A Certain Chemistry (40 page)

There was one other major thing that was unarranged, but this one was also out of my hands, really. I’d booked the holiday (Venice—where else? I mean, I have heard that it stinks, but still, well, it
has
to be Venice, right?) and bought the plane tickets. I couldn’t call Sara’s work to make sure they’d secretly sort out her having the time off, however. That’s to say, I
could
have done that, but I didn’t think they’d be able to keep it a secret. Most of the specialness of all this came from it being a complete surprise. It had cost a fortune, yes (though I didn’t mind about that in the least, even though, I have to make clear, it had cost an absolute
fortune
), and there was pampering and luxury and fun, but the real heart of the thing was the surprise. There was no way I was prepared to risk losing that because someone, for whatever reason, had decided they ought to tell Sara about it or give it away through jokey, giggling idiocy—mention that she ought to bring in a nose clip the next day, in case she went anywhere smelly, or something like that. We’d wing the getting-leave bit; Sara would be away for a couple of weeks, and they’d simply have to adapt to it. They’d have to if she came down with amoebic dysentery or something, wouldn’t they? This was no different, really.

I’d bought a morning suit. Don’t even
begin
to guess how much this had cost: just know that the truth is more frightening than you could ever imagine. I didn’t really have any choice, though, as I wouldn’t have had time to return it had I hired one. I just hoped that I’d be best man several dozen times over the years ahead—in fact, given the price of the suit, I was prepared to determinedly make many, many new friends for no other reason than to encourage this, if need be. Initially, I’d thought a bunch of flowers would also be required. However, when I thought about it more deeply, I realized that Sara wasn’t really that interested in flowers. I’d certainly never known her to bring any home for herself, and the one, tiny vase that was in the house had always been used to store Biros. Bringing her flowers, then, seemed pretty pointless. A gift of flowers was for people who liked flowers: I should bring her something
she
liked. I had a careful think and eventually remembered her saying once that she liked fudge, so I’d bought a bag of that instead.

I can’t tell you how nervous I was getting ready. Even caked in antiperspirant, my armpits were like tiny tropical swamps. I left my shirt off for as long as possible, and when I did finally put it on in the last ten minutes before leaving my hotel room, I paced around with my arms stuck out to the side, dangling down at the elbows, in the pose dancers always strike when they’re supposed to be imitating a puppet. I opened my collar and blew air down at my armpits too. I was determined to pull out all the stops to get things right.

Just ahead of time I went to the hotel lobby and waited. I’d decided I wouldn’t have a cigarette—just so I didn’t smell of smoke and I’d therefore be utterly perfect for Sara—but I was simply too nervous not to have one. Anyway, I told myself, in a short while I’d be giving up smoking as part of my new, Sara-containing life, so I might as well have a final cigarette or few now. And, I discovered, I’d absently put a two-thirds-full packet and a lighter in my jacket pocket too: which was a lucky coincidence that, to be honest, made the final decision for me.

Slightly late—a good forty seconds by my watch—the limo arrived to pick me up. The driver knew where he was supposed to go, but double-checked with me just in case wires had got crossed and misunderstandings had occurred. “Best I make sure,” he said. “Only if there’s a load of people waiting at a church somewhere, while I’m parked outside a supermarket specializing in frozen food, then there’s bound to be unfortunate repercussions. You can see my position.” I assured him he’d been told the right location and explained what I wanted him to do as we drove along.

We took a route that passed through the town center, and I was worried we’d get caught in traffic. There was no precise time when I needed to be at Sara’s work—half an hour later wouldn’t make any difference—but I was psychologically committed to everything happening exactly as I’d planned it, so the possibility of a delay sent another four or five pints of sweat dashing to my armpits. However, I switched from anxiety to joy and relief as we were going down Princes Street.

“Stop!” I called to the driver.

“I can’t stop here, sir,” he replied.

“Just for a moment—
please
.”

“You can’t just pull up in Princes Street, especially in a car this size. We’ll block traffic and I’ll get done for it in thirty seconds flat.”

“I need to jump out here. I’ll be back in less than thirty seconds.”

He sighed heavily, replied, “You’d better be, sir,” and pulled over.

