Authors: Lisa Jewell
Yeah, I hope so, I do hope so. Oh, by the way' - Rick dipped into his leather briefcase — 'I... er... I brought this.' He handed Karl the smal silver tape recorder from the night in Glencoe. 'I haven't listened to it yet, and it doesn't seem like you're going to need it now, but you may as wel have it.' And then he'd passed the little machine to Karl who nodded his thanks and put it in his back pocket.
Karl got up to leave and they shook hands. The clean-ing-up operation was over for the time being; everything that had to be said had been said. Karl was glad he'd done it, glad he'd been so controled, so mature. But he stil couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he'd like to take Rick outside and break his jaw.
It had been a most, most excelent two weeks for Karl and Siobhan and now it was almost Christmas and Karl had left the ALR
building in Olympia and was driving
up Kensington High Street. It was dark, the streets glowing phosphorously orange, and the pavements on both sides were thick with shoppers and slush from the snow that had falen briefly that lunchtime and melted quickly in the briliant white sunshine that had folowed. A Salvation Army band played carols outside Barkers and the pleasant noise of shiny brass and scrubbed voices added to Karl's already great sense of, wel-being. He miraculously found a parking space in Derry Street and quickly pushed his way as charmingly as possible through the dense hordes of shoppers towards the warm welcoming doors of the department store, fuly appreciating the gorgeous gust of artificialy warm air that hit him as he entered. He walked briskly through the perfumery department, avoiding the plastic-faced assistants wielding large bottles of headache-inducing fragrances and headed through to the quiet inner sanctum of the jewelery department. This was no good, he thought, eyeing up the display cases of oversized pieces of gold and amber and cubic zirconium, they were al costume pieces, gaudy and garish.
'Excuse me, please,' he said to a friendly looking young man behind a counter, 'excuse me. Can you tel me where I'l find the real jewelery?'
He pointed Karl in the right direction. Oh, yes, he thought, this is more like it, this is the stuff.
'Can I help you, sir?'
'Yes, please,' replied Karl eagerly. 'Yes. Can you show me a selection of rings, please, in the region of...' - he quickly calculated how much he. could afford — 'in the region, of £1,000 to £1,500.
No, sorry, actualy can you make that £2,000?' He smiled widely. It was going to be worth it.
'Certainly, sir. And what sort of ring were you looking for?'
Karl would have thought that was obvious — there was only one kind of ring, wasn't there?
'Oh, engagement rings, please.'
Yes! He was going to marry her. He was going to marry his beautiful, beautiful Siobhan. He was so excited he could barely breathe. Why had he never thought of this before! He stared down at the glistening tray in front of him, rows and rows of shiny, perfect troths, tiny sparkling symbols of love. Oh, which one? Which one would end up on Siobhan's delightful finger for the rest of her life?
Because it would be for the rest of her life; for the first time ever, the concept of being with Siobhan for the rest of his life seemed unbearably romantic, not just some inevitable destiny, some unspoken certainty, but the most wonderfuly, fantasticaly romantic notion imaginable. Just think, the two of them for ever, children, grandchildren, a nice house in ... in ... Chelsea maybe, glittering careers, and the two of them, always the two of them — Karl and Siobhan Kasparov, that fabulously grown-up, happy couple, stil so in love after fifty, a hundred, three hundred years together ...
aaaaaaahhh. Makes your heart melt, dunnit... ?
He had to think about what Siobhan would like, not what he liked.
He'd have chosen some great hunk of rock; Siobhan would prefer something more subtle, daintier, maybe something with a coloured gem in it, blue maybe to match her eyes, or yelow to match her hair. The salesman patiently showed him every tray in the department, calculating his commission with each ring Karl looked at, encouraging him and sharing his enthusiasm. Finaly Karl saw it —
the right ring, the one that had
'Siobhan' written al over it: ah intricate cluster of tiny pearls, diamonds and sapphires mounted on a white-gold band, feminine and unusual, with a vaguely Celtic feel to it, and entirely unpretentious — just like Siobhan.
The excited salesman placed the ring in a beautiful red-leather box and Karl left the store £2,200 poorer and in a rush to get home.
They'd invited their friends Tom and Debbie over for dinner that night, nothing fancy, just some pasta, maybe watch a video after.
