Читать книгу Probably the Best Kiss in the World - Pernille Hughes - Страница 7

Being a lawyer, Robert was fairly straight-laced (or “uptight” as Lydia would say), but now and again he did something quirky. Jen had first noticed this years ago in his office, as he sombrely went over the details of her parents’ wills, formally assigning Lydia’s guardianship to her. Still shell-shocked and grieving, her eyes had wandered to his pink and orange striped socks. They were a marked contrast to the sobriety of his tailored dark suit and the uber-traditional (Lydia would say “cliché”) polished leather and wood of his office decor. Jen regularly wheeled the socks out as a positive example when Lydia was on one of her “Robert is boring” attacks.

That Sunday evening, as Jen walked towards the beach, she suspected there might be a spot of quirk in the air. They normally met around seven at a local bar or at the golf club if he’d just played, but tonight he’d texted her to meet him at the family beach hut. Westhampton’s beach wasn’t one of those wild windswept moody backdrops with sand and marram grass, nor a bouncing surfers’ paradise a la Cornwall. This was a proper town beach with large uncomfortable shingle, candy-coloured beach huts and ice cream stands, but thankfully no pier chocked full with arcade machines. There were no features of particular natural beauty, and nothing really to write home about, which was why Westhampton had never quite made it onto the list of popular Victorian bathing resorts. But it was home – so Jen loved it, and as the flashier neighbouring towns were getting expensive, more and more tourists seemed to be coming. She smiled to see them this evening, as she walked briskly along the promenade, hands in the pockets of her khaki shirt dress. The lure of quirk had pushed her to make a change from her usual blouse and tailored trousers, but the pockets were non-negotiable.

“Anyone home?” Jen asked, stepping onto the small deck area. The small port-holed door was open, but she couldn’t see Robert. The Thwaites beach hut was bang in the middle of the single row, the paintwork pristine in its pale blue nautical palette. Robert’s mother insisted on it being repainted every spring. Jen suspected this was more to keep up appearances and one-upmanship over the neighbours than down to any weathering necessity.

“Hello Gorgeous.” Robert appeared holding a blanket which he unfurled with a flourish onto the wooden boards at her feet, before giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. “Exactly on time, as always.” That was one of the many reasons they got on: mutual appreciation of punctuality. He disappeared back into the hut, and reappeared with an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and flutes, along with a picnic basket. A picnic was definitely not what she’d been expecting. It seemed rather, well, rustic, for Robert – he was more of a croque-monsieur chap than a sandwich guy. Not that it was a problem, Jen certainly wasn’t above sitting on the floor, it just wasn’t what she was used to with Robert. He was definitely making a particular effort this evening, only at what she wasn’t quite sure.

“Take a seat,” he said and laughed at his joke, then popped the cork on the bottle. The cork ricocheted off the peak of the roof to clock Jen on the head. Unaware, he reached for the flutes and poured them each a glass. There followed a moment of awkwardness as he attempted to fold himself down onto the deck without use of his hands, in spite of Jen reaching up to help. “To us,” he said in toast, brushing the worst of the spillage from his striped shirt.

“To us,” she agreed, discretely giving her head a soothing rub, and taking a sip. The champagne was delicious. She couldn’t see the label, but he wouldn’t have skimped. Robert took a week off every year for wine tasting in France, so he had his standards. As he delved about in the basket, laying out a fine spread for them, Jen looked about her. The sun was low but it was still comfortably warm and there were plenty of people about on the shingle. The air was rich with scents: the salt of the sea, the smoke aroma from a distant barbecue and the fragrant notes from the champagne. Her thoughts started to meander as to how she could emulate it all in a beer. It was all rather lovely and dare she say it, romantic. Overt romance wasn’t normally their thing. They were both far too practical and realistic for that – another of the things that had them well suited by Jen’s estimation – but for all of that, he’d put together a sweet little scene for them. She was glad she’d worn a dress now.

She asked him about his golf and he talked her through the first eighteen holes while she ate her Quiche Lorraine, Scotch egg and numerous other picnic standards. The napkins told her the local deli had catered, which was fine by her as Robert wasn’t known for his cooking. In fact, both Ava and Zara teased their brother mercilessly on his ineptness in the kitchen. Jen pushed the thought of Ava and Zara aside. It was still the weekend, and for now she would concentrate on Robert and staunchly overlook the fact she dated her bosses’ brother. There were days when she wished he’d never pushed her CV their way, but then she’d been desperate for a job and Westhampton was hardly the marketing capital of the world.

