He gave a small smile around the room, reached into his pocket, pulled out Emily’s present and held it out to her.
She didn’t immediately take it, probably something to do with the fact that it was long and thin, rather than a square, Tiffany ring-shaped box.
He didn’t actually know exactly what was inside it. Presumably a necklace, given its shape. He’d given Dee, from the concierge company that he used, what had felt like a pretty generous budget – although obviously, because he wasn’t getting engaged, nowhere near what you’d spend on an engagement ring – and had asked her to buy jewellery. Dee did all his present shopping and people were always pleased with what she chose.
Emily finally took the gift. James stood staring at the wall opposite. He could hear her tearing at the ribbon and paper and clunking the box open.
‘Is this a joke?’ she hissed in his ear.
Nope. Hadn’t been. Dee had told him that Kate Middleton owned the same piece of whatever jewellery it was and had been photographed wearing it to polo matches. That had sounded ideal for Emily.
Some of the guests were sniggering. He took a sideways look at Emily. Her mouth was pinched and her cheeks were scarlet. Still beautiful, but angry-beautiful.
Her mother’s Botoxed forehead was creasing a little.
The guests were all talking quite loudly now.
Okay. James needed to wrap this up and go home. He wanted to be inside his flat, with the door closed on the rest of the world, so that he could forget that this day had ever happened. There seemed to be only one obvious way to do that.
He leaned into the mic, gave it a little ‘check the sound’s working’ tap, cleared his throat, nodded at the band, made a big conducting motion with his hands in the direction of the guests, and started to sing, ‘Happy birthday to you…’
The band obligingly struck up the tune and a lot of the guests joined in.
‘You bastard.’ Emily spat the words.
James carried on singing, staring straight ahead. There didn’t seem to be any alternative. He’d apologise and make his escape as soon as the song finished.
Emily slapped his face on the ‘dear’ of ‘dear Emily’ and, while he was still reeling – the woman had some serious strength in that arm – dug her nails into his cheek and scratched, hard, on the ‘ly’ of ‘Emily’. Impressive; he saw stars briefly.
James moved out of her reach while Emily’s mother put her arm round her daughter’s rigid shoulders and said, voice brittle and high, ‘You were supposed to be proposing.’
‘There must have been a misunderstanding,’ James said, which was extremely polite considering that Emily had just assaulted him.
The mic was obviously still on. Someone at the back of the room started cat-calling and cheering, and a fair few people joined in. Some of the other guests started booing.
In retrospect, he should have left immediately after Emily’s mother asked him onto the stage.
‘Good evening,’ he said into the mic, and walked off the stage and out of the room, to what sounded like a pretty fifty-fifty mix of cheering and booing.
* * *
Home. Thank God.
James really needed a whisky. He rarely drank by himself – in his experience, when you grew up around an alcoholic you either went that way yourself, or you were very careful to do the opposite – but today had been a shockingly bad day, this evening the icing on the crappy cake.
He sank into his favourite armchair with a glass, cradled it in his hands for a moment, then took a large sip, leaned his head back and rolled his shoulders while the fire of the alcohol spread through his body.
He looked out of the long windows over the end of Campden Hill and into Holland Park. He loved this view at night, the streetlights and sometimes the moon illuminating the park’s majestic trees, their outline sharp tonight against the black sky. Today had been one of those crisp, cloudless April days that reminded you that summer was just round the corner and how great this part of London was during those summer months.
He also loved his gloriously tidy and orderly flat – a long way from the chaos of his childhood. And he loved living alone. Just one of the many reasons that he wasn’t planning to get married.
He definitely hadn’t said anything to lead Emily to expect that he was going to propose. Or even that he was in love with her. He was certain he hadn’t. And was she really in love with him? Surely she didn’t know him well enough. It had to be his flat and his lifestyle that she’d fallen for.
He took another sip. Yes, this was good. He could hunker down for the weekend and re-group. Thank God for peace and quiet.
Right. Some TV and then bed.
A clicking sound from behind him punctured the silence. What? It sounded very similar to a key turning in a lock. And a door opening. Again, what?