Now he was hoping they wouldn't want to stay for the 'maybe-watch-a-video-after' bit and would leave as early as possible, giving him time to propose before they were both too tired to celebrate.
He could barely contain himself as he flitted around Siobhan in the kitchen that night, watching, or rather hindering her while she prepared the evening meal, chopping up huge flat mushrooms and strips of streaky bacon for a carbonara sauce (made with virtualy fat free creme fraiche, she hastened to inform him).
'Tom and Debbie are running a bit late,' she told him. "They caled just before you got back.'
'Oh, God. How late?' he asked impatiently.
'I don't know, only about half an hour or so, I suppose.'
'Oh, God.'
'What's the matter with you? Since when were you a stickler for time-keeping in other people?' asked Siobhan, laughing at Karl's curious vexation.
'Oh, nothing — I just want this evening to be over, that's al. I want to be alone with you and I can't wait because I'm an impatient fecking bastard, that's al,' he said, grabbing her from behind and planting a vampire kiss on the back of her neck.
'Control yourself, Karl Kasparov!' giggled Siobhan. 'Another half-hour won't kil you!'
'It might wel do, it might wel do ...'
Karl was bursting at the seams. It had been Jeff, Jeff of al people, who'd put the idea into his head. He hadn't done or said anything in particular, it was just the way he referred to his wife al the time -
Jackie this and Jackie that. And his kids, he talked about them constantly, caled them 'the kids' even though they were probably in their twenties by now. 'Jackie and the kids/ 'Siobhan and the kids.'
It seemed that Jeff and Jackie had a great marriage; it had lasted more than thirty years already and they were stil very much part of each other's lives, firmly interwoven like threads in a piece of fine silk, not a rag-bag fraying old patch of canvas like a lot of marriages seemed to be. There was a wonderful, dignified finality to their marriage, an immutable permanence. They hadn't reached a dead end and stopped, they'd gone on and on, growing and changing, up the same path, towards the same horizon, hand in hand. It was corny but it was also exactly what Karl wanted. He wanted a great marriage.
Tom and Debbie finaly arrived and the four of them enjoyed a relaxed evening together. Before too long it was eleven o'clock, too late to watch a video and, as far as Karl was concerned, time for them to go, time for the big moment. He'd contained his excitement long enough, imagined the look on Siobhan's face, the plans they would make about venues and guests and which church and what vows and talking into the night and going to bed to make love and celebrate their future together. The past was important, of course it was, but nothing was more important than the future now.
Eventualy Tom began to yawn and look like he was going to leave.
'Do you want me to cal you a cab?' asked Karl.
They saw them to the door as the cab waited outside, its engine breaking the silence of the stil December night. Siobhan yawned, too, as the front door closed behind their guests. 'I'm going to brush my teeth,' she said.
'No! Wait!' said Karl, his smile so lively that it puled his face in a hundred different directions at once. 'Just wait there. Don't move.'
He motioned to her with his hands.
'What are you up to?' asked Siobhan, Karl's ludicrous smile infecting her.
He returned from the hal with his hands behind his back. 'Siobhan,'
he began, 'this is the most important thing I've ever done. It's also the best thing I've ever done and I only pray that you agree with me!' He laughed nervously and Siobhan stared back at him with curiosity, amusement and apprehension.
'Siobhan McNamara, the most beautiful woman in the world' - he puled the red box from behind his back and clumsily forced it open
— 'Siobhan McNamara, wil you marry me?'
He stood, for what felt like an eternity, holding the little box aloft, searching Siobhan's face for a reaction.
'Oh, my God, Karl, you daft bugger! You madman! What the hel have you done?' She picked the box cautiously from the palm of his hand.
His face dropped and a look of panic spread across it.
Tes, please!' She threw her arms around his neck. 'Yes, please!'
Smith had gone away for an entire weekend. Some idea of James's apparently, an office 'team-building' exercise, completely bizarre given that the members of the smal office were so vividly disparate it was obvious no amount of'building' would ever make a team of them. But James had been sweet-talked by a charming, long-legged rep from a management consultancy and persuaded that after a weekend of 'motivational, incentivizational, inspirational deconstruction and reconstruction' not only would his odd little company somehow be transformed into a model of modern working practices but that he would also live longer, attract women and suddenly experience a regrowth of his long-absent hair.