“What did you get up to then?” he asked, brushing a crumb off her chin and sliding his hand into hers. They’d both relaxed back against the wall of the beach hut. Having known each other for many years, sitting together peacefully was something they did quite well.

“Tapping. And labelling. The boxes are ready for the County Show. And I brewed two new beers, which are now safely in the tanks.”

“Right oh,” he murmured, pulling the picnic basket towards him with his spare hand and perusing the contents, “Lydia help you out?”

“No, she was gone most of the weekend. Not sure where, just said she was popping out with mates. She offered though.” She didn’t mean it as a hint, but he didn’t take it as one either, as he was busy setting up the desserts.

Two ramekins of something with a brown sugar topping sat on the blanket and he fished out a small kitchen blowtorch. He looked quite excited to be holding it. “I saw them do this on Saturday Breakfast.” He must have seen Jen’s look of concern as he released her hand and stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, Jen. Fire-handling comes with the Y chromosome.”

Minutes later, the flames were quickly doused with a bottle of Evian, but the blanket was a goner.

“Never mind,” he insisted, unfazed and more intent on pressing the alleged Crème Brȗlée into her hands, “Mumsie will be pleased with the shopping excuse.”

Jen looked at her dessert. It wasn’t fully burnt, there was still a small patch she could breach to access the custard. The intense way that he was nodding her on, eager for her to tuck in, suggested perhaps he’d made this part himself. She swallowed her gulp quite admirably.

Credit where credit was due, the patch she stabbed made exactly the right cracking sound, much to his delight. Robert didn’t seem overly concerned with trying his own dessert though, which was worrying, but he’d made such an effort and appeared so keen, that she couldn’t do anything else but delve out a substantial spoonful and put it in her mouth.

She knew instantly she’d made a mistake. There was something big and hard in there, definitely not smooth and creamy. She looked about, not sure what to do; spitting was not a seemly option. Finally, she looked at him distressed and what was that in his eyes? Mischief? It certainly looked like it. Slowly, carefully, trying to appear as ladylike as possible while desperate to gob it out, she extracted the object from her mouth.

In her hand lay a ring.

Even without the half-saliva half-custard coating it was easily the ugliest ring she’d ever laid eyes on. Large and bulky, the square cut stone was held in an oblong setting. Beyond the murky gem, the filigree ivy detailing was the only thing to set the ring apart from a knuckle-duster. Staring at it, it took Jen a moment to realise Robert was on one knee in front of her, grinning proudly at his dessert wheeze.

“Jennifer Attison, will you be my wife?” His eyes and smile widened even further at her shock. “Surprised?”

“Well, yes,” she stammered. It was a surprise. A great big astounding surprise given they’d never talked about the future and in Jen’s head their two dates a week routine had worked perfectly for the last six years, so why would he be looking to change it?

Jen’s brain couldn’t keep up, as his expression now changed from amused to ecstatic. He jumped to his feet, raised his hands in the air and channelling Tom Cruise on Oprah’s sofa, shouted to everyone on the beach “She said Yes!!”

Wait, what? Jen looked around, panicked. That wasn’t what she’d meant. He grabbed her hands and dragged her to her feet, before clamping his hands to her face and kissing her. She could hear onlookers clapping, and the noise made a disturbing duet with the alarm bells in her head.

“This ring was my great-grandmother’s, on Mumsie’s side,” he explained, plucking it off her palm as she stared shell-shocked at him, “apparently, it hasn’t seen daylight since the undertakers took it off her finger and handed it to my granny.” Jen fought the urge to paw her tongue clean, as he slipped it easily onto her ring finger. Very easily. “Oh. It’s too big.”

Great-granny must have had salamis for fingers, the ring would have fallen freely off Jen’s thumb.

“Oh dear,” she said, the relief nearly felling her, “what a shame.”

“Don’t be upset, Jen, I’ll have it resized.”

Jen’s feigned joy was Oscar-worthy.

“I’m glad you love it though. Mumsie will be too.”

“It … It’s remarkable.”

“Certainly is,” he said wistfully gazing at it. “I’m the first boy in the family for generations, hence it’s mine to give.”

He kissed her again and Jen began to realise how happy this was making him, how overjoyed he was she’d accepted his proposal. She couldn’t help but be deeply flattered. Robert was a catch by anyone’s standards; sensible, solvent and career savvy. His height and broad golf-toned shoulders gave him gravitas in a room; other women looked his way when they were out together. And he had a kind face. She’d always thought that.

