‘How’s the ring?’ I gestured to the cupboard with the first aid kit in it. It was an ingenious place to hide an engagement ring; with a doctor in the house, I’d never seen Isla so much as think about trying to find a plaster. He’d bought it five weeks ago in a tiny jewellery shop, taking me with him for moral support and making us trek all the way to Balham to choose the ring that he knew Isla would fall in love with. There’d been a slightly awkward moment when the jeweller asked when we were planning on getting married, but other than that it had been a success.
‘Christ, Pen, shout it louder why don’t you.’ He jerked his thumb towards the front door, even though it was directly in my line of sight and the others definitely weren’t home yet. Especially couscous-laden Isla. ‘We’re too close now to give the game away.’
The ring was a simple, elegant solitaire, with a sizeable diamond that he must have been saving up to buy for years. As someone with over twenty different loyalty cards in her purse, and who had been scraping out jars of knock-off Nutella until they were practically sparkling, I was perplexed by the amount people were willing to fork out on engagement rings.
‘Can you go round and light our incense?’ Joe looked down at his handwritten list. ‘If she gets home and the whole place doesn’t smell like patchouli, my guts are for garters.’
Hearing words like ‘incense’ come out of my brother’s mouth had taken some getting used to. I hopped up, grabbing their jar of matches, and headed towards the mantelpiece. Joe and Isla had been living in their one-bedroom flat that was about a ten-minute walk from Dad’s since Joe had finished his foundation programme. Although it was cramped, they’d managed to make it completely their own. There were photos everywhere, with enough lamps to sink a ship (Isla had a lifelong aversion to the ‘big light’). I’d spent a lot of time on their hammock/loveseat hybrid. It paid to monopolise your own little area of London.
It had been a no-brainer for Maeve and me to choose Greenwich. I’d been staying with Mum in my childhood home in Blackheath, waiting for Maeve to finish up her training in Leeds so we could live together again (when you found someone you could live with without tearing each other’s hair out, you clung on tight). As soon as she’d found a job here, we’d haunted the local letting agencies. Rory had slowly followed suit, finding a new flatshare and moving a fifteen-minute walk away, leaving his Hoxton house that he’d shared with his group of climbing friends. Joe and Isla lived in Deptford, with an easy route to the hospital. It was our own corner of the city, with just enough green to pretend that we weren’t clogging up our lungs.
For years, Joe had maintained that he wasn’t going to propose until they’d managed to buy instead of rent – but in London, that was borderline impossible, and so eventually he’d caved. He’d decided that at 28, after thirteen years together, the time was right. Isla had the patience of a saint. The plan was as follows: he was proposing not on their actual anniversary (too predictable), but on the anniversary of the date that they’d first become official during year six, when they were 10 years old (because normal people remember these kinds of dates, right?). They’d walked to the park after school, where he’d asked her to be his girlfriend on the swings. Even though their first attempt at a relationship had been short-lived, my brother was convinced that it was where their story began.
‘Are you nervous?’ I swigged the bottle of beer I’d helped myself to from their fridge. ‘Thirteen years is quite the build-up.’
He looked frustrated; at me, or at the size of the oven as he tried to cram the chicken in, I wasn’t sure.
‘Are you sure that you –’
‘I can do this.’ He cut me off, brow furrowed. ‘And stop trying to make me nervous about the proposal or I’ll tell Isla not to make you a bridesmaid.’
‘Pfft. Like she’d listen.’
‘It’s inconvenient how much she loves you. Finally. Thank God for that.’ He turned away from the oven, satisfied with a job well done. ‘I’ve nailed this. You may as well bow out now.’
I pulled a face. Tonight, it was Joe and Isla’s evening in our group’s Come Dine With Me. Rory had hosted last month (a seaside theme with homemade fish and chips that had scored a very commendable 36/50) and my brother was up second. Even though Maeve was my flatmate, I’d agreed that Adrian could partner with her when it came to their turn, and then clearly they were saving the best until last. Heavy on the sarcasm. Rory and I were technically at a disadvantage – it was harder to turn around a three-course meal and host an evening when you were a party of one – but I could hardly register a formal complaint, since Joe was currently doing everything single-handedly anyway. And because I’d already suggested that Rory and I team up, but he’d rejected the offer on the basis of not wanting to be ‘dragged down’. Charming.
We heard them before we saw them, Isla’s key turning in the lock and the rest of them clomping up the stairs to the second-floor flat. ‘And the best part’ – the door opened, Maeve’s voice carrying – ‘is that I think we’re nearing a breakthrough. I saw it in their eyes, we’re getting somewhere.’
