the Tube to Stratford and splashed out on a gorgeous, butter-soft leather pencil skirt that was actually the right length for a change, a cranberry-coloured cashmere jumper and a new lipstick that matched, because I’d read on one of the beauty blogs recommended by Katharine that this was currently a Thing. I bought a bra and matching knickers in black satin, trimmed with little frills, shoved my old underwear into the Victoria’s Secret carrier bag and replaced my warm, comfy opaque tights with hold-ups, trusting that they’d do what they said on the tin. And although all that lot made me twenty minutes late to meet Nick, I reckoned he’d probably think it was worth the wait.
The elevator swooshed me up to the thirty-first floor, and I stepped out to see the lights of London spread out beneath me. I felt a huge grin spread over my face, and spotted Nick waiting at a table for two, watching me take it all in. I was glad of my new clothes and make-up; everyone in the room looked impossibly glamorous and even Nick had abandoned his usual leather jacket and was wearing a charcoal blazer over one of his less shabby pairs of jeans and a purple shirt.
“Bit of a step up from the Grope and Wanker,” I said, kissing him.
Nick adopted a cheesy, husky voice. “Because you’re worth it,” he said. “And you are, too. You look bloody gorgeous. Every man in the room was eying up your arse when you walked to the table.”
“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes at him, feeling secretly pleased.
“Now, you need a drink. I’m having a Sazerac, no pints of lager tonight.”
“In that case, I’ll have. . .” I scanned the cocktail menu. “A cucumber martini. No – I want to try the one made with tea. Or the one that’s supposed to taste like scones with jam. Or. . .”
“You can have them all, as far as I’m concerned. We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
“Pip, you’re very beautiful and I love you very much, but sometimes you can be a bit dense. We’re getting married, remember? We’ve booked our venue, you’ve tried on dresses, I’ve appointed a best man. . . But isn’t there something I left out? Something that normally happens quite early on in the process?”
I took a sip of my drink and ate an olive. “The bit where my Dad says you’ll marry me over his dead body?”
“Pippa!” Nick laughed. “No, not that. The bit where I take your hand,” he took it, “and you close your eyes,” I closed them, “and I say something about this being just a small token to express how I feel about you.”
I felt the cool touch of metal on my hand, and opened my eyes. Sparkling on my third finger was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. It was a delicate platinum band, and in the centre were two sparkling diamonds, one on either side of a clear, blue-green stone.
“It’s a tourmaline,” Nick said. He looked down at my hand and smiled. “I took a photo of you to a jeweller and asked for something the same colour as your eyes. I could have used a chart – Pantone 2229 is closest, I reckon. But I thought a photo would be better.”
“Thank you,” my voice came out a bit croaky, so I tried again. “Thank you, Nick. It’s perfect. I love it. I love you.”
“Just as well,” Nick said, “Or I would’ve had to find someone else with the same colour eyes to give it to, and that might have taken me a while.”
All through dinner, I was conscious of the new weight of the ring on my hand, its hardness against my skin. Every now and then I’d catch myself looking down at it, tilting my hand so it caught the light, and smile, and when I looked up I’d see Nick watching me and smiling too. Even though the food was gorgeous, I couldn’t eat very much and nor did he.
“Shall we walk home?” said Nick, when he’d paid the bill.
“Let’s.”
We strolled along the river in the chilly darkness, the lights of Tower Bridge reflecting in the water. We didn’t talk about the wedding. I told Nick
The elevator swooshed me up to the thirty-first floor, and I stepped out to see the lights of London spread out beneath me. I felt a huge grin spread over my face, and spotted Nick waiting at a table for two, watching me take it all in. I was glad of my new clothes and make-up; everyone in the room looked impossibly glamorous and even Nick had abandoned his usual leather jacket and was wearing a charcoal blazer over one of his less shabby pairs of jeans and a purple shirt.
“Bit of a step up from the Grope and Wanker,” I said, kissing him.
Nick adopted a cheesy, husky voice. “Because you’re worth it,” he said. “And you are, too. You look bloody gorgeous. Every man in the room was eying up your arse when you walked to the table.”
“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes at him, feeling secretly pleased.
“Now, you need a drink. I’m having a Sazerac, no pints of lager tonight.”
“In that case, I’ll have. . .” I scanned the cocktail menu. “A cucumber martini. No – I want to try the one made with tea. Or the one that’s supposed to taste like scones with jam. Or. . .”
“You can have them all, as far as I’m concerned. We’re celebrating.”
“We are?”
“Pip, you’re very beautiful and I love you very much, but sometimes you can be a bit dense. We’re getting married, remember? We’ve booked our venue, you’ve tried on dresses, I’ve appointed a best man. . . But isn’t there something I left out? Something that normally happens quite early on in the process?”
I took a sip of my drink and ate an olive. “The bit where my Dad says you’ll marry me over his dead body?”
“Pippa!” Nick laughed. “No, not that. The bit where I take your hand,” he took it, “and you close your eyes,” I closed them, “and I say something about this being just a small token to express how I feel about you.”
I felt the cool touch of metal on my hand, and opened my eyes. Sparkling on my third finger was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. It was a delicate platinum band, and in the centre were two sparkling diamonds, one on either side of a clear, blue-green stone.
“It’s a tourmaline,” Nick said. He looked down at my hand and smiled. “I took a photo of you to a jeweller and asked for something the same colour as your eyes. I could have used a chart – Pantone 2229 is closest, I reckon. But I thought a photo would be better.”
“Thank you,” my voice came out a bit croaky, so I tried again. “Thank you, Nick. It’s perfect. I love it. I love you.”
“Just as well,” Nick said, “Or I would’ve had to find someone else with the same colour eyes to give it to, and that might have taken me a while.”
All through dinner, I was conscious of the new weight of the ring on my hand, its hardness against my skin. Every now and then I’d catch myself looking down at it, tilting my hand so it caught the light, and smile, and when I looked up I’d see Nick watching me and smiling too. Even though the food was gorgeous, I couldn’t eat very much and nor did he.
“Shall we walk home?” said Nick, when he’d paid the bill.
“Let’s.”
We strolled along the river in the chilly darkness, the lights of Tower Bridge reflecting in the water. We didn’t talk about the wedding. I told Nick
Similar Books
