A Perfect Proposal (