The Accidental Proposal (18 page)

‘It’s not bollocks. Until you’ve experienced it, you can’t possibly know what it feels like.’

‘Yes, but alcohol makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do. Or rather, do people you wouldn’t normally do.’

‘I didn’t think you liked Jane. How come you’re defending her?’

‘I’m not. I just don’t think it’s that big a deal, that’s all. Although I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.’

‘I was too embarrassed, all right? I mean, when someone cheats on you, it’s not just a reflection on them, it’s also a reflection on you. I obviously wasn’t enough for her, so she decided to go and look elsewhere.’

‘Aha,’ says Dan.

‘Aha what?’ I say, disinterestedly. I’m starting to realize that Dan’s observations rarely relate to the real world.

‘There you go!’

I sigh. ‘Where?’

‘You’re obviously enough for Sam. Like I said, she asked you to marry her. So why on earth would she be having an affair now?’

‘You think?’

‘Yes. Of course, after you’re married –that’s when she might turn to someone else. But not before.’

‘Thanks, Dan. That’s a comfort.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, draining the last of his beer. ‘But before you leap to any conclusions, or make any rash accusations, just remember one thing.’

‘What?’

‘Sam’s not Jane.’

And while I know he’s right, there’s still one thing that troubles me. Despite appearances, I’m still Edward.

5.48 p.m.

When I come home to pick my car up to take Mrs Barraclough shopping, Sam’s sitting at the dining table, frowning at her laptop.

‘Whatcha doing?’ I say, as breezily as possible, kissing her on the top of the head while surreptitiously trying to peer at the screen.

‘Oh, nothing much,’ she says, hitting the minimize button quickly. ‘Just a bit of admin.’

‘Don’t tell me. Wedding stuff?’ I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but fail.

Sam gives me a look, and immediately I feel childish. ‘If you must know, I’m ordering some more business cards.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I nod towards the laptop. ‘So why the big secret?’

Her eyes flick guiltily towards the screen. ‘I was just trying to work out the name thing. You know, to see what looked best.’

‘Name thing?’ I say, not quite following her. ‘What name thing?’

‘You know.’ Sam swivels round to face me. ‘What I’m going to be called. After.’

‘After what?’

‘The wedding, silly.’

‘Mrs Middleton would be a good start.’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘It’s just that, well, Smith’s my professional name and I’ve worked for years to build myself up as a brand.’

‘A brand?’

‘Yes. “Sam Smith – Personal Trainer”.’

‘But what’s wrong with Sam Middleton? Or even, Sam Smith-Middleton. Or, thinking about it, Middleton-Smith has a good ring.’

‘I’ve already got a good ring,’ says Sam, holding her left hand up and wiggling half my life savings in front of my nose. ‘I just think I ought to stick with what people are used to. And besides, these business-card people charge by the letter.’

It takes me a second to realize she’s joking. ‘But you’re just talking professionally, right?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘And my cheque book, of course. For my bank account.’

‘Bank account? I kind of thought we’d have everything in together. You know, as husband and wife.’

Sam turns her attention back to the laptop. ‘Well, mine’s a business account, don’t forget, so I’ll need to keep that separate for tax purposes. And besides, the flat’s in my name, and it’d be a lot more trouble than it’s worth to go about changing the deeds and everything. So it kind of makes sense.’

Not to me, it doesn’t. ‘Listen, Sam. If you’re worried about this wedding . . .’

Sam looks up suddenly. ‘Not at all. It’s just a big thing for a woman – losing your name. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you. But I’m the last of the, well . . .’

‘Smiths?’ I say, ironically. ‘I think you’ll find there are a few others out there.’

‘Not in my family.’ Sam smiles. ‘Hey – here’s an idea. You could always change yours. Then we’d be Mr and Mrs Smith.’

‘And feel guilty every time we checked into a hotel?’

Sam takes my hand. ‘Edward, whatever my surname is, you’ll still be able to call me your wife. Surely that’s what’s important?’

‘Yes, but . . . I’m sorry, Sam. I’m just a bit more traditional than you, I guess. And so you not changing your name . . . It’s just not what my impression of being married was going to be like.’

Sam lets go of my hand and folds her arms. ‘I thought you were marrying me for me not for someone you wanted me to be.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I say, conscious that I might be entering dangerous territory. ‘Besides, if you don’t take my name then what will our kids be called?’

I’m clutching at straws and, as it turns out, they’re extremely short ones, because Sam suddenly looks horrified.

‘Kids? Hold on, Edward. We’re not even married yet, and you’re planning my future as if I’ve got no say in the matter.’

‘I thought you wanted kids?’

‘I do. But it doesn’t mean I want to have them straight away. And I certainly haven’t got as far as thinking about what their names are going to be.’

I open my mouth to reply, but then think better of it. While I know I should be relieved that Sam’s just indirectly answered the ‘Is she pregnant?’ question that everyone else seems to have been asking, I can’t help being annoyed at her stance. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable, and yet Sam seems to think I’m forcing her into a corner, which makes me wonder whether I’m forcing her into doing something else she doesn’t want to do. I know I should sit down with her and discuss this sensibly, but I’m worried where it’ll lead, so instead, I just grab my car keys from the table and make for the door.

‘I’m late for Mrs B.’

Sam looks up at me. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’

‘I’m meeting Dan later.’

‘Dan? I thought we were spending the evening together?’

It’s childish, and I know it is, but I can’t help myself. ‘No can do,’ I say, as I slam the door behind me. ‘Wedding stuff.’

6.41 p.m.

I’m pushing my trolley into Tesco’s when I realize I’ve left Mrs Barraclough in the car.

‘Sorry, Mrs B,’ I say, after I’ve rushed back and opened the car door for her.

