Chapter 24
Now
The blindfold is makeshift, made from one of those towelled tennis headbands. It’s our anniversary. Five years.
‘Almost there, Ells.’ He shuffles me gently but pinching my elbow with a definite grip of excitement. The kind of touch a person only gives you if they want to let you know they would like to have sex with you tonight. But it isn’t really foreplay; I have the spatial awareness of a clumsy, happy dog but we’ve been really trying for the last month, Jackson and I. Running. Talking. Taking the time to prioritize one another. We are getting our mojo back, and are better – than we’ve been in a long while – for it.
Through the autumnal Halloween park, I pretend I can’t see a thing under the blindfold, but I can make out the grainy Blair Witch half-light of the brown-bread sky in the gaps between the blindfold and my chubby cheeks. The trees stand like an army of knives in a knife block.
‘Just a little bit further … ’
We pull onto a busy main street. Jackson, like a puppet-master, has to dodge the passing people; he’s laughing now. I hear people mention the blindfold excitedly. This makes my heart beat.
I know there are doormen by the way the doors open simultaneously and sweep me in with crispy fallen leaves; the blast of a rich life hits us like interrupting an oven full of roast potatoes mid-bake. The clatter of service, clanging of trays and twanging cutlery, voices washing overhead, laughter and, somewhere, string music. Here, where the sunshine could switch on with the flick of a button like a lightbulb and shine red hot if you wanted, where candlewax drips thick as butter, pink lobster claws stare up at you, lemon slices come in handkerchiefs and you know the toilet paper is more quilted than your duvet at home. This place is posh.
I slip my burnt orange faux fur coat off my shoulders and onto a wooden hanger, with help from a staff member. I am special and loved and important and inadequate and inferior and self-conscious and guilty and consumerist and a brat and a fraud and a movie star, and all those things you’re meant to feel when someone spoils you. And the blindfold comes off. The sign reads: LOGAN’S. Posher than posh.
‘You’re a handsome Disney Prince,’ I say and he is, valiant in his long navy mac and shirt. Radiant. Someone who will turn heads. I can see in his eyes that he’s nervous by this experience too, that it isn’t just me overwhelmed and flustered.
I take in the shining chessboard-tiled floor, like something from a gothic fairy tale, as we trip-trap towards our black leather studded booth. There is marble, wine glasses, salt and pepper pots so heavy you could kill a bear. Trolleys loaded with veiny cheeses and clouds of tiramisu. A gleaming wagon of an ice bucket, like a sledge on crushed ice, rammed with bottles of wine, ready to be yanked out. The twinned arched windows, the domed ceiling, the antique Tiffany lamps and fierce candles. One of those old-fashioned lifts with the ornate guards, and, above, a huge balcony that hangs overhead. I am reminded of Christmas for some reason, but nearly everything decadent makes me think of Christmas. A giant gold clock eyeballs us; the room seems to dance.
‘Oh, you’re sneaky … ’
I go in to kiss him. He smells like expensive aftershave – the woody, smoky one he got in Liberty.
A tail of sizzling fish sails past on a speeding silver tray; heads turn; a woman tips her head back with a cackle.
‘Happy anniversary, Ells … ’ Jackson says, a bit calmer at the table. ‘You look really beautiful tonight.’
‘Oh, no, don’t, you’ll make me cry.’ I catch his eye. PING!
Waiters fuss around us like we’re superstars doing a costume change mid-performance – flapping huge menus and wine lists, reeling off specials; corn-fed chicken, steak tartare and dressed crab. Jackson and I take turns, politely murmuring, Thanksthankyouthanks.
We giggle like it’s our first date as we overhear a table, in drunken broadcasting bellows, exchange conversation: pedigree dogs, country houses and recommendations for what I’m pretty sure is that procedure where you PAY to have your bum hole cleaned out with a plastic pipe. I pull a face at Jackson. Mutter, These lot really aren’t our species. My appetite diminishing. I know Jackson wants to make an effort, as do I – I appreciate the gesture but I’m not sure this place is very us. I don’t want Jackson spending all this money on this. We’ve just bought the flat. I’d happily have beans on toast.
I scrunch up my nose, to assess how he’s feeling without sounding ungrateful, open my mouth to say, Hey, shall we just leave? This place is a bit …
And suddenly, no, he’s reaching inside his jacket pocket, getting down on one knee now. JACKSON. You’re fucking kidding me.
‘Wait … ’ I say. GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!