They’d first met when she was thirteen and her mother had dragged her along to a dress fitting for Robert’s mother. Marooned in the hallway, listening to Mrs Thwaites’ loud voice through the walls, Jen had at first been shy when the eighteen-year-old Robert had stopped to greet her, dressed in muddy rugby kit. He was on route to the shower, but he’d taken the time to chat and ease her awkwardness. After that she’d seen him at various times in her dad’s mechanic’s workshop when his father had brought the Jag in for tyres or tinkering and she’d been there doing homework after school. The private school boys of Westhampton didn’t normally mix with the state school girls, but that didn’t seem to be the case with Robert. He’d always made a point of saying hello and her dad had remarked he was a “decent lad”. It hadn’t surprised her at all that her parents had chosen him as their lawyer when he qualified.

So when he’d first asked her out, a respectable time after her parents’ affairs had been settled, it had been easy to accept because it was like going out with a friend. What you saw was what you got with Robert and that was important to Jen.

And he knew her. He knew all she’d been through. Taking his lawyerly duties seriously, he’d pitched up at the hospital as soon as he’d heard. He’d seen her at her worst, grieving for her parents, devastated over Lydia’s injuries, wracked with guilt as she’d agreed to the amputation. He’d borne the brunt of her anguish when Lydia was screaming from waking up to a missing leg. He’d taken Jen’s guilt-ridden tongue-lashing head on, never once holding it against her. He’d been there for all of it and he’d still been attracted to her. It amazed her.

Jen looked up at him properly and the panic began to subside. She’d been surprised, that was all. No wonder she panicked – heaven knew she’d had enough surprises for a lifetime. Why should this not be a good idea? He knew her, really knew her and he wanted her. They worked well as a couple, their routine was testament to that. They were clearly compatible, she reasoned; they’d never argued over anything. How could this be anything but the most sensible, comfortable and right marriage ever? What more could a marriage need than what they already had? And she had as close as she could ever get to having her dad’s approval.

“And I’m delighted to accept it,” she finally said with a genuine smile, careful to keep her eyes on his face and off the god-awful ring.

“I knew you would be,” he said, wrapping her in his arms and pulling them both back down onto the bare deck, the smouldering blanket having been flung onto the shingle. Once they’d rearranged themselves from their unbalanced heap, they returned to sitting against the beach hut wall, hands entwined, the setting sun casting a warm glow on their faces – it almost felt like a blessing, only slightly marred by the skinny-dipping stag party and the smell of burnt wool.

“I’ve got more exciting news,” Robert blurted, his exuberance now at unprecedented levels, “I made partner!”

Was it her, or did he look even more thrilled than before? She decided excitement must be cumulative. Partnership on top of an accepted proposal would make anyone ecstatic.

“That’s wonderful, Robert!” She was over the moon for him, he’d worked so hard for it, played all that golf for it too. It was madly pleasing to see someone’s drive come to fruition. That was more they had in common; drive, ambition and a sound work ethic.

“Old Solesworth’s decided to cut back his hours at last, and losing all those matches has finally payed off.” Jen leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. It reminded her to buy him a new aftershave, the bergamot notes in this one were too strong, not just for him, but any sentient being.

“I couldn’t be happier for you. You completely deserve it. Solesworth & Thwaites. Sounds good.”

“And this is just the beginning, Jen. Now with the extra cash our plans can become reality.” He let his head drop back onto the woodwork, relieved.

“Plans?” she asked. She wasn’t aware they had any. He’d once mentioned the Highlands for a long weekend, but that had gone by the wayside when a friend had scored tickets to the Rugby World Cup. Perhaps he meant they should make some plans now. Her fingers twitched towards her phone in her pocket, instinctively wanting to start a new list. This was going to be a major project. And somewhere in her head, the idea of a wedding beer had started to germinate, a one-time brew only their guests would ever try, and maybe she’d give them each a bottle home instead of those sugared almond favour things. Perhaps she would base it on the scents from this evening and tell its story on the rear label …

“Jen? Jen, you’re miles away.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head, primarily to clear her head, but also in befuddlement at herself. Thirty minutes ago a wedding was the furthest thing on her mind, now she was concocting favours. “Plans. Yes. You had a plan.”

“I’m sure it’s our plan, Jen,” he smiled, pulling the back of her hand to his lips. “You and me. Me and you. Our life together.” He said it like some wistful song. The champagne had gone to his head.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Tell me the plan.”

“Surely you know all this? It’s obvious; I make partner, we get married, set up home, have a family and live together happily ever after.” His face was beaming. Jen hadn’t seen him so chuffed since England had last won the cricket. Curiously though, she could feel the edges of her mouth cranking up towards her ears, because he was nodding as he spoke and her reflex was to nod along, reluctant to spoil his moment.