A storm of car horns began almost immediately.

I didn’t care, though, because I’d just realized the one thing that I’d forgotten. The element I’d overlooked, the missing letter needed to spell out
perfection,
was music. This leapt into my brain as we passed the Waverley Shopping Centre and, out of the window of the limo, I saw four Ecuadorian musicians: panpipes, ponchos, hats—the lot. I saw them there busking and immediately I
knew
I must have them.

Persuading them to pack up—
right now
—and pile into a limo with me took some skillfully frantic negotiating and the promise of a stinging amount of money. (Ecuadorian panpipe music—to go—while your car is snarling up Princes Street on a Saturday afternoon is, I’ll warn you now, very much a seller’s market.) Still, it would haunt me forever if I didn’t get the final thing I needed to make the event I was staging complete. The deal struck, I hurried the four of them into the car and we pulled away again. They sat opposite me as we drove along, and I explained what I was doing and how they could stand just a little behind me, providing the scene with a romantic and magical soundtrack. They listened carefully and then hunched together for a small burst of Spanish muttering.

The one I took to be the leader (he had the biggest hat) asked, “What music would you like us to play?”

“Oh, you know . . .” I shrugged, and pointed to the instruments they were holding.

“We can do ‘Just the Way You Are,’ ” the leader replied. He looked around at his companions for confirmation. They nodded without hesitation.

“Billy Joel,” said one.

“Very romantic,” the leader added.

I grimaced my uncertainty about this. “I . . . erm . . . I don’t think so. That might be just the tiniest bit . . . tacky.”

“It’s a wonderful piece of music. Very romantic,” the leader said, a little defensively.

“Billy Joel is hugely underrated,” chipped in the Ecuadorian holding the guitar.

“Yes,” I replied, “obviously . . . um . . .”

“
52nd Street
is one of my all-time top-ten albums.”

“Yes, yes, but I think something more
Ecuadorian
would be better here.”

The leader shrugged. “Whatever you say . . . you’re paying.” He sat back in the seat and looked deliberately out of the window, away from me, for the rest of the journey.

I had the driver pull up some distance from Sara’s store. I didn’t want her to see the car until the end. I’d carry her out . . . no, hold on—that was being silly . . . we’d walk out together and I’d wave my hand and the limo would appear to take us to the airport. I instructed the driver to wait for my wave before coming. He asked if it would be a special wave. I said no, just a normal wave.

“Ugh,” said the Ecuadorian holding the guitar as he stood up to get out of the car. “I
thought
this seat was uncomfortable. . . .” He handed me a very flat bag of fudge. I peered inside. It was squashed, but seemed okay otherwise. At least, it did if you had no idea why it felt so warm.

All that was left now was to go into that low-cost freezer store and find the woman I loved. The Ecuadorians and I strode down the road to the entrance. Outside the glass doors I paused for a second and took a deep breath. . . . The Ecuadorians waited for their cue. I nodded to them, they began to play, and we swept in.

I moved along the end of the checkouts and peered down the aisles, but I couldn’t see Sara. For a second—obviously prone to paranoia—I thought I might have screwed up and that she wasn’t working this Saturday. I’d worked it out, though—repeatedly checked the dates—and I was sure she should be. Everyone in the shop, staff and customers, had come to a halt and was watching me—carrier bags were dangling in frozen hands, shopping was pouring unnoticed along checkout conveyor belts and gathering into little piles at the end. I jogged over to Susan, who was sitting at the end till staring at me with a look that might almost have been mistaken for sheer terror.

“Hi, Susan. Is Sara in the office?”

“I don’t—” she began, but the store manager, Terry, appeared at her shoulder.

“No,” he cut in. “I’ve just come out of there. What’s all this, then, Tom?”

“I’m looking for Sara.”

He turned his head slightly, in the vague direction of the other checkouts, but kept his eyes locked on me. “Anyone know where Sara is?” he called.

“I think she’s in the lavatory,” shouted back the woman on the next checkout down, whose name I couldn’t remember.

“Would you go and get her for me, please, Pam?”

Ah, yes, “Pam.” She’d had a hysterectomy, I recalled being repeatedly told against my will.

