Because I’m sure that’s what this is. In the entire history of the South Bank, the only people who’ve ever come here to walk along its wide Thames-side promenade are tourists and lovers.
It’s not only the location that’s alerted me. There’ve been clues, though I’m sure Daniel thinks he’s been subtle. A few months ago as we cuddled on his sofa with a bottle of wine and a film neither of us was very interested in, out of the blue he asked, ‘Do you ever wear rings? I just wondered because Mummy does.’
I should explain about the Mummy thing before we go any further, otherwise you’ll be picturing someone not very appealing. Daniel is very appealing. He’s not a mama’s boy (or a mummy’s boy). That’s just what posh people call their mums. It’s why he speaks like his jaw is wired open and loves red trousers, even though he’s only twenty-five. He might be a bit hard to understand sometimes because he slides over most of the syllables in words but lands on the letters at the ends. Isn’T thaT amaahzing? I’m getting pretty good at translating him into normal, though, so I’ll do my best.
Anyway, that one little question was the biggest clue that he might be thinking in the long term. There were other things too – mentions of future plans, including what sounded like a Christmas invitation to his family’s next year, even though we’ve just passed Valentine’s Day. But he asked about the ring months ago and, forewarned, I did shave my legs nearly every day after that (and definitely for Valentine’s Day, just in case), though lately I’ve reverted to my normal shaving-twice-a-week-if-I’m-lucky stubble.
All of which is to say that I’m not as prepared for today as I’d like. My hair’s got a weird kink and instead of a killer outfit I’m in my usual jeans and trainers and my winter wool coat that I should have replaced last year when it started to pill. It’s too warm for a wool coat anyway. I can feel my face sweating. Just to complete that marry-me look.
Daniel, I now notice, is dressed up. He’s wearing his tan brogues with his red trousers, and the stripy scarf I got him for Christmas is looped over his navy jumper.
I have to catch my breath when I sneak a glance at him. In the early spring sunshine his hair and complexion are golden, even though we haven’t been away all winter. He’s got the kind of skin you see on gorgeous Scandinavians in those adverts selling extra-healthy yogurt, with pinkish lips and just the right amount of stubble for a Saturday afternoon. He catches me with his bright blue eyes, edged with the longest, thickest brown lashes this side of a Rimmel advert.
‘Everything all right?’ His arm tightens around my shoulder, which fits perfectly into his armpit as long as I’m in trainers. Which I am, as previously explained.
‘Everything’s perfect.’ And I mean it. I’ve been in a near-constant state of happiness since the day we got together.
‘I think so too,’ he says. ‘This is perfect.’
Something about the way he says it tells me this is the moment. Even if I hadn’t had the clues first, I would have known.
Gently he steers me to the stone wall at the edge of the river. The tide is going out and it smells a bit fishy, but I wouldn’t mind doing this on top of a rubbish tip. ‘I know we haven’t been going out very long,’ he says. ‘But–’
‘Nearly a year,’ I remind him. Shush, Emma. Let the man speak.
‘Yah, nearly a year.’ He envelops my hands in the warmth of his. ‘And I’ve known for nearly that long how much I love you. You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met before and I feel like I could spend the rest of my life learning more about you. And the more I learn, the more I love, so … …’ When he drops down on one knee I’m aware of people starting to stare. ‘Emma Liddell, will you please make me the happiest man on earth by marrying me?’
My eyes are so glued to his hopeful face that I almost don’t notice the box he pulls from his pocket.
But I notice the ring when he pops open the box.
‘Daniel! That’s–’ Huge. It’s a square-cut diamond whose sparkles could do permanent retina damage in this sunshine. ‘I can’t let you go into debt like this.’ He only works for a charity.
‘I’m not in debt. It’s a family ring.’
‘Which family? The Queen’s?’
His face reddens. ‘They have a bit of money. I didn’t like to mention it because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, does it?’
He looks like he’s just confessed an infectious disease. ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘I think I can manage to love you anyway.’
‘Is that a yes, then?’
‘It’s a yes! Of course it’s a yes, I love you!’ We fling our arms around each other to the enthusiastic applause of the tourists, and maybe even a few of the lovers, on the South Bank.
‘I cannot wait to marry you, Emma Liddell,’ he murmurs just before he kisses me.
Two weeks later …
When Daniel said his family had a bit of money he failed to mention that he grew up in a mansion. Not a mansion block but an actual bona fide mansion – four floors high, white stucco-fronted with black-and-white chequered tiles in the doorway under the portico and an ornate wrought-iron fence to keep out the riffraff. Not that any riffraff probably comes to this part of London.
I can’t stop staring up at the façade. My feet don’t want to move and the rest of me is taking orders from them. If the neighbours catch sight of me, they’ll be straight on the phone to the Old Bill about someone casing the place.
The last time I was inside such a grand home I’d mopped its floors with Mum. She’s never going to believe this.
Huge topiary trees flank the black front door, which is so shiny I can almost see my reflection. I pinch a leaf from one of the trees. Real. Of course it is. The heavy lion-headed knocker makes an echoing boom inside.
Daniel didn’t let on about any of this, not the huge family house or the topiary or the knocker. He was so uncomfortable when telling me about his family having money that I felt bad bringing it up again. He’s right – we’re marrying each other, not our families.
I’ve met Daniel’s parents and sister several times before, but they’ve never mentioned any of this either. I’d assumed we always met at restaurants because his mum doesn’t cook, but now I suspect he’s been keeping this dirty little rich secret from me. It’s hard to get too cross about that.
The slender blonde woman who opens the door is about my age. She smiles her greeting and steps aside for me. She’s wearing black trousers and a white blouse, which makes me feel better. I was worried I hadn’t dressed up enough for this do.
‘Hiya, I’m Emma Liddell.’ I stick out my hand, but she just looks confused.
Maybe I should have cheek-kissed her? Daniel is always kissing people he’s just met.
‘May I take your, erm, helmet?’ she asks.
We both glance at the duck-egg blue helmet under my arm. It’s not exactly a Louis Vuitton. Now I’ve got a second reason to wish I hadn’t driven my scooter. It had looked so little and careworn parked out front amongst all the Rollers and Audis.
‘Sure, here. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?’
She takes my helmet, ignoring my question. ‘The guests are through there.’
I turn away quickly so she won’t see my cheeks flush. She’s not one of Daniel’s friends who happens to be dressed in black and white and answering the door.