“Wow,” she said, “you’ve got it all planned out.” Considering she was a planning fiend, Jen couldn’t work out why it didn’t sit better with her. It was hardly a revolutionary plan – he wasn’t suggesting they should run away and become freedom fighters. Only, she hadn’t had any part in this, and she felt firmly on the back foot.

Robert cocked his head at her, at last sensing her discomfit.

“I surprised you good and proper, didn’t I?” he acknowledged with a grin. “I’m not sure why though, Jen, we’ve been together for years.”

“But you haven’t even suggested living together.”

“I’m rather thinking that’ll be part of the engagement deal.” He gave her a wink and waggled his eyebrows, which looked so funny she almost snorted champagne out of her nose. Well, if that was the plan, he’d have to move in at hers, given the ties the house had to her parents. And there was Lydia to keep an eye on. Not to mention his apartment was in a weird area of town and the shared hallway always smelled dubious. “Which bit is bothering you, Jen? Is it the family bit?” He turned to properly face her. “Look, you’ve pretty much been Lydia’s parent these last years, so I know you’ll be a great mother, but I appreciate you might feel you’ve been-there-done-that already. So I wasn’t thinking of a team – to be honest they can be bloody expensive little buggers by the looks of it. Two would do me. A boy and a girl. After school fees that should still leave money for decent holidays and a weekend pad somewhere.” Finally he drew a breath. “Sounds perfect, right?”

It did. Or rather, it would, to many. And Jen felt it should to her, (though she didn’t see the need for school fees) – after all, what was not to like? It had comfort and dependable written all over it. But something was niggling.

“Am I working in this scenario?” she asked.

“Oh, is that the issue?” he said with a relieved laugh. “No, of course not. The pay rise should cover you looking after the kids. And remember, when you sell your house, and I sell the flat, that’s going to cover a vast proportion of the new place. If we buy something dated, you can spend the next few years doing it up as the pups come along. The rent on the Arches won’t hurt either.” He’d factored in the two commercial units under the railway bridge her parents had ploughed all their savings into. One had been her dad’s workshop, now rented out to his then partner, the other was leased to a business run by two of Jen’s friends. But that money was what had funded Lydia through uni, and Jen wanted it safe-guarded to cover the future prosthetic legs Lydia would need.

“But what if I want to keep on working?”

“Really? I thought all girls want to be ladies-who-lunch?”

“No. I like working,” Jen said, calming a little. He’d just been mistaken or programmed by his parents. Of course he wouldn’t mind her carrying on with her job.

“Inco pads? Really?”

“No,” she winced, “not inco pads per se, but I like going to work, doing things with my day, making my own money.”

“But Jen, when you have the kids, you’ll still be working. God, Jen, give me some credit. I’m not some dinosaur who thinks looking after kids is the easy option. You’ll still be working: it’ll just be from home, and for our family. As for the money, I’m sure we can work something out, so you feel you’re getting a wage, even if it does just go into the family pot. We can do that. And don’t worry about projects, Mumsie already has a list of charity events she wants your help with.” She could see from the furrow in his brow he was bemused by her questions. “Jen, you shouldn’t worry about this. This is where we’ve always been heading.”

“And … and what about my beer?” Jen, asked quietly.

Robert now looked totally confused. “What about your beer?”

“I … well, I had thought … What I really wanted to do is, maybe someday, try to build it up to be a business.” There. She’d said it. Jen had the oddest conflicting sensation; relief from having mentioned her plan to him, but also something tantamount to having a public wardrobe malfunction.

“The beer?” He thought he had misunderstood her. She nodded. “But Jen, that’s just your hobby. Your childhood hobby. I rather assumed you’d grow out of that. And honestly, you wouldn’t want our family home constantly smelling of beer.” She took a surreptitious sniff of her hair. She was pretty sure her shower had eradicated any beer smell.

“You like beer," she said, unable to conceal the hurt. Back in the day, when he’d played rugby rather than just watching it, he’d consumed plenty.

“True. But in a pub, darling. Not in a home. Not around kids.”

With that he planted a kiss on her forehead, stood up and toed all the paraphernalia from their picnic inside the door. “I’ll sort all that tomorrow. Come on Nearly-Mrs Thwaites, let’s tell Lydia our good news.” He stopped, looked at her and barked a laugh. “You still look stunned, darling – imagine how she’s going to take it.”

Jen already had an inkling.