“Danni, I’d really like you to have this.”
He flipped the lid and all I could see was this huge rock of a stone, glistening and twinkling as it caught the sunlight. It didn’t look like a replacement Russian wedding ring at all. I raised my gaze from the rock to his face.
“Marry me,” he said.
*****
What girl hasn’t dreamed of the day the man she loves gets down on bent knee and proposes? Only this was not the scene I had in mind. I’d played out the Olivier proposal time and time again in my head, but never the Hugo one. I was silent for the longest time imaginable. In the end it was Hugo who spoke first.
“I was kind of hoping you’d say yes a bit quicker than this,” he smiled nervously.
“But what about your girlfriend,” I bleated, knowing it was irrelevant seeing as he’d just proposed to me, but I was playing for time.
“What girlfriend?”
What kind of game was he playing?
“The one you went with to Tuscany.”
“That wasn’t a girlfriend, it was a colleague.”
“But, but you said that, but-
I suddenly realised that Hugo hadn’t actually said anything about a girlfriend at all. It had been me making assumptions.
“So, now you know there’s no girlfriend, does that make a difference?” he asked hopefully.
“Oh, Hugo, why are you asking me this now? I’m so confused and am a complete and utter mess. Why would you want to marry me?”
“Because I love you and have always loved you and am never going to love anyone else as much as you. And I think we could be very happy together. And I was hoping it would help you to leave France behind and to move on.”
“I don’t know what to say?”
“Then say yes.”
I knew instinctively that I ought to say no. No. No way, I don’t love you like you love me. I’m still in love with someone else and I don’t want to leave France behind. I want to go back there to turn back the clock and make everything alright again. But right at that moment, daft that it may sounds, ‘no’ didn’t necessarily feel like the right answer.
“Hugo, I know it’s a bit unromantic, but this has all come as a bit of a shock. I need time to digest it. Do you mind?”
“As long as come back saying ‘yes’.”
I got up off the swing, stood in front of him and perched on my tiptoes to kiss his forehead.
*****
It was when I got back and told my mother about the proposal and that I’d asked for think time that she’d shrieked up to my father, telling him she’d changed her mind and that session with a Psychiatrist needed to be arranged pronto, because any girl of marriageable age who didn’t accept a proposal from someone like Hugo straight away, thanking him for the
honour
, was quite clearly sick in the head. I, on the other hand, was starting to wonder if I’d lost my marbles for another reason; for not telling Hugo ‘no’.
His name’s John Smith. He’s supposed to be the best in the business, although I find it curious how a man with the most ordinary name could have such extraordinary credentials. The shrink to the stars, they call him, but I’m alone in the waiting room. Today there’s not a star to be seen. Everything feels stodgy. The curtains and armchairs are all chintzy flowers and the room has a musty, mothball aroma, as well as an irritating loud tick courtesy of a wooden grandfather clock. I’ve arrived early. My appointment’s not for another ten minutes and I’m becoming a little anxious. I don’t want my head examined. I don’t particularly want to be here at all. I’m not sure why I agreed to even come.
There’s a selection of today’s newspapers lying on the coffee table. I settle on
The
Sun
. I no sooner make it to page three and its resident topless beauty than I wish it was
Le Figaro
I was reading and my mind starts to wander. It’s amazing how quickly things can change. For the last two months life has been a repetitive drag of nothingness and then, out of the blue, comes along a surprise marriage proposal. It’s not that I’m cured of my depression, it’s just that now I’ve got more food for thought, something different to mull over.
I’m uncertain why I didn’t say no. No, I don’t love you enough, enjoy kissing you enough or enjoy orgasm-less sex with you enough. But then I started wondering whether perhaps all those things were overrated. Hugo and I get on brilliantly. He’s nice to kiss, he just doesn’t make me go weak at the knees and maybe weak at the knees can never last the course of time. I can learn from him, all about Sartre and Kierkegaard (this Danish existentialist apparently) and I’d never have to worry about money because he’s always going to earn tons of it. Maybe I need never work at all. Maybe he’ll be so wealthy we could buy a holiday house in France and that way, a part of me could always be across the Channel. Maybe Amber was wrong and Hugo
could
make me happy enough. Maybe I’m expecting too much from life.
Why then, did I not say yes? He is, after all, what my mother would call a damn good catch. Maybe it’s not fair on Hugo. I respect him too much. He’s a great guy and he deserves better. He deserves someone who will love him back with the same force that he loves them. And I don’t want to live in London. I don’t want to live in England. Hugo’s life, his work, will always be here and I don’t feel as if this is where I belong anymore. But most importantly, the reason I didn’t say ‘yes’ was because if I married Hugo, I would have to accept it was over with Olivier and I’m not yet ready to do that. I know it’s daft, but a small idiot part of me still thinks this can have a happy ending. I’m beginning to wonder if I should have waited and spoken to Olivier to find out his version of events. Olivier’s wife could miscarry and perhaps that would change things. I know I’m hanging onto false hope, but when you love somebody as much as I love Olivier, when you yearn for somebody like I yearn for him, when you ache like I ache, then clutching at straws gives temporary solace.
The clock strikes eleven, the time of my appointment. Bang on cue, outside in the corridor, a stout, white-bearded bespectacled man in a three-piece tweed suit shows somebody to the door. Then he pops his head into the waiting room. “Danni Lewis?” he says. I nod, toss
The Sun
back onto the table, get up and follow him.
*****
He motions that I should sit in the upright leather chair (thank goodness not the couch) that is on the patient’s side of the desk. He waddles his way to the doctor’s side, settles into his seat and sits back to observe. It’s at this point I decide that however cuddly and Santa Claus-like he looks, I’m going to give him a hard time.
“So, how can I help you Danni?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure you can.”
