I turn the shower up to the highest setting, so that the water is pummelling me aggressively, and speedily soap my body. My thoughts about the day cascade as quickly as the water. One moment I’m grinning to myself, caught up in the recollections of exactly what we’ve just done to each other, the fabulousness of the gentle kisses and the tender caresses that ultimately accelerated into something harder and more animalistic. The next moment, my mind clouds as I get flashbacks to the bolognese sauce splattered around the kitchen. An act of vandalism, an act of hate. Why? Who? Then I remember Heidi’s coolness earlier this evening. Perhaps motivated by something as ugly as jealousy or greed. Her muted response to my news that Matthew has moved in has left me feeling strangely deserted. Alone.
I need to sleep. Everything will be clearer in the morning.
Because my head is whirling and the water is gushing, I initially don’t quite catch what he is calling through to me from the bedroom. He was chatting about the fact that he’ll talk to the cleaning agency about getting new staff, how he’ll check all their references, manage the whole thing to save me stress. ‘Or I could do the cleaning myself if you’re not comfortable with the idea of strangers in your home. I’ll sort everything out. I’ll call the locksmith.’ There’s a pause, and then he starts again, ‘Do you think we should …’
Something, something, something. I turn off the tap to hear him properly.
‘Sorry? What did you say?’
‘Do you think we should get married?’
It feels like the world shudders to a halt. I stare at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s in the doorway now; I am still in the shower. Naked, wet. His eyes find mine, and then the world judders on. Keeps turning. Like the sun coming up.
I let the words sink in. In fact they don’t sink in so much as lift me up off my feet. I am hovering. Walking on clouds. I could turn to him, be direct, but I daren’t move, I don’t want to change anything, not even the air between us. I don’t want to disturb this moment. This unimaginable thing. He looks pensive, as though he’s asking my opinion on the matter, which is a slightly different thing to asking me to marry him per se. I am speechless. We only met in January. If I put my mind to it, I could count how many times we’ve seen one another. I could probably take a good guess at how many times we have had sex. If I can still keep track, then surely it’s too early to be talking about marriage. Is he serious?
He looks serious. ‘Is it an awful idea?’
‘No, no, it’s not,’ I mumble.
‘I’m good at being married. I like it. I think you’d like it too. They say those who have the best marriages are always the first to remarry after the death of their beloved partner. People don’t always understand that. But if you think about it, it makes sense. You’re unlikely to rush to remarry if your wife has been a bitch or had an affair with your best friend; if your husband has been violent or controlling. But if your spouse was loving, thoughtful, interesting, fun, you’d want to find a way of re-creating that. Bad marriages don’t promote marriage. Good ones do.’ He pauses. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
I’m not sure this is the proposal of any woman’s dreams. I’m soapy, with wet hair, and he’s just told me he’s proposing to me because his first wife made him happy. Shouldn’t there be a mariachi band, red roses, a big diamond? At least a declaration of love? And yet this feels truthful and solid. It feels real because it is devoid of clichés. Everything he has said is about love. True love. Enduring, nurturing partnerships, not three slick little words.
‘What we have feels very special, doesn’t it?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it does. It does, but … Well, no buts. It does. But three months,’ I stammer.
‘Well, three and a half, to be exact.’ The shower is dripping slowly, tap, tap, tap. I can feel soap bubbles popping in my hair, pop, pop, pop. I feel my breath drum through my body. ‘If Becky taught me anything, it’s that life is too short to waste time. Why wait if something feels right, and this does, doesn’t it? It’s not just me who thinks that, is it?’ He looks nervous, vulnerable. ‘I’m a straightforward sort of guy. What you see is what you get. And you strike me as a straightforward sort of woman. So what do you think, should we crack on with living?’
I consider what it means that even my proposal is entangled with her, his first wife. He wants to seize time with me because he lost time with her. Here’s the thing. From the moment we are born, every pop song, novel, film and TV show tells us that we need a special someone, that we are incomplete on our own, that there is a better half out there. Until recently, I never bought into that argument. I could happily dance alone. Think alone. Achieve alone. Live alone. Grow old alone. But then he came along, and you know what? It is better. Just that. My life is better with him in it. End of.
‘OK, then. Let’s,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ I’m laughing now. I step out of the shower and move into his arms. My wet, slippery naked body pushes into his warm, firm, clad one, and it feels like a fit. A perfect fit.
18
May
It’s Saturday, but instead of looking forward to a weekend filled with chatter and sex, maybe a long walk, I wake up feeling a buzz of annoyance at both my friends. When I told them about the proposal, Heidi didn’t even bother to hide her disapproval.
‘I’m your best friend, so I’m just going to say it. You’re a really rich woman.’
I tried to shut her down. ‘I am not going to hear he’s marrying me for my money.’
‘Look, I can understand that he’s keen. As your oldest bestie, I know all the things there are to love about you, Emma. You’re smart and honest and loyal and hot, but …’ She didn’t finish the sentence. Or maybe she did. Maybe she wanted to leave it on the but. Then Gina suggested a prenup. I guess it was to break the tension, but I was stunned.
