The Proposal (3 page)

Amy’s heart gave a little skip.

‘Celebration? I haven’t got the job yet . . .’

They were interrupted by a group of thirty-something men who Daniel appeared to know well, judging by all the back-slapping. It happened a lot whenever she was out with him. He seemed to know everybody. There were friends from school, from Cambridge, work friends, football friends, female friends – she liked those sort the least . . . He introduced them to her but they all carried on talking about people in common, deals they’d made, and what they were up to over the holidays, which seemed to involve shooting and skiing and going to parties. Although she and Daniel were from two very different worlds, they never ran out of things to say when they were alone together. But she was never very comfortable in social situations like this one; she never felt funny enough or smart enough to speak up. After all, it was better to say nothing than say something stupid.

She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and sipped it gratefully until they were herded into the ballroom for dinner.

They threaded between the circular tables, all formally laid with crisp linens and polished silver, huge floral displays at the centre – and there on table fifteen, already standing by their seats, were Daniel’s parents.

‘Daniel. Amy.’ They smiled tightly as their son approached. As Vivienne Lyons gave Amy a swift air kiss, she inhaled the older woman’s expensive pomade and perfume, which she hoped overpowered her own eau de roast potatoes.

‘How are you both? Amy, you’re between Stephen and Nigel Carpenter.’

Within seconds, she found herself wedged between Daniel’s father and a giant of a man dressed in full military regalia. As she sat down, the hemline of her dress shot up so that it barely covered the top of her thighs. Nigel Carpenter, ‘an old friend of the family’, looked down as Amy threw a napkin over her lap in case he saw her panties.

‘Good evening, Amy,’ said Stephen formally, touching her shoulder. ‘I trust you are well?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ said Amy, wishing she was back at the Forge.

Everyone else on the table – three sixty-something couples and Nigel’s wife Daphne – seemed to know each other.

‘So what do you do, Amy?’ asked Daphne. She was a sharp-featured lady with a sleek grey bob and was around half the size of her husband.

‘I’m a dancer,’ she said quickly.

‘Anything I might have seen you in?’ she replied with interest.

‘Depends on where you go to the theatre,’ said Amy lightly.

‘We’re patrons of the Royal Opera House. That’s how we know Vivienne.’ She smiled.

‘I do more modern dance. Smaller theatres.’

‘The Rambert?’

‘No,’ smiled Amy, fairly certain that the woman hadn’t seen any of her body of work. Certainly not her most high-profile gig – an MTV video for Harlem rapper K Double Swagg.

‘So what productions have you been in recently?’

‘Amy’s been injured most of the year,’ explained Daniel, looking rather uncomfortable. To his friends, and the sort of twenty- and thirty-something revellers they had met in the foyer, he usually explained with a sense of pride that Amy was a dancer. She was not naïve – she knew that when his friends smiled and looked impressed, it was because the word ‘dancer’ was some sort of code for being good in bed, and as irritating as that was, at least Daniel always supported her ambitions.

‘Oh dear.’

‘But she had an audition today that went well, didn’t you, Amy?’ said Daniel, looking increasingly jumpy.

‘And what was that for?’ asked Vivienne Lyons.

A light was shining on the top of Amy’s head and she was beginning to feel hot.

‘It’s a new show,’ she explained, taking a sip of water. ‘With original music and dance. It’s about the birth of tango.’

‘Tango?’ said Stephen Lyons with an amused half-smile. ‘That’s rather racy, isn’t it?’

She saw Daniel’s mother flash her husband a warning look.

Amy willed herself to keep calm and not to buckle. She had to make a good impression – these people were potentially
family
– and besides, the tango was one of her favourite dances and she felt honour-bound to defend it.

‘Done properly, tango is elegant, it’s beautiful, passionate,’ she explained.

‘Tango is about sex,’ said Vivienne Lyons matter-of-factly. ‘It originated in the slums of Argentina, Uruguay. It was music for the bordellos. Every aspect of it is underpinned by sexuality, eroticism. Leading, following.’

She paused and smiled, although the gesture didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Still, at least you must be on the mend if you’re auditioning.’