“Well, what brings you here today?”
“Today as opposed to yesterday, you mean?”
“Alright then, yes.”
“Well, yesterday my parents decided I needed to see someone urgently and you didn’t have space until today.”
“Did your parents make you come?”
“Well, it was their idea.”
“Do you do everything they tell you?”
“No.”
“So why did you bother coming here at all?”
I consider.
“I think I was interested.”
“Interested?”
“Yes, I haven’t been getting out much recently and thought it would be interesting to have a new experience.”
“Why is it that you haven’t been getting out much then?”
“I guess I haven’t felt like it.”
“Why don’t you talk me through your daily routine. What, for example, did you do yesterday?”
“Well, actually, yesterday was slightly different, so maybe you should pick an alternative day.”
“Maybe later, but let’s stick with yesterday for now. What happened yesterday that was a little bit different?”
“Well, yesterday, my ex-boyfriend proposed to me.”
John Smith smiles a kind, caring smile.
“Should I be saying congratulations?”
I’m about to say ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so, I’m confused, it was the wrong man’, but none of it comes out. Instead, I’m pouring all my resources into tightening my throat and diaphragm to prevent this tidal wave of emotion I can feel brewing in the depths of my belly from escaping. I think I’ve got it under control and open my mouth to deliver a considered response, but opening my mouth is worse than opening the floodgates and all that escapes is this rip of a high-pitched wail. John Smith leans over and offers me a box of tissues.
*****
Bizarrely, when my shoulders stop shuddering, the tears dry up and my coherence returns. It’s not Hugo’s proposal I speak about, but Olivier. I tell Mr. Smith everything, about how we met, how I broke my promise, how I thought it was worth it, how I thought we would end up together. I tell him about how wonderful it was, he was, and how I thought we were made for each other. Until, that is, his brother told me about Olivier’s wife being pregnant despite her apparently not ever wanting kids.
“So, what did Olivier say when you confronted him with what his brother had said?”
“I never confronted him. I left straight away, without leaving any contact details or anything. I didn’t want to be responsible for splitting up a family. But all I’ve been thinking since I came home is how I wish I had spoken to him about it, so at least I had it from the horse’s mouth.”
Mr Smith sits back in his seat and looks at me wisely as he straightens his spectacles.
“My dear, you know there’s nothing worse than what we call in the trade ‘unfinished business’? Unanswered questions, things left in the air, and feelings that it’s not properly over, all these things can eat away at you.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that it sounds like you’ve got some unfinished business to attend to. Our American cousins call it ‘closure’ – which, if I remember my ‘O’ Level French correctly, translates as ‘fermeture’.”
I smile at his attempt to speak French.
“So, do you think I should go back to France?” I ask.
“You’ve got to do what you think is right. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to make sure that one way or another you have completion or closure.”
“And what do I do about my ex, the one who proposed?”
Mr. Smith removes his specs, picks up a little cloth from his desk and starts rubbing the lenses.
“My dear, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find your own answers. You seem quite intelligent and level headed enough to work it out for yourself.”
“You mean I’m not the certifiable loon my mother thinks I am?”
He chuckles heartily.
“No dear, not at all. I think you’re of perfectly sound mind. I’d be far more concerned if you
weren’t
displaying emotions about your current situation.”
The grandfather clock next door chimes midday. I smile, get up and shake his hand. I leave his Harley Street practice feeling like a new woman and like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
*****
I leave the surgery and take a right down Harley Street as I head for the tube, knowing exactly what it is I have to do. The thought of going back to France and seeing Olivier again puts a dangerous spring in my step. I switch on my mobile. For the first time since I’ve been back I actually feel like speaking to someone. Not to tell them what’s going on in my head, but just to talk, because for the first time in two months I feel sunny and more carefree. The only problem is, I can’t think of anyone uncomplicated to call. If Hugo hadn’t proposed, I’d have picked him, but as I’m not ready to give an answer, he’s a no-no. My parents are equally out of bounds. Then it comes to me. Gina, I’d love to talk to Gina. I dial her number.
“Hey you, your ears must have been burning,” she squeals down the line.
“Why?”
“I’ve got a job interview up your way late afternoon. I won’t be able to stay long, but I was thinking of popping by earlier on for a quick catch-up and to drop off your stuff. My mother’s getting annoyed with it cluttering up her house.”
Gina’s staying at her parents’ place in South London until she’s got enough money to move out. We’ve spoken a few times but not seen each other since I got back.
“That would be great. It would be really lovely to see you,” I reply.
My tone is positively perky, surprising even me.
“Are you ok?” she says, suspiciously.
“Yes, why?”
“You sound like you’re on happy drugs or something. You sound so different to the last time we spoke.”
The last time we spoke I’d spent an hour sniffling down the receiver, ditto the time before, and the time before that for that matter.
“I’m not on anything,” I promise her. “I’ll tell you everything when I see you.”
“Oh no, tell me now. Don’t leave me in suspense,” she begs.
“Sorry, no can do. Oops, just going into the tube now. I’m going to lose the signal in a sec, so call me later if you get lost. Ciao.”
*****
There’s thankfully nobody at home when I get back. This is the day my mother works in a cancer charity shop and my father’s off selling insurance for a living. I go straight upstairs, open my laptop and research budget airlines that fly to Turin. My heart starts pounding with nervous excitement at the mere thought of going back. I decide to let price rather than date dictate when I go. It feels a wee bit soon, but as I can do the day after next for a bargain £45 return, and as money is something I don’t have a lot of, I hover momentarily over the ‘confirm’ button, take a very deep breath, and click return. By the time Gina rings on the doorbell I am in proud possession of a boarding pass, folded up neatly in my back jean pocket. It’s unbelievably good to see her. We squeeze each other in a tight bear hug.