And then I see it. It. The navy velvet ring box and inside: a ring and all the things that come with it. I want to laugh but he’s deadly serious. I can physically see the adrenaline in his eyes. I mean, this is wonderful, magical, special and so kind but—
‘Jackson – what are you doing?’ I find myself saying.
I clap my hands over my face and feel the eyes of the staff and diners at Logan’s, an audience at this showdown. I see Jackson’s shaking hands, feel his nerves, hear his dry mouth opening to say—
PLEASE, DON’T SAY IT.
‘Will you marry me, Ella?’
His teary eyes are a jewelled promise of a good life. I know he’ll be an amazing kind forever-partner. I know he would move the earth to make us happy. I know, with him, I would always be OK. Listened to, cared for, understood, valued. I would love him. He would love me. I know he’ll get the big Dulwich house one day. The nice car. Holidays to the Maldives. I can see him as a dad, jeans rolled up past his ankles to paddle in the sea, two faceless children holding bamboo fishing nets. We’d never have to worry, solid for whatever life threw at us.
‘El?’
I realize that Jackson and the restaurant are waiting for my reply. Even the chefs, flames turned down, are egging me on. The waiter’s already peeling the gold foil from a thirty quid glass of champagne in anticipation. I’m not meant to be drinking but this is an exceptional circumstance, a once-in-a-lifetime treat. I’ve never told Jackson I was giving up for good and I suppose if I can break sobriety with my mates I can do it now, with Jackson, at something as momentous as this. As far as life events go, this is up there.
‘Sorry!’ I laugh and the restaurant laughs back like we’re kids in a school play forgetting our lines. ‘Yes?’ And the room applauds. ‘Of course, yes.’
YES. YES? YES! There, I said it. Relationships take work but, see, this is what happens when hard work pays off. You reinforce your commitment. You strengthen. You pour more love in and then more on top of that to lock in the love. Air-tight.
Jackson leaps up to embrace me and I fall into his chest. He kisses me on the lips, quite greatly. It’s so romantic, tipping me back like this; where did that come from? People whoop, the champagne cork pops, shooting bubbles and glory into glasses – ohmygodohmygod – this is a big deal! Jackson slides the ring onto my finger. It twinkles under the lights, looking foolishly out of place with my chipped green nails and junkyard rings but I am walking on air.
And just like that life resumes; people order more drinks, starters, request the bill. The moment for them, already a memory, but for us, everything has changed.
We’re getting married.
‘I’ll be back to take your order – enjoy and congratulations,’ the waiter says.
‘THANKS!’ I gurgle, still not managing to find my voice, and both us and the waiter laugh at my giddiness.
‘Jackson!’ I tap his arm, sounding almost annoyed; it’s the shock, the adrenaline, recovering from the scene that is so out of character for him. ‘What on earth?’
‘Honestly, when I heard you caught the bouquet at Mia’s wedding, I was dying!’ He laughs. ‘How mad was that? I was texting Aoife like how am I gonna keep this a secret?’ Bitch. ‘All worked out though.’ He squeezes my thigh, goes on to tell me how much I’d love the shop he bought it from, how special the jeweller said the ring is.
‘Does it fit OK?’
‘Yeah, perfectly.’ It really is an amazing ring. I inspect it closer, wishing I had a magnifying glass to capture all its detail.
‘It’s antique, opal,’ he says. ‘You have to be careful getting chemicals on it, washing up and in the bath and stuff; they said it’s called a water stone?’
So why is my finger scalding hot? Tight and burning. I feel extra pressure to take care of it. My ring and its demands.
‘Well, cheers, to us,’ he says.
‘Cheers,’ I say, toasting, as Jackson pretends to fancy things off this unappetizing menu. I take a mouthful of champagne. It doesn’t taste good. I could have had a whole Nando’s for this. I’m hot, light-headed, dizzy. My heart is racing rapid. I’m trapped under my own skin. I fan myself with the menu, inhaling deep. Is this a panic attack? Oh no. Not here. Not in front of all these people.
‘You OK?’ he asks.
Probably because I look as washed out as a poorly made cold cup of tea. ‘I don’t want to be rude – I’m sorry, this all very lovely, Jackson, but shall we get out of here?’
Jackson doesn’t hesitate. ‘You read my mind.’
He holds up some cash. ‘My parents gave me this, to treat us.’ He smiles. Great, everyone knows. DOLLOP ON THE PRESSURE THEN WHY DON’T YOU? Jackson tries to be cool by leaving cash on the table to pay for the glasses of champagne so we can make a swift exit.
‘I don’t think that’s going to cover it … ’ I say.
He places down two more and we make a dash for it, apologizing to the ma?tre d’ and front of house, who are baffled as to why we’d walk out, as they fumble nervously for our jackets like they’ve done something wrong.