Amy reached for the champagne this time, her good mood completely gone. Vivienne Lyons was such a snob. It was tempting to tell her exactly how she had broken the toe that had almost put an end to her career, let alone out of action for the last six months. If anything was
about sex
,
it was that mini-break she’d had with Daniel back in June. The only time they’d got out of their four-poster bed was to go for a cycle down to the river, when she had fallen off her bike and crushed her foot with the wheel. She doubted that her boyfriend would volunteer those details at the dinner table.

The thought of it made her toe throb inside the confines of her Topshop shoe, but she was distracted by the arrival of the starter, which looked like a cactus sitting on a bone-china plate.

She picked up her knife and fork, careful to choose the smaller set on the outside of the arrangement – Daniel had shown her that on their second date. ‘If in doubt, always work from the outside in,’ he had said.

Which was all fine, but Amy had no idea where to start. At the same time, however, she knew Vivienne was watching her, and not wanting to seem inexperienced, she clamped the artichoke between fork and knife and attempted to slice off one of the sticky-up leaves. The ball-shaped vegetable immediately flipped over, clattering against the plate and knocking the small dish of what looked like nacho cheese dip on to the tablecloth.

‘Shit,’ said Amy, trying to retrieve the vegetable.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Vivienne, her eyes wide.

‘Slipped,’ said Amy quickly, ‘I said I slipped.’

Daniel leant forward to his own artichoke and calmly pulled off one of the outer leaves, dipped it into the sauce, then put it between his teeth, scraping off the goop.
Damn
, thought Amy
, that’s how you do it.

Flushing red, she set about copying Daniel, her eyes fixed on the plate, not daring to look up, wishing the ground would swallow her. She sat in silence through the rest of the meal, listening as the Lyonses made bland small talk, nodding in the right places, making sure she watched which item of cutlery everyone else was using before she even attempted to begin. By the time the dessert had been cleared away, she was quite tipsy on the champagne she had drunk to occupy herself and was looking forward to going home – even if someone had to carry her out on a stretcher.

‘I think it’s about time for a toast,’ said Stephen Lyons, clearing his throat and turning his full attention towards Daniel. ‘I am extremely pleased and proud to report that our son has only scored himself a rather plum posting to Washington.’

A murmur of approval went round the table like a Mexican wave as Daniel raised his hand to object.

‘Dad, please. It hasn’t officially been announced yet.’

‘Nonsense, a pal in Whitehall rang me this morning to congratulate me. To Daniel,’ he said, raising his flute of champagne.

Amy shot a glance at her boyfriend. She knew that a promotion had been on the cards for months. She had shared his excitement, voiced her support and encouraged him, even though it had sometimes been with a heavy heart. She had always known that as a Foreign and Commonwealth Office employee on the fast track to the diplomatic corps an overseas posting wasn’t just likely – it was inevitable. In fact before Daniel and Amy had met, he had just returned from a spell in Brussels, although as he had often pointed out, if he was sent back there again, it would only be like commuting from Liverpool to London.

‘Washington,’ laughed Amy nervously, deciding that this might be even more preferable to a European post. She reached for her coffee, but as her hand stretched across the table her fingers clipped a wine glass, knocking it over, the contents spilling across the tablecloth and into her lap.

For a moment, all was chaos, with Vivienne shouting for a waiter, Daniel jumping up to grab the glass and Stephen bending forward, dabbing at Amy with his napkin.

‘Here, my dear, let me help,’ he said. ‘You must be soaked.’

‘No, no, I’ll be fine . . .’ said Amy before she realised that the older man’s hands were lingering. She felt his fingers brush across her bare leg and looked up in shock. Their eyes met for a split second.

‘Sorry, I . . . I think I’d better go to the restroom,’ she muttered.

‘I think they’re just about to start the speeches,’ said Nigel, resting his hand on her knee for her to stay.

She nodded quickly and sat still as a middle-aged man came to the podium, eulogising for over twenty minutes about a superb year and the magic of London 2012, whilst Amy squirmed in her seat, the wine soaking the back of her thighs and dribbling towards her knickers.

As soon as he had stopped speaking and the applause faded away, she got up and fled.

Her heart was pounding. Had Daniel’s father really stroked her thigh, or had she completely misread the situation? She had no idea, because she was definitely drunk and needed to get some fresh air.