Adrian was hot on her heels, throwing us a wave but clearly caught up in her joy. It was his turn to visit London from Hull, and Maeve had been counting the days down on her calendar. Rory and Isla were last to come in, Rory carrying Isla’s floral tote bag and a bottle of wine in his other hand.
‘So yeah, a great week. The best in a while.’ Maeve beamed. Being around my best friend was a bit like constantly being at the top of a wave, never feeling it crash onto shore. I could tell immediately from the conversational snippet that she was talking about work. She was a newly qualified clinical psychologist, working with 12–18-year-olds for the NHS. In the entire time she’d been working with patients, I’d only ever heard her give the baseline facts. She took confidentiality incredibly seriously, which is why I’d always trusted her as a true confidant.
Rory headed straight for me, squeezing my shoulder and placing the tote on the counter. ‘See the review?’
I nodded, halfway through combing my fingers through my waves. ‘Hallelujah. Did Dexter figure out what was happening with the bug?’
We’d been informed three days ago that there was a minor blip in the process; some users were automatically getting set back a level if they didn’t reply in twenty-four hours. People had – very understandably – pointed out that a slightly longer reply time did not mean disinterest. The expectation of an immediate response was the norm now, but that didn’t mean people had to give it.
‘He sorted it this afternoon. Back on track, baby, back on track.’ He chose a pumpkin seed, grimacing when he crunched it. ‘Wow, grim. I’m docking three points immediately.’
‘I heard that.’ Isla smiled at Rory. ‘It’s not my fault that you wouldn’t know nutrition if it punched you in the face.’
‘I hope it doesn’t.’ Rory rubbed his nose. ‘I bruise like a peach.’
My soon-to-be sister-in-law shook her head, laughing. You couldn’t help but laugh at Rory; he had that effect on people. She gave as good as he did – for someone that looked (and most of the time, acted) like butter wouldn’t melt, Isla had a sassy reputation. I hugged her, overwhelmed by the scent of her shampoo. Warming vanilla with a hint of spice.
‘I like the seeds. Promise.’ I put one in my mouth, trying to smile as I chewed it.
‘Suck-up,’ Rory mouthed in my direction. ‘She never eats the healthy snacks in board meetings. This girl is a Rolo fiend through and through.’
With most of us having grown up in London (with the exception of Maeve, who’d moved around a lot and therefore had a non-accent), Rory’s Geordie accent stuck out like a sore thumb. It was one of my favourite things about him. A comforting nod to the North, reminding us that there was life outside this city we loved. Adrian was also Northern – a Scouser who had been studying in Leeds when he and Maeve had bonded over the brutality of their course. He squeezed Maeve to him now.
‘I wish this one would offer me a Rolo occasionally.’
Maeve rolled her eyes. ‘Dark chocolate is brain food. Look it up.’
‘It’s time, guys,’ Isla said, clapping. ‘Time for some classic organised fun.’
Rory groaned, but he was only kidding. Without Isla’s forethought, none of our plans would ever reach execution. I was meticulous at work, but I let that slip as soon as I left the office, and Maeve had her head in the clouds too often to coordinate her own calendar. Isla was now handing out sturdy-looking sombreros, not like the ones I’d have been inclined to pick up from the pound shop. She didn’t do anything half-arsed, even if it was an amateur cooking competition.
‘This is excellent news. I’ve always loved a surprise hat element to an evening.’ Maeve grabbed one, trying to manoeuvre it over the space buns she’d twirled her tight curls into. Rory had just as much of a task trying to fit one over his own hair. Isla pulled out a bottle of tequila and clinked a shot glass against it.
‘Let night two of Come Dine With Me commence. Give us anything less than a nine and I’ll bring poison ivy home from the shop and put it in your duvets. Margarita anyone?’ She started pouring shots, instructing Joe to rim the glasses with salt. The rest of us blinked back. For someone with a job that radiated soft energy, Isla managed to give floristry an edge.
‘How does one rim a glass with salt?’ Joe wrinkled his nose. ‘Swap with me?’
They switched places seamlessly, with the ease of two people who had grown up together.
‘Joe doesn’t know how to rim his glass.’ Rory threw a mocking glance his way, pretending to take notes. ‘That’s another point docked.’
My brother rolled his eyes. ‘A win doesn’t count if you win by dirty tactics.’
‘They’re not dirty. They’re fair.’ Rory was still pretending to write. ‘Pumpkin seeds, below-par snack.’
Isla smacked him with a tea towel.
‘Don’t stress, it’s pointless expecting him or Penny to appreciate a healthy snack,’ Joe said, rubbing Isla’s shoulders. ‘Maeve and Adrian are medical professionals, they understand nutrition.’
