frail to do it on her own, and – more to the point – since the list of old-lady essential items like Vaseline, tissues, and tins of sweets that I used to pick up for her became somewhat embarrassing for me to buy on my own.

I did try and get her to do her regular shop on-line at one point, but seeing as the operation of something as simple as her hearing aid is beyond her, suffice to say it didn’t work out. Plus, I suspect she quite likes being driven round Brighton in my Mini, although simply getting her in and out of the passenger seat takes almost as long as the rest of the trip round Tesco’s.

To be honest, I like her company too. My parents aren’t around any more, and I don’t have any aunts or uncles, so she’s the nearest I’ve got to an elderly relative. And what’s more, she’s particularly made up when I tell her that Sam and I are getting married.

‘That’s wonderful news, Edward,’ she says, planting a somewhat spiky kiss on my cheek as we inch our way along the tea and coffee aisle. ‘I didn’t think you young people got married any more.’ There’s a pause, as Mrs Barraclough lowers herself slowly down to pick up a packet of her favourite Cadbury’s Options hot chocolate off the bottom shelf, and then: ‘Samantha’s not in the family way, is she?’

‘No, Mrs B. Sam’s not pregnant.’

‘Pardon?’ Mrs Barraclough squints at me, not having realized her hearing aid popped out as she bent over.

‘We are not having a baby,’ I half shout, causing a young couple to look at us strangely.

‘Well, congratulations,’ she says, popping the earpiece back in.

‘Thank you,’ I say, peering at the next item on Mrs Barraclough’s list, which seems to say either ‘toilet water’ or ‘tonic water’ – her spidery handwriting can be somewhat hard to decipher sometimes – but I’m guessing it’s the latter, given that the word ‘gin’ is written underneath it. ‘You will come to the wedding, I hope?’

‘Of course I will, Edward. Especially if your friend is going to be there.’

‘Which friend is that, Mrs B?’ I say, teasing her.

‘You know,’ she says, ‘TV Stan.’

Mrs Barraclough is a huge fan of Dan’s, and never misses a re-run of
Where There’s a Will
. Unfortunately, the other thing she never does is get his name right, which is a source of constant irritation to him – and constant amusement to me – although it’s his own fault for introducing himself to her as ‘TV’s Dan Davis’.

‘Of course he will. And I’ll make sure he saves the last dance for you.’

Mrs Barraclough chuckles at the thought. ‘Will the ceremony be at St Andrew’s?’ she asks, pointing through the supermarket window at the church opposite.

‘Er, no. We’re, um, not having a church wedding.’

Mrs Barraclough’s face falls. ‘Oh.’

‘Well, we just . . . I mean, Sam feels . . .’ This is a tricky one, since I know Mrs Barraclough goes to St Andrews every Sunday, and I don’t want to get into any sort of religious discussion. Plus, to be honest. I still haven’t quite got my head round the fact. ‘We just wanted to do it sooner rather than later, that’s all.’

Mrs Barraclough regards me curiously. ‘Are you sure Samantha’s not . . .’ she lowers her voice, ‘with child?’

‘Yes. I’m sure.’

‘Well, when is it?’

‘Two weeks this Saturday.’

‘Two weeks this Saturday?’ Mrs Barraclough twiddles the knob on her hearing aid again, as if she’s unsure she’s heard me properly.

‘That’s right.’

‘That
is
rather soon, isn’t it?’

For a second, I’m worried she’s going to enquire about Sam’s reproductive state again, and think about trying to explain, but I’m meeting Dan later, and I’m not sure I’ve got the time.

‘We just didn’t want to wait.’

Mrs Barraclough smiles. ‘You young people. It’s always rush, rush, rush. Back when I was courting, you’d have to be walking out with someone for months before you could even hold hands. Nowadays . . .’

‘Sam and I have been dating for quite a while, now, Mrs B.’

‘So? You were with that Jane for an awful lot longer, yet you didn’t get married to her.’

‘Yes, well, she ran off before I had the chance,’ I blurt out.

‘Pardon?’

‘I . . . er . . .  said Stan will look forward to that dance.’

‘Me too,’ says Mrs Barraclough, before realizing that I’ve just managed to change the subject. ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ she says, resting a bony hand on my arm. ‘I don’t mean to lecture you. It’s just that marriage is such a big thing. And some things are worth waiting for.’

I pat the back of her hand, but don’t say anything. After all, how can I be rushing into something with someone I’ve waited all my life for?

7.33 p.m.

