Chapter Ten The Proposal
The idea came to James in the middle of the night, a few weeks after the random Tuesday.
He was lying awake, as he often did these days, thinking about Anastasia.
She was asleep beside him. They had reached the stage of the relationship where she sometimes stayed over, where her toothbrush had migrated to his bathroom and a small collection of her clothes had accumulated in his wardrobe and one of his drawers had been made available for anything she felt like leaving in it.
James was watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing and wondering how he had got so lucky.
I’m going to ask her to marry me.
It wasn’t a thought, it was simply a fact, as obvious and immutable as gravity or the superiority of proper butter over margarine. He was going to ask Anastasia Kovalenko to marry him and he was going to do it properly and he was going to do it soon.
The only question was how.
???
James spent the next two weeks in a state of what might charitably be called ‘intense planning’ and what, having witnessed it firsthand, I would more accurately describe as ‘barely controlled panic.’
‘I need your help,’ he said, appearing at my flat one evening without warning. He was carrying a briefcase, which was alarming in itself (James did not own a briefcase, or at least I had never seen him with one) and his expression suggested a man grappling with problems beyond his usual scope.
‘With what?’
‘The proposal.’ He set the briefcase on my coffee table and opened it to reveal what appeared to be several folders, a notebook covered in illegible handwriting and a small velvet pouch. ‘I’ve been doing research.’
‘Research.’
‘Into proposals. How they’re done. What works.
What doesn’t.’ He pulled out one of the folders and began leafing through it.
‘Did you know that the average engagement ring costs two months’ salary?
That seems like a very strange metric. Two months of whose salary?
What if you’re unemployed? What if you’re a billionaire?
The whole thing falls apart under scrutiny. ’
‘James...’
‘And the location. Everyone says the location matters. But what kind of location? A restaurant? Too public and feels like an American sitcom and what if she says no and then you have to sit there eating your starter while everyone stares. A holiday? Better, but then you have to get through the rest of the holiday either celebrating or pretending the awkwardness isn’t happening.
A significant place? But what counts as significant?
The place you met? The place of your first date? The place where you first...’
‘James.’
He stopped. Looked at me. Took a breath.
‘I’m spiralling, aren’t I?’
‘You’re spiralling.’
‘I spiral when I’m nervous. You know that.’
‘I do know that. I’ve known that since the time you gave a twenty-minute presentation on the history of doorknobs because you were nervous about asking Charlotte Fanshawe to a party.’
‘The doorknob thing was interesting. Doorknobs have a fascinating history.’
‘It was not interesting. Charlotte fell asleep.’
‘She was tired. It was late in the term.’ James sat down heavily on my sofa and put his head in his hands. ‘I don’t want to mess this up, Henry. This is the most important question I’m ever going to ask anyone and I have no idea how to ask it.’
I sat down across from him. ‘Start with the basics, do you have a ring?’
‘Not exactly, I have got something better, at least I hope I have.’
‘What does ‘not exactly’ mean?’
James reached for the velvet pouch and upended it onto the coffee table. Out tumbled a small collection of gemstones: diamonds, sapphires, what looked like an emerald, loose and unset, glittering under my lamp like a tiny dragon’s hoard.
I stared at them. ‘Where did you get those?’
‘Family. Some were my grandmother’s, the kind one, not Granny. Some I bought. The sapphires are from Sri Lanka, apparently quite good ones and the diamonds are...’ He waved a hand vaguely. ‘Diamond-y. I don’t really know. The man in Hatton Garden seemed impressed.’
‘And what are you planning to do with them?’
‘Give them to her. So she can design her own ring.’ James looked up, suddenly anxious.
‘Is that stupid? I don’t know what she wants and why should I decide on a ring she is going to wear for the rest of her life?
I wanted to give her the materials and let her create something that’s hers, something she loves. Something we build together.’
It was, I had to admit, not stupid at all but actually rather sweet and very thoughtful.
‘That’s actually quite romantic,’ I said.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am surprised. You once gave a girlfriend a vacuum cleaner for her birthday because you thought she’d mentioned wanting one.’
‘She had mentioned wanting one! She said her old one was broken!’
‘She was making conversation, James. She didn’t actually want a vacuum cleaner.’
‘How was I supposed to know the difference?’
‘Context. Tone. Basic human intuition.’ I shook my head. ‘But this, the gems, the custom ring, this is good. This shows you’ve thought about who she is and what she might want. That’s the important part.’
James visibly relaxed. ‘So you think she’ll like it?’
‘I think she’ll love it. The question is: where are you going to do it?’
???
The location question consumed another week of James’s life.
He considered and rejected approximately forty-seven options, ranging from the obvious (Tower Bridge) to a day trip (the top of the Eiffel Tower) to the frankly deranged (during a skydive, which he had apparently seen in a film and briefly convinced himself was ‘romantic’ before I talked him down by explaining he would lose all the gems).
In the end, he settled on the chateau.
‘It makes sense,’ he explained, when he called to tell me his decision. ‘That’s where we first said we were falling for each other. Where she made borscht, where we first really clicked. It’s our place and more importantly it is private.’
‘And you’re going to propose there?’
‘Near there. There’s a spot, a clearing on the mountain, about an hour’s hike from the house. You can see the whole valley from up there. On a clear day, you can see all the way to Mont Blanc.’
‘That sounds perfect.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ He paused. ‘What if she says no?’
‘She’s not going to say no.’
‘But what if she does?’
‘Then you’ll have had a nice hike and a spectacular view and you’ll know where you stand.’ I could hear from his breathing, his underlying anxiety, that I had learned to recognise over nearly a decade of friendship. ‘James. She loves you. Anyone can see it. She’s not going to say no.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I really think so.’
There was a long pause. Then: ‘I’m going to do it this weekend. She thinks we’re just going to the chateau for a few days of chilling out and relaxing. She doesn’t suspect anything.’
‘Good. Keep it that way. And James?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t overthink it. Just speak from the heart. That’s what she loves about you: that you say what you mean without calculation. Don’t try to be clever. Just be yourself.’
‘Be myself,’ he repeated, as if committing it to memory. ‘Right. I can do that. Probably.’
???
They drove to the chateau on a Friday, arriving just as the sun was setting behind the mountains.
The caretaker had been alerted, the fires were lit and the refrigerator was stocked with actual food this time. They ate dinner by candlelight, drank wine that was only moderately extravagant and talked about nothing in particular.
Anastasia seemed relaxed, happy. She had no idea what was coming.
James, by contrast, was a wreck.
He hid it well, years of social training had taught him to maintain a pleasant exterior regardless of internal turmoil, but inside he was running through every possible scenario, every potential disaster, every way this could go wrong.
What if it rained tomorrow and they couldn’t hike?
What if she twisted an ankle on the trail?
What if he dropped the gems and couldn’t find them?
What if she said yes but then changed her mind?
What if she said no and the rest of the weekend was unbearably awkward?
‘You’re quiet,’ Anastasia observed, halfway through dinner.
‘Am I? Sorry. Just tired from the drive.’
‘You didn’t drive. I drove.’
‘Tired from watching you drive, then. Very stressful. You take corners aggressively.’
‘I take corners efficiently. There’s a difference.’
‘There really isn’t.’
She smiled and James felt something in his chest unclench slightly. Whatever happened tomorrow, this was good. This, sitting across from her, trading gentle insults, existing in the easy comfort of their relationship, this was worth everything.
‘I love you,’ he said, suddenly and without planning to.
Anastasia looked up, surprised by the non sequitur. ‘I love you too. Are you all right?’
‘Fine. Great. Never better.’ He reached for his wine glass, took a sip, set it down. ‘I just wanted you to know. In case I forget to say it later.’
‘You never forget to say it. You say it seventeen times a day.’
‘Eighteen, actually. I’ve been keeping count.’
‘That’s concerning.’
‘It’s romantic.’
‘It’s both.’ She reached across the table and took his hand. ‘Whatever’s bothering you, you can tell me.’
‘Nothing’s bothering me.’
‘James.’
‘Really. I’m fine. I’m just... happy. Being here. With you.’
She looked at him for a long moment, James had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through him, that she knew exactly what he was planning and was simply waiting for him to get on with it.
But all she said was: ‘Good. I’m happy too.’
???
The next morning dawned clear and cold, exactly as James had hoped.
He had checked the weather forecast every hour through the preceding week and had backup plans for backup plans, but none of them were necessary. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and the mountains were postcard-perfect against the horizon.