‘Pardon, Edward?’ Mrs Barraclough swings her legs round and places them carefully on the ground, then tries unsuccessfully to get out of the car – a task made somewhat harder by the fact that she’s forgotten to undo her seatbelt.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, as we do an awkward little dance where I try and reach across her to press the seatbelt button, then end up having to run round the Mini and get in my side to do it, before unceremoniously pushing her up and out of the car. ‘For forgetting you. I’m just a bit distracted.’

‘You must have a lot on your mind,’ says Mrs Barraclough, handing me her shopping list. ‘After all, you are getting married next weekend.’

‘I wish I could be that confident,’ I say, scanning absent-mindedly through the list.

Mrs Barraclough frowns at me. ‘What was that?’

‘I said, er, you need a packet of Steradent,’ I say, tapping Mrs Barraclough’s shopping list, while wondering how on earth I’ve got to the stage where I’m venting my frustrations to an octogenarian.

I place both her hands on the trolley, then point her in the direction of the supermarket, hoping the gentle slope down towards the door will carry her there at a reasonable speed. Once inside, we take our usual route, starting at the tea and coffee section where, as usual, Mrs Barraclough drops several packets of Options into the trolley, then make our way through the rest of the store as we work systematically through her list.

‘Edward, you are a good boy, taking me shopping like this,’ she says, tweaking the volume knob on her hearing aid for about the millionth time. ‘You must have a hundred other things to be doing.’

‘That’s okay, Mrs B.’

‘I hope young Samantha realizes how lucky she is?’

‘I’m the lucky one, Mrs B,’ I say, almost automatically.

‘Nonsense,’ she says, turning the corner as if in slow motion into the toiletries aisle. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life it’s that people get what they deserve.’

As Mrs Barraclough selects several lavender-perfumed items from the shelves and drops them into the trolley, I make my way down to the dental section and hunt for the Steradent, thinking about what she’s just said. Maybe what’s going on
is
what I deserve. Maybe me catching Sam with this other man is repayment for not having told her about seeing Jane the other day. I mean, look what happened to Dan when he went through all that Slate Your Date stuff: if ever anyone needed proof that karma existed, there it is.

Of course, it might not be karma. Sam may simply know I saw Jane – though God knows how – and she’s testing me. Or, maybe the reason she’s not said anything is because it makes her feel okay about whatever it is she’s doing with him. And besides, maybe this is all I can expect. I mean, while I try my hardest, I know I can’t possibly be the perfect boyfriend. I certainly wasn’t where Jane was concerned, which is probably why she ended up dumping me. So maybe this is the price I have to pay for marrying Sam – a wedding that’s not quite how I want it to be, and a wife who, well, might be the same.

I search the shelf in front of me, conscious that Mrs Barraclough is inching along the aisle towards me, but try as I might, I can’t seem to locate the Steradent anywhere, and for some reason, find it really upsetting.

‘Shit!’ I say, under my breath; unfortunately, Mrs Barraclough must have her hearing aid turned up to eleven, because there’s a shocked expression on her face.

‘I beg your pardon, Edward?’

Immediately I feel guilty. ‘I said, where is it?’

‘Oh. Can’t you see?’ Mrs Barraclough points to the relevant section, then lets out a short chuckle. ‘It’s been right in front of your nose all this time.’

I stare at the shelf, then back at her, wondering whether she’s talking metaphorically. ‘No, Mrs B, I can’t.’

‘Here it is,’ she says, helping herself to a tube. ‘Don’t worry, Edward.’

And as we make our way towards the checkout, how I wish I could take her advice.

7.55 p.m.

I’m sitting at the bar in the Admiral Jim, staring miserably into my pint glass for the second time in as many days, when Dan bangs on the window, making me jump. He takes one look at me, and hurries inside.

‘What’s up with you now?’ he says, putting his notepad down on the bar next to me, then jumping onto the adjacent stool.

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Oh. Okay. Don’t bother, then.’ He flicks the notepad open, and starts studying the back page, on which he appears to have written what look like several titles for television programmes.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on. What are these?’

Dan grins. ‘Okay. Your relentless interrogation has broken me. I’ve spent the afternoon brainstorming.’

‘The whole afternoon?’

‘Piss off. If you must know, I’m plotting my TV comeback. These are all potential new shows. With me as presenter, of course.’

‘What happened to the acting?’

Dan makes a face. ‘I’m not sure I was all that good at it, to be honest. Presenting’s where my real skill lies. Or rather, it’s about the only talent I’ve got. Well, that’s not strictly true. But it’s the only one I’ll ever get paid for. Actually, that’s not strictly true either . . .’ He stops talking, then shakes his head, as if to reset it. ‘Anyway, presenting’s still acting, in a way, so I’ve been trying to come up with a few ideas. What do you think?’

‘Well . . .’ I take a look at the page. ‘That one’s been done,’ I say, pointing to where he’s written ‘Britain’s Got Talent’.

‘Not with this kind of talent.’

‘Ah. All right, “Survival of the Fittest”. What’s that all about?’

‘Aha,’ says Dan. ‘Basically, we get a bunch of really fit women – and I mean “fit” in the gorgeous sense – and train them up in various sports. Each week, the one who’s the worst gets kicked off, until at the end of the series, you’re left with one winner. Who, coincidentally, will actually be the fittest, as well as the, you know . . .’

‘Fittest?’

‘Precisely. What do you think?’

‘I’m not in TV, but I’d watch it.’ I point to the next heading, which says ‘Mr Righteous’. What’s this one?’

‘Think
Blind Date
. But for religious people. Although that gives me an idea.’

‘Which is?’

‘
Blind Date
. But for blind people. Then it would actually
be
blind da— No, that wouldn’t work, because blind people don’t actually watch a lot of television, do they?’