‘To be honest,’ the look had turned to bashful Retriever now, ‘I know we’ve always kept it casual.’
Yeah, thought Daisy. At the start, Jimmy had always been the one to say it was daft to get too involved; he didn’t like commitment of any kind. Not even the kind that meant he’d agree to accompany her to the wedding of one of her best mates. And, to be honest, she realised now that it suited her; it had worked. She’d soon moved on from that crazy-crush elation because the cheeky Jimmy had noticed her as a teenager (which was rather a long time ago now) to the realisation that maybe they weren’t a match made in heaven. They were comfortable. In a few years’ time maybe they’d be too comfortable. Oh God, surely when you agreed to marry a man, your toes should still be curling up and your skin prickling all over when he kissed you?
But she still liked him, loved him in a best-buddy way. Now she felt two steps behind him, when he was finally saying he was ready to commit it all seemed a bit surreal. A bit too late – if he’d said this a couple of years ago she might well have leapt into his arms and a life of washing his clothes and wandering down to the local every night.
‘It was my old man that put me up to this, actually.’ He really was looking sheepish, and something inside Daisy rose up in suspicion.
‘Your dad?’ Since when did his father turn Cupid? Romantic proposals were so not the image she had of his dad. Not that this was turning out to be particularly romantic, so far.
‘He asked when I was going to get my finger out and give him some grandkids; told me to get on with it while he was still young enough to kick a football.’
‘Let’s get this straight. It was your dad’s idea? Your dad told you to ask me?’
‘Well, yeah, but then I got to thinking. I mean, why not? We love each other.’
This was going from bad to worse. She had thought maybe they did. But now he’d made her actually think about it, she was wavering. She loved him in the way she loved Mabel, Barney, her best mate Anna, her parents, her chickens (well at least her favourite chicken)… but did she love him? As in big heart, forever together. He was cute, he was kind. He chopped wood like a trouper. He knew just the right way to rub her aching feet. He hardly complained at all when she watched ‘Love Actually’ for the twenty-third time. He still loved her even when she was wearing a fleece with holes in and didn’t have any make-up on.
They had matching Christmas jumpers. He loved Mabel.
So why was she messing about? It could be perfect. Was it just some stupid unrealistic romantic notion that she wanted to be swept off her feet – not be asked the question in the middle of a field as she wrapped twine round a gatepost, almost like it was an afterthought.
She’d been watching too many rom-coms, read too many happy-ever-afters. This was real life. In real life you were happy, compatible, had known each other since you were knee- high to a grasshopper, as Grandad used to say.
In fact, this probably was how Grandad and Grandma had made the decision.
They were comfortable. Like two old slippers rubbing together.
Oh Gawd, she didn’t want to be an old slipper. Not yet.
The groan started to come out of her mouth and she did her best to change it into a non-committal squeak of what could have been mild interest. Or a pig sound.
Jimmy was not deterred. ‘I can just give my place up, daft me wasting money on rent. I’ll move in with you, and we might even be able to afford to tell Hugo to piss off.’
She didn’t want to tell Hugo to piss off, even though he could be irritating. She wasn’t really sure she was ready to let Jimmy move into the little cottage, her little cottage.
They seemed to be skipping from infatuation (on her part), to slippers-and-pipe comfortable, without doing the madly-in-love bit in the middle.
Surely there should be one of those, even for her?
‘I can help, you know, mend fences to keep that Houdini horse in,’ he gave a reassuring smile, ‘I know how hard it is for you to keep on top of that place, and I’m not always there, but I can be. So, what do you say? February wedding before I get busy on the fields?’
February! He was giving her deadlines now. She spluttered up the mouthful of lager. ‘There’s no need to rush into this is there?’ And gave a weak smile.
He could move in. Live there. With her. Instead of just spending the odd night at hers, losing odd socks under the bed, leaving the loo seat up, and emptying the milk carton, he could do it all the time. With all his socks. His socks would be happy – paired off. They could fall asleep in front of the TV together (him and her, not the socks) every night. She could cook his dinner while he mended things. They could do couple-things.
All the time.
Forever. Never set foot outside of Tippermere, never meet anybody new. Live on roast dinners and apple pie for the rest of their lives. Okay she was pushing it a bit there. They could go to the restaurants in Kitterly Heath, or rather she could. Jimmy was quite happy doing the same thing day in day out. He didn’t want to explore, he didn’t want excitement, oh God, he just didn’t have any of the dreams she did.
She perched on the edge of her seat. That was it. She’d got it, he didn’t share her dreams, he was happy with what he’d got and deep inside she thought, hoped, that one day she’d find a little bit more.
She really did feel queasy now. No way could she say that, it would be more shocking than the proposal, and it had only just occurred to her. And she’d sound deranged if she said it. He’d set off some weird kind of chain reaction inside her.
But he was nice. And maybe nobody would share her mad dreams, well not a man. Maybe this was all there was. She slumped back.
‘Go on then, say it.’ The pint glass stopped, halfway up to his mouth as he realised that her open mouth wasn’t signalling a delighted yes. ‘Daisy? Say something, please, I’m beginning to feel a bit of a dick.’ His gaze darted round, furtively checking out for listeners-in.
‘It’s just,’ putting her hands under her thighs and shuffling down so nobody could see her didn’t seem to be helping, ‘I’m not quite ready to be thinking about grandkids for your dad, and…’ It was one thing him feeling a bit of a dick, she was beginning to feel a real cow.
‘Oh. Silly me.’ The glass went down with a clunk and he snapped the box shut, and then it was engulfed by his large hand. He stared at the table and his whole body seemed to close down, block her out.
She could prise his fingers open. Declare undying love. Give up on everything but him.
‘Jimmy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’ Daisy put her hand over his; the rough, weathered hand she was so fond of. If she was clear in her own head what she meant, this would be easier to explain. ‘You’ve just caught me… you mean a lot to me, you know that.’ Lame, that was so lame.
‘Sure,’ the box disappeared back into the inner packet of his waxed jacket, ‘want another beer?’
‘I just need a bit of time to get used to the idea. I’m in shock.’
‘You shouldn’t need a bit of time, Dais.’
‘I didn’t expect…’ If she’d had a warning, then she would have talked herself round.
He gave a weary sigh, then stood up. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. It’s what women want, isn’t it?’
She’d ignore the bit where he’d just lumped her in with half the population. ‘It’s just, well, sometimes I think I haven’t actually lived, you know done things.’ There were ways to say this without sounding loopy. ‘I, we, shouldn’t settle down yet. I’m too