10
Matt and Inga arrived ten minutes late—they were always ten minutes late—and greeted me with kisses, hugs, and, in Inga’s case, perfume. She’d rarely worn perfume when she’d been an artist, but now she was an estate agent—“ It’s not selling out, Lily, it’s growing up. And besides, viewing properties is a perfect job for someone as nosy as I am” —she wore perfume and full make-up all the time. It made her seem different, but you didn’t have to scratch far beneath the surface to find the old Inga, albeit a happier version of her. She’d got the estate-agent opportunity via a temporary typing job at their offices—clearly they’d recognised her suitability and had taken her on as a trainee. The rest, as they say, is history. Though it still surprised me, shocked me even, that somebody could give up making art and still be happy, because I knew I’d feel completely lost—as if I’d abandoned a fundamental part of who I was—if I were to do it.
Over dinner, Inga talked about some of the properties she’d recently viewed, and then Matt told us about some new clients he’d started working with.
“So, I go to meet these new clients, and they’ve done a rough sketch of the layout of the inside of their new house to give me an idea of what they want. And there’s this strange square room marked out downstairs—too small to be a study, not a utility or a cloakroom because those are already marked on the sketch. The room’s labelled PC, so I rack my brains to think what that could stand for, because I don’t want to look ignorant, but I just can’t think what it is, so I have to ask.”
“And what was it?” asked Alex.
Matt grinned at us. “A padded cell.”
“A padded cell?” repeated Alex.
Matt nodded. “I kid you not.”
“Why would they want a padded cell?”
“They didn’t say, and I didn’t like to ask.”
“Did they want a dungeon too?” asked Alex. “A torture chamber?”
“No, just a padded cell.”
“Are you going to give them one?” I asked.
“Of course. So long as there’s planning permission and it fits building regs, the client gets what the client wants.”
I wondered, as I’d done many times before, if he minded that. Whether he missed the status of working for his old London firm. Whenever I brought the subject up with Alex, he told me I worried too much, and Matt was fine. But I’d noticed that Matt seemed to drink more than he used to. And I’d read in the newspaper about his old firm winning a prestigious architecture award for a new building in Docklands, so I couldn’t help worrying.
“Sometimes I think you worry about Matt more than you worry about me,” Alex had said once, only half joking.
“Should I worry about you, then?” I asked. “Is there anything wrong in the world of insurance advice?”
He grabbed me and pinned me against a wall to kiss me. “No, my life is utterly perfect. Or it would be, if you’d stop fretting about Max’s career and come upstairs for a quickie.”
“How are you settling in to your new home?” I asked now.
“It’d be better with less nature,” Inga said. “Those bloody wood pigeons I told you about are back again, woo hoo hooing on the roof at all hours. I swear, until we moved to the countryside, I had no idea how fucking noisy it was. Owls hooting, foxes barking, tree branches clattering.” She shuddered. “You can keep your sounds of nature. Give me a padded cell any day.”
I’d questioned Inga’s suitability for country living when Matt had first bought the house to the north of the city. The changes he’d made to it were incredible—so light and spacious, with amazing views of the surrounding countryside. But ever since they’d moved in, Inga had practically worn the road out driving to and from the city. But then she did need to travel a lot with her work.
Alex cleared his throat. “If it’s okay, I ... well, I’ve got something I want to say. Something I’ve wanted to say for ages. Well, ask rather than say, I suppose. And I can’t think of a better time to do it, when we’re together with the people we both love most in the world.”
He looked suddenly nervous. Terrified, even.
“Alex,” I said, my heart suddenly pounding, desperate for something, anything, to stop him from speaking. For Inga to rant about owls again, or to break into another one of her anecdotes about property viewings. For the ceiling to fall in. Anything to hold back what I sensed Alex was about to say. Yet at the same time there was a strong feeling of recognition unfurling within me. My subconscious had known this was a possibility for a while.
So, why the fuck hadn’t it warned me?
“Lily,” said Alex, staring into my eyes. “I adore you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
I was aware of Matt’s steady gaze on us both. Of Inga’s swift intake of breath. But mostly, I was aware of the love and hope streaming to me from Alex’s face.
Time slowed right down. A series of images flitted through my mind. Me, standing on the landing in our house, gazing regretfully into my studio as Alex called to me from downstairs. The two of us walking hand in hand along the beach together the day Matt and Inga moved away, with the screams of the people in the fairground drifting towards us on the breeze. Me, hurrying home in the early hours of Christmas morning, a sick, ominous feeling growing in my belly with every step I took.
My hands began to shake.
“Lily?” he said, and I emerged from my memories to see his kind face focused on mine. His arms waiting to embrace me; to hold me safe forever.
“Yes, Alex,” I said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”