‘Amy, what’s going on?’

She was relieved to see Daniel come out of the main hall.

‘Are you okay?’

She nodded tightly, looking down at her dress – God bless the sequins – which had covered the worst of it.

‘Wow, Washington,’ she said finally.

‘I know,’ replied Daniel. He was trying not to smile but his happiness was written all over his face. ‘I wanted to tell you in private, but I happened to speak to Dad this afternoon . . . and besides, I didn’t want to spoil Christmas.’

‘No, really. It’s great.’

‘We should go and celebrate.’

‘Not back in there, though. Not at that table,’ she said quietly.

‘You have to ignore them,’ he said.

‘They hate me.’

‘They don’t hate you. They’re just a bit old-fashioned.’

‘Old-fashioned? Daniel, they were just rude. Rude about what I do, rude about my ambitions . . .’

‘I didn’t know it was a tango.’

‘Don’t say
you
have a problem with it.’

‘My mother went about it in the wrong way . . .’

‘But you agree with her,’ said Amy, trying to read between the lines.

‘Come on, leave it, lighten up.’

‘Lighten up! This is my career, Daniel. Perhaps you could try taking it seriously for once.’

‘I do take it seriously. Very seriously. In fact you can show me your moves later,’ he said, a smile pulling at his lips.

‘You do agree with her,’ she replied, flinching. ‘You think it’s slutty.’

‘Amy, come on . . .’

‘Admit it,’ she said, feeling her hands shake.

‘No, I don’t think a tango show is slutty,’ replied Daniel slowly. ‘But you’ve got to admit it is pretty racy, and maybe . . .’

‘Maybe what?’

He hesitated.

‘Maybe you should think about whether you want to be seen performing in something like that.’

She shook her head in disbelief.

‘Daniel, this is a good show. You know how long I’ve been out of the game. This is a great opportunity for me.’

‘A great opportunity for people to look at you in a certain way,’ said Daniel more sharply.

He rubbed his temples as if he had a headache.

‘Look, ever since we’ve been together and I tell people what you do, I’ve got friends, family all wanting to come and see you in a production. But I’m not sure I fancy them watching you all dressed up in fishnets and some tarty leotard cut up to the wazoo, as much as I’d privately like to see you in full costume.’

‘Tarty?’ she said incredulously, suddenly imagining herself in black hose and lashings of red lipstick. It was a good job Daniel had never seen her in the K Double Swagg video.

‘You know what I mean.’

He offered a placatory hand, but Amy felt stung.

‘Well, it’s a good job you’re going to be in Washington then, where you don’t have to see me looking tarty.’

‘About that . . .’

She heard something in his voice. Apology, awkwardness, and something he’d said just moments earlier began to resonate.

‘You didn’t want to spoil Christmas,’ she said softly, remembering why he hadn’t wanted to tell her about his promotion. ‘How long is the posting for, Daniel?’

‘Eighteen months.’

It was shorter than she’d thought – many diplomatic gigs were for two or three years or more.

‘Well, that’s not so bad,’ she said, trying to calm herself. ‘In fact it could be good: I could move back to New York, get something on Broadway, and it’s just a short hop on the shuttle to Washington. I was so worried it was going to be somewhere like Africa or South East Asia, but at least I’ve got the right passport, huh?’

She gave a weak smile, willing him to speak, desperate to hear him insist that he couldn’t possibly be away from her for so long, how they should get a little flat together on Capitol Hill, just the two of them, how he wouldn’t even consider taking the stupid job unless she came with him. There were dance companies in Washington, weren’t there? But he didn’t say any of that. He just took a step away from her, looking uncomfortable.

‘Listen, I don’t want you to uproot yourself because of me. Not when you’ve got this brilliant opportunity here.’

She looked at him, her eyes meeting his intense blue ones.

‘So now it’s a brilliant opportunity . . .’

‘I have never led you on, never made any promises,’ he said quietly. ‘You know this is my job, that I was always going to get posted overseas.’

‘But there’s no need to write our relationship off the second a plane ticket arrives in your in-tray.’

She waited for him to say something.

‘Come on, we don’t want it to end like this,’ he said finally.