‘It’s a genuine solution. Heidi is saying that him rushing things might be questionable and you’re saying you’re rushing things because you’re impossibly in love. Asking him to sign a prenup will clarify the issue,’ she said with a smile.
I’m furious with them both. Gina for suggesting the prenup in the first place and Heidi for calling me every few days, ostensibly to talk about the wedding plans but always in the end because she wants to know whether I’ve called a lawyer yet. What was Gina thinking? Normally she is the tactful, careful one. The peacemaker. I thought when I announced my engagement that she’d talk about ‘knowing when you know’. I expected her to shush Heidi and encourage me. A prenup seems like a chilly suggestion from her. How am I supposed to ask him to sign a piece of paper that will highlight the fact that he has less money than I do? A contract that suggests I don’t trust him. However, every time I say as much to Heidi, she points out, ‘If he loves you, he won’t mind at all, will he?’
The if hurts. She doesn’t need to say if.
I am seeing Heidi and Gina next week. I know they’ll demand to know what the prenup status is, so I’ve decided today is the day. After my run, I will grasp the nettle and just get the matter out of the way, long before the actual wedding. My skin prickles and my palms sweat just thinking about the necessary conversation. I mentally fling little darts of fury at Heidi and Gina, but in the end, my more rational self wins out. Deep down I know they are looking out for my best interest. A prenup is sensible. I’m always sensible. I just don’t want to be sensible about this.
When I finally stutter out my request, my embarrassment seems to spring like a flea, instantly transferring from me to Matthew, which turns out to be even more awful to endure.
‘Of course. My God, I’m sorry. How mortifying.’ He has turned puce, the blush shimmying up over his chest, neck and face to the tips of his ears. I curl my toes and wish we were an hour further ahead, beyond this awkwardness, or that it was ten minutes ago and I could have chosen not to say anything at all. However, time seems to stick like tar in this moment. ‘I don’t have much money, as you know, so,’ he tries to laugh, ‘so a prenup hadn’t entered my mind. I’ve never thought about this from your point of view. I guess that’s the issue, isn’t it? I don’t have money and you do.’
He glances to the floor, and I feel a shift in the air. I can touch it, smell it, practically taste it. It’s like someone has flung open the windows and doors and let out all the heat between us, which was tremendous: passionate and exciting. The draught subsequently created brings an influx of distrust – or more accurately, the chill is the decisive moment where he feels mistrusted, even though that is not the case. I trust him completely, I do.
‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter.
‘No, no. Of course. I should have suggested it to you. I just didn’t think. You know. I’m not very materialistic,’ he explains. Then, more coolly, he adds, ‘It’s just not a thing, not a driver, for me.’
I try not to feel stung or criticised by his remark. Money isn’t something that drives me either. Yes, I have lots of it, but I’m not materialistic. I’m all about reduce, reuse, recycle. The most important part of my job is not my remuneration, but the respect I command, the change I can create. If I were materialistic, I wouldn’t have chosen to marry a man who earns below the national average salary, would I? Obviously I can’t use that line of reasoning as my defence; it would be beyond tactless, even if I had the opportunity, which I don’t, because Matthew hasn’t paused to let me say anything at all. He’s filling the space between us with repeated comments such as ‘A prenup, of course. Of course, you were bound to require one. No problem. I see. Neither Becky nor I had any money to speak of. Didn’t give it a thought. This is a different world, but yes, obviously, if a prenup will put your mind at rest, we’ll do it right away. Where is it? Do you have something drafted up?’
He looks around the room as though he expects a clutch of lawyers to jump out from behind the sofa and present him with a legally binding document there and then. He’s talking too quickly. Probably trying to swallow down the hurt or drown out the awkwardness, but I hear it anyway. I try to close things down, move on.
‘No, I don’t have anything drawn up. I wanted to talk to you about it first. I’ll call my solicitor and ask how to approach it. I’m certain it’s a pretty standard thing. No biggie.’ I’ve never used that expression before, and it sounds alien on my tongue. The request for a prenup sits uneasily, quite obviously a ‘biggie’. I want to turn the conversation. Engaged couples ought to talk about wedding cake or wine choices. Fun things. I try to pick up on a conversation we started a few days ago. ‘I just love the idea of going to the Champagne region and tasting some of the fizz made in the smaller houses to pick one for the wedding reception. I think discovering a favourite is a little more intimate than serving Taittinger or Veuve. Do you agree? Should we base ourselves in Reims or Épernay?’ I ask.
Matthew has turned away from me. He’s looking out of the window, past the short lawn and into the woods. I see that the back of his neck and the tips of his ears are burning scarlet. I think of hot embers in a fire late at night when the glorious warmth of the lick of flames is gone but the spitting embers can still scald. He replies, ‘I’ll leave that to you. I imagine you know both regions, and all the champagnes, better than I do.’
‘Well, Épernay then,’ I mutter. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and starts stabbing at it. ‘Work?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m messaging my mum. I want some advice on something,’ he replies.