So Smith had grumpily packed a smal bag on Friday morning, and he, Diana, James, three ageing account executives, two dumpy secretaries and a bad-tempered receptionist had squeezed themselves into a rented Renault Espace and trundled up the Al to a hotel in Hertfordshire. Jem had been heartily amused though, of course, very sympathetic and embraced him tightly as he left the flat, looking stony-faced and muttering, 'Only get one fucking weekend a week and I've got to spend it with a bunch of psychos.'
Jem had arranged to meet up with some Mends at the Falcon on St John's Hil that night for someone's birthday and had gone home after work to change.
Ralph was in. He hadn't been out since he'd got back from hospital two weeks ago. He was stil a bit sore, especialy around the ribs, and it hurt like buggery when he laughed, but his doctor was pleased with his progress — he was young and strong and healing wel.
Jem joined him on the sofa with a can of lager. Ralph had looked at her, a strange smile hovering about his lips. 'What is it?' asked Jem.
Ralph kept smiling. 'Guess what?'
'What?'
Tvedoneit!'
'Done what?'
'I've been a good boy,' he beamed. Tm sorting my life out.'
'Oh, yeah? Meaning what?'
'Meaning I've finished with Claudia,' he said smugly.
'What!' she shrieked. 'What do you mean, you've "finished with Claudia"?'
Wel, what do you think I mean? I've finished with Claudia, simple as that.'
'Good God. I don't believe it! Let's get this straight. You saw Claudia - Claudia with the legs, Claudia with the face of an angel, Claudia who lets you have sex with her - you saw her, and you said, "I'm sorry, it's over, I don't think we should see each other any more," just like that?!'
'That's right,' he replied, his arms folded across his chest, grinning indulgently.
'Not "It's over but can we stil have the odd shag for old time's sake?"'
He shook his head.
'Not "It's over but do you mind if I sleep with your best friend?"'
He shook his head again.
She'd thrown her arms around him then and hugged him quickly.
'Bloody hel, Ralph. I'm so proud of you! How did she take it?'
'Oh, typicaly Claudia. "You would do this just before my sister's wedding, wouldn't you, you're so selfish, who am I going to go with now, al my sisters wil have their boyfriends and husbands there and I'l be the sad old spinster - God I hate you!'" He finished his impersonation with a camp flounce. 'And then she cried. Wasn't expecting that, I have to say, old Clauds, crying. She tried to play it down, y'know, but I think she was realy upset.'
'So what next?' Jem asked. 'How are you going to control your sexual urges? What are you going to do on Friday nights? Who's going to be your next girlfriend?'
'What makes you think there has to be a next girlfriend? No, I think I'm going to steer clear for a while, "find some time for myself.'" He said this in a cheesy American-therapist voice. 'I haven't been single since I was, since I was ... ever. I've never, ever been single — I think it'l do me some good. And I reckon I can live without sex for a while, a little while anyway. I've got my sources if I get desperate, I've got my Little Black Psion Organizer!'
'Wel,' said Jem, moving to get up, 'it's a start, it's a very good start.
Wel done. Now we've just got to find you someone to fal in love with ...'
A strange mood fel across them both briefly at that moment, and for a second they sat, suspended. Ralph noted the fleeting tension with some satisfaction. He had realized that Jem thought he was a little sad, going
out with a girl he didn't care about purely for the sex, and so he was putting a new plan into operation: Operation Mature and Available.
His decision to chuck Claudia hadn't been entirely rational and prescient. It had been hard for him lately, spending time with Claudia, wishing she were more like Jem, everything she did and said irritating him with its cloying girlishness and irrational female
'logic'.
But mainly he'd finished the relationship because Jem wanted him to, because Jem would think more of him if he did and because, more than anything right now, he wanted Jem's respect. He'd done a lot of thinking since the accident and understood that there was no point in mooning around after Jem, trying to impress her with his choice of flowers or the latest vindaloo. Jem was twenty-seven years old, the age when a woman, consciously or not, starts to look for different qualities in a man, an age when charisma alone is not quite enough to clinch the deal, when a healthy bank balance, a solid future and a practical nature become just as attractive as a trendy haircut, a wacky sense of humour and the romantic alure of a failed artist.