We tumble out onto the street. I can breathe again. Alive with the possibility of a normal Friday night in Soho, I immediately feel better.
‘Alright?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I say, my body in chills. ‘Sorry. I think I’m just in shock? I’m shivering.’
‘Aww, come here,’ he soothes, stroking my back. Kissing my head, taxis honking past. One screams as it rushes by:
I don’t want to marry you.
My head is playing tricks. I need to eat.
‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he suggests, which he never does, so obviously – now I’ve broken the seal – I’m at it like a rat up a drainpipe.
At The Ship, some sort of normality resumes: ordinary people in ordinary clothes, Pulp’s ‘Disco 2000’ – oh, the safe, cuddly past – not a million staff shoving menus in our faces. Jackson brings over two pints and a packet of scampi fries in his mouth, drops them off like he’s instigating a game of fetch. He’s got an unmistakable spring in his step.
I pick up my pint and drain half of it.
‘Woah, you alright there?’ Jackson laughs.
‘Sorry, so thirsty after … ’ ALL THAT! I wipe my mouth.
Jackson, pint untouched, tears the packet of scampi fries open onto the dark wood round table.
‘Yesssss, don’t worry, I got you your little Frazzles.’
He jokes, knowing I DESPISE scampi fries. I grin at him, taking the crisps, my hands still trembling. I need one of those foil blankets they wear at the end of marathons and films like Die Hard.
Jackson rubs my hand, admiring his taste in engagement rings. ‘Got a wedding to plan now!’
I slam the brakes on. ‘We’re broke! Should have bought the place AFTER the wedding like Mia did. That honeymoon money would have been useful!’
‘Well, about that … ’ He folds his arms and leans in close. ‘Zahra’s promoting me to MD. I get a bonus and it means I’ll be an exec. So … ’
‘Aww, Jackson!’ I wrap my arms around him. ‘This is amazing! I’m so proud of you – you deserve it.’ I hold the side of his face with my palms, in case he didn’t hear me enough. ‘I am so proud of you.’ Which I am; he works harder than anybody I know, practically living at the office, on his phone.
‘So, let’s do it, Ella Wade!’ he says, knighting me with his surname; I feel the need to dry-heave at this. ‘Let’s get married!’
‘But let’s not rush either,’ I say and add, ‘I want to enjoy this bit.’ By enjoy, do I mean hatch an escape plan?
I cheers his glass with mine.
‘Yeah, you’re right. We’ve got all the time in the world.’
Me and Jackson together forever?
I don’t want him to feel uneasy so I say, ‘I’ll have to talk to everyone like this now.’ I accentuate all the actions with my hands unnecessarily. ‘Oh hey there, hi.’
He laughs. ‘Are you going to tell your mum, then? Violet? Aoife?’
‘Oh!’ I say, like thanks for reminding me. ‘I will, but later. Right now, can it just be us?’
After a couple more drinks, I’ve relaxed. We stumble home tipsily, in no real rush, taking our time; it’s not too cold. We get piping hot sandwiches from the Italian bar that come in their foiled packets, fat, salty and perfect. Rickshaws whizz past, tangled in fairy lights, booming out ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’. Buses breeze by.
Back to South London. Where the roads become clearer, the people fall away, the streets are darker, quieter. We pop into the corner shop and get a bottle of red wine to keep the celebration going. I take my time to choose the right bottle – I haven’t chosen a bottle of wine in a while now – making sure it doesn’t have a screw top, making sure it says the right description words – smooth, full bodied, deep, rich in flavour … drinkable? Who buys a drink that isn’t drinkable?
At home I find two tumblers, rifle through the cabinets for a corkscrew and head into the living room where Jackson is putting on music. I already know which song he’s going to choose. It’s that kind of predictability of a long-term relationship. Even when the other one tries their hardest to be their least predictable, you are aware they are doing just that, so in a way the guess is even easier. Don’t tell me – Nick Drake’s ‘Saturday Sun’. He takes his coat off and throws it on the armchair. He reaches his hand out to me and pulls me in, to sway in the living room. We kiss. It’s nice, like in a watching The Office for the fourteenth time kind of way. I’m waiting for him to grab me, to squeeze me, to lift my dress up over my thighs or start unplugging my bra at the back with one hand. But it doesn’t happen. Not even on a night like this, and before we know it, he’s asking me if I want tea.
We sit together on the sofa, sipping our tea, the cork still in the neck of the bottle. Not able to even face resetting the Stay Sober app, I just delete it instead.