I’m in the Admiral Jim with Dan, telling him about Sam’s preference for a low-key wedding, and still feeling a little depressed about it. I’ve already filled him in about my encounter with Jane yesterday morning, although I’ve decided not to tell him I ended up inviting her to the wedding. Mainly because I can’t quite believe it myself.

‘Yes, well,’ says Dan, brushing some crisp crumbs from the front of his ‘iPhone Therefore I Am’ T-shirt. ‘Lucky escape, if you ask me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s bad enough that you’re getting married in the first place. But having to go through all that church bollocks – you know: will some joker shout out during the “anyone here know any reason why the two of you shouldn’t be wed” bit; are you going to faint; some small baby squealing from the pews so loudly you can’t hear yourself think . . . Much better you just go and sign a bit of paper. After all, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing a few years down the line when you want to get out of it.’

‘Very funny, Dan. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘She doesn’t even want to wear a dress.’

‘Really?’ Dan leans forwards in his seat. ‘Fantastic. Hence the reason she doesn’t want to be in a draughty old church, I’ll bet.’

It takes a few seconds for me to realize what he’s going on about. ‘No, Dan, she will be wearing
a
dress. Just not the big meringue number.’

‘Oh.’ His face falls. ‘Right. But I suppose you should be happy. I mean, this is all going to keep the cost down, and therefore leave more to spend on the party afterwards. And besides, I didn’t know you were a Jesus-freak. Though now I think of it, those sandals you wear in the summer are a bit . . .’

‘I’m not. I mean, I don’t
believe
, I don’t think. But it means something, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it?’

‘To some people. Haven’t you ever gone out with anyone religious?’

He thinks for a moment or two. ‘Does shouting out “oh God” in bed count?’

‘Dan, please.’

‘Sorry, Ed. But if you’re not, why are you so bothered?’

I stare into my pint glass. ‘I don’t know. It’s just the way it’s done, isn’t it? Registry offices always seem so, well, formal, and a thing like this shouldn’t be formal. It’s a celebration, after all. And what girl doesn’t want a big wedding? So if Sam doesn’t see our wedding like that, then maybe it’s a reflection on me. Maybe she feels I’m not her ideal partner, and therefore in order not to spoil her
real
big day, she’s planning, well, a smaller big day instead.’

I brace myself for Dan’s usual long-winded response, but instead, all I get is one word.

‘Nah.’

‘Nah?’

‘It’s actually better, if you think about it.’

‘How do you work that one out?’

‘Less chance of her suffering from PND.’

I sip my beer and wait for Dan to continue, but as usual, he makes me ask.

‘What’s PND?’

He smiles. ‘Post nuptial depression.’

I stare at him, waiting for the explanation, but he just grins maddeningly back.

‘Which is?’ I almost shout.

‘It’s quite common, apparently,’ says Dan, sagely. ‘Most women get depressed afterwards. Even the ones who aren’t marrying you.’

‘Just try to explain, please, without insulting me.’

Dan looks uncertain for a moment, as if he knows that request is going to be beyond him. ‘Think about it. Apparently, most women have been dreaming about their wedding since they were old enough to know what one was. Then there’s months of military-style precision planning leading up to the big day itself, where the bride’s the centre of attention . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘And then she wakes up the next day, and she’s plain old Mrs Edward Middleton. What’s she got to look forward to? Years and years of normal, boring married life. And to you.’

‘Sod off!’

‘I’m serious. The wedding itself is such a lavish event, of course married life can’t possibly live up to it, hence the post nuptial depression.’ He helps himself to a handful of crisps from the bag on the bar. ‘So like I said, look on the bright side. At least Sam’s not going to wake up the next morning and feel depressed. Until she remembers what she’s done, of course.’

I stare at him in amazement. ‘Where do you get this stuff from?’

‘I’m quite widely read, you know,’ he says, shoving the crisps into his mouth.

‘Really?’ I say. Although I suppose that between
Cosmopolitan
,
Heat
and the
Sun
, Dan does pretty much have it covered.

‘Yes, really.’ He takes a mouthful of beer. ‘So you’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides, at least the registry office option means you can do it sooner rather than later which is what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Registry office?’ says Wendy, appearing behind the bar. ‘I thought you’d be doing the big church thing.’

‘So did he,’ says Dan. ‘But Sam doesn’t want one. And Ed’s worried that it means something.’

Wendy shrugs. ‘All it means is that Sam wants a registry-office wedding.’

‘But why wouldn’t she want the whole church experience? I thought that was what all women wanted.’