Behaving Badly

‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m…’ I heard her voice catch, ‘…fine.’

‘You don’t sound it. How was last night?’

‘Well, to be honest, not quite as “special” as I’d hoped.’

‘Where did he take you?’

‘The Opera House.’

‘But that sounds lovely.’

‘Well…yes. It was. Seats in the stalls. Champagne before and after. But…’

‘He didn’t…?’

There was the sound of a suppressed sob. ‘No. Although when I realized it was The Marriage of Figaro my hopes were right up. And at the end the singers were knee-deep in confetti, and I was just sitting there thinking…Well, you know what I was thinking.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Then afterwards, Nigel took me to this gorgeous little French restaurant, and I was convinced he was going to do it—at last. But we were just chatting in a perfectly normal way and he didn’t look at all nervous; and then he had to take an emergency call about this merger he’s working on, so he went outside. And at the next table was this couple, and I heard the guy propose to his girlfriend.’

‘Really?’

‘I actually heard him say the words. She just looked so radiantly happy, and then she started to cry. Then when the waiter realized what had happened he announced it and we all clapped and raised our glasses—and Nigel missed the whole thing. So when he came back to the table I told him what had happened; and instead of saying, “How romantic”, or “How lovely”, or even, “Will you marry me, Daisy?”, he just said, “How extraordinary”. Like that. As though it really puzzled him. Then he spent the rest of the evening talking about the opera.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And as he had to catch a very early flight to Bonn, I came home. I don’t think it’s ever going to happen!’ she wailed.

‘Well there’s always his fortieth, isn’t there? When’s that?’

‘Next month.’

‘Maybe the prospect of impending middle age will do the trick.’

‘But his dad didn’t marry until he was forty-six.’

‘It doesn’t follow that Nigel will be the same.’

‘Maybe, but I don’t want to wait another five and a half years to find out. Christ, Miranda, I’ll be thirty-nine by then! I’ll have jowls and grey hair.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’ll have more lines than the London Underground.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I’ll have atomic knickers—and a stoop—and arthritis.’

‘Rubbish, Daisy!’

‘I’ll probably have a Zimmer frame. You’ll have to push me up the aisle in a bloody wheelchair!’

‘You’re being ridiculous now.’

‘And I won’t be able to have kids.’

‘You will. Honestly, Daisy,’ I went on, as her sobs finally subsided. ‘You’ve got to get a grip. You’ve been here with Nigel enough times before, so why are you so especially upset now?’

‘Because,well,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve just done something rather…silly.’

‘What?’ There was silence. ‘Daisy, what have you done?’

‘Come to lunch and you’ll see.’

When I rang Daisy’s bell at twelve, I expected her to come to the door with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, but instead she seemed to have recovered some of her natural élan.

‘Nige phoned me from his hotel,’ she said, ‘so I’m feeling a bit cheerier than I was. Ooh, what lovely flowers. Did you come by car?’ she added.

‘No. I got the tube.’

‘Good, because I’ve just discovered a bottle of fizz I didn’t know I had. I’ve had it in the freezing compartment for an hour. It should be nicely chilled by now.’

‘Great.’