“So . . .” said Terry. He smiled. He clicked his teeth. He sucked in some air, and then let it out again. He patted the top of the till slowly, in time with the Ecuadorian mood music.

“Business seems good,” I said, nodding around at the motionless shoppers.

“Oh, you know, can’t complain. Head office is always— Ah, Sara! There you are.”

She appeared around the side of him, Pam hurrying a few steps behind her.

“Well . . .” Terry said, and he retreated, walking backwards, slightly bowed—like a butler leaving a room.

Sara looked stunning. Her hair was tied back and she was wearing her pink, nylon corporate overall—both of her hands pushed deep into the side pockets. I went weak at the sheer beauty of her. Her mouth alone was so lovely you could spend your whole life just staring at it in awe. Her nose was heartbreakingly wonderful—each nostril more emotionally affecting than an entire symphony. Her eyes . . . oh,
Jesus
—her
eyes
—the things that had first attracted me to her all those years ago. They were beyond anything in the world. So glorious that the sheer, perfect fabulousness of them tore at me; they were lovely to the extent that it hurt me to look at them. But to stand there and have
them
look at
me
? Well, that was akin to being blessed. Her gaze had weight and substance; it washed over me like cleansing water.

I took a step towards her. She didn’t say anything, or move, but simply continued to look at me with an expression of what seemed to be disengaged curiosity.

“Sara,” I said. “I know that I did a terrible thing. I know that I hurt you. But, believe me, I’ve suffered for it too—suffered more than you could ever imagine. I see now that I was awful not just because of what I did, but also because of what I didn’t do. I always took the easy way, did what required the least effort and caused me the smallest amount of trouble. I thought of myself when I should have been thinking of you, because without you, I realize now, I’m nothing. All that’s happened has brought home to me how, for years, I haven’t deserved you. Well, I’ve changed, Sara. I’ve changed, and what I want, all I want, is a chance.” I reached into my pocket. “I’ve booked a holiday for us. The plane is leaving in a couple of hours and”—I opened the box containing the ring and offered it to her—“I want to ask you to marry me. . . . Sara, give me the chance to deserve you.”

I paused for a moment, then raised my other hand. “Oh—and I’ve bought you some fudge too.”

Sara peered down at the ring. Slowly, emotion began to fill her—until now—impassive face.

“I don’t know,” she began, “what the
fuck
you think you’re doing.”

“I’m asking you to marry me,” I replied, a little confused. (Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it?)

“And what the hell makes you think I want to marry you? What’s that, then? The magic bait women can’t resist? The ‘real thing’? I can’t believe you’d be so conde-fucking-scending as to think that the offer of a ring and a register office would blow my little, girlish mind. Have I
ever
been interested in marriage, as far as you can remember?”

“Well . . . no—but it’s the gesture, isn’t it? The declaration that—”

“You’re prepared to ‘make the ultimate sacrifice’? Is that it? ‘Christ—he’s prepared to
get married;
that’s like taking a bullet for me, that is.’ You insulting, arrogant twat.”

“It’s about commitment—”

“I was committed to you anyway . . . and I
thought
you were committed to me too.”

“I’m sorry. I just—”

“Never mind. It’s all irrelevant. The important issue here is that—surprisingly—I do not want to marry you. I’ll go farther. I don’t want to go out for a few drinks with you either. I don’t want to talk to you, see you, or even have a vague awareness that you’re alive somewhere. I do
not
want to marry you: what I
want
is for you to fall down a fissure in the earth’s crust. . . . Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck off.”

She started to turn around, but I quickly moved so as to remain facing her.

“But Sara,
please
. . . I’m in agony without you. I’m an absolute fucking mess. You wouldn’t believe it. There’s nothing in me—
nothing
—but a terrible, terrible aching for you. I can’t sleep, I can’t concentrate, I can’t think of anything else but you. The food I try to eat sticks in my throat, Sara. My mouth is dry, and the food sticks in my throat. It goes dry when I think about you, and I think about you all the time. I can barely speak properly now—my stupid dry tongue is huge and clumsy in my mouth.
Sara
”—I reached out and touched her arm—“without you I have no spit.”