“I don’t really like dogs, Gallagher. You play. I’ll help your mum make tea.”
As George goes off upstairs to the bathroom, and my mum goes off to the kitchen at the back to flick the kettle on, my dad turns to me, deadpan. “He doesn’t like dogs, Hannah. We must kill George immediately.”
Chapter 27
August
“This one,” Isay to Paul as we’re in Tiffany & Co. in Bond Street. “Or”—I reach and point to the tray at the back—“that one. Let’s start with those. They’re both perfect. And by perfect, I mean gorgeous, glittery, and staggeringly expensive.”
“I know,” Paul says, “but she’s worth it.”
“Do you know how hard it has been this past week,” I say as the shop assistant readies the trays for me to try on rings, on Miranda’s behalf. “Not telling Miranda that you’re going to propose?” I take Paul by the shirt collar and shake him jovially. I repeat, “Do you know how hard it’s been?”
He laughs. “You’re a trooper, Hannah. Do you know how difficult it’s been for me? Not to say, ‘I’m going shopping for engagement rings with Hannah—could you just back off me about where I’m going today?’ Miranda asked about five times. I don’t know how guys do this alone? I don’t know how they sneak out to do this, without being put through the Spanish Inquisition by their other halves. The only reason I got out alone today was because I said I’m buying her a birthday present. So we need to do that as well.”
I wince for him as I put on the first ring, hold it out in front of me. “An engagement ringanda birthday present. Expensive day for you, pal.”
“I know.” He looks at my outstretched hand. “Wow, that’s nice.I’m not sure why we’re in Tiffany’s when there are much cheaper places selling similar items,” Paul says indelicately in front of the shop assistant, who pretends not to hear.
“Because Miranda has always wanted an engagement ring from Tiffany,” I tell him, looking at the ring on my hand. “God, engagement rings are nice, aren’t they?”
Paul gives me a sad smile, as if I’m a poor spinster to be pitied. We’ll have words about that when we’re out of earshot of the shop assistant. I take the ring off and move to try the next one on; it’s a little bigger and Paul engages in chat about clarity in diamonds, nodding along as the sales assistant talks. I am blinded by the sparkles coming off this ring. I’m so happy for my friends. They’re so right for each other.
After ring shopping, Paul and I try very hard to find a decent old man pub near Bond Street and, after about half an hour of searching for somewhere with less eye-watering prices, we give up and head to a burger joint that has a decent cocktail menu.
“My treat,” Paul says. “A thank-you for giving up your Sunday to help me choose a ring for my future wife.”
“Thanks,” I say, as I immediately stop being price-conscious about my food order. “Lobster burger, in that case.”
“Ha, go for it!” he replies. “Champagne cocktails to wash it down?”
“Seriously? I’ve always liked you, Paul.”
We laugh, say, “Cheers” when our drinks order arrives, and wait for our food.
“So hard,” I say, “last night over dinner in the pub, pretending we’re both doing different things today—not meeting like this to choose a ring.”
“We’ve never done this before,” he says. “Just you and me. It’s always you, me, and Miranda.”
I nod. “It’s nice. Let’s not make it a habit or Miranda will flip out.”
“Not once I’ve given her this sparkler of a ring,” he says, tapping the rucksack on the seat next to him, which contains the telltale turquoise Tiffany bag. “All bets are off then. Can do as I please, she’ll be so chuffed.”
“You’d better not,” I warn.
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt that girl. I love her to distraction,” he says seriously.
“You’re so lucky,” I tell him. “You’ve found your person. Hold on to her forever.”
“I will,” he says.
“So how are you going to do it, then? How are you going to propose?”
He tells me he’s taking Miranda away on her birthday, to a little country hotel in the Cotswolds. They stopped in once for a drink on their way back from a weekend away, sat with their pints under a willow tree, a stream running through the grounds behind them. “I’m doing it there. In the spot we sat before, talking about life, love, us. Under that willow tree. No clichéd fanfare in a restaurant. Nothing. She won’t see it coming.”
“That’s lovely,” I say, picturing it in my head. I can also see Miranda screaming for joy in a very unladylike way, and jumping up and down with excitement in this delicate, nature-painted backdrop. She’ll probably say, “Fuck.” A lot. It makes me smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Christ, she’d better say yes,” he murmurs as our half a lobster and “the Big One” burgers arrive, along with truffle fries and another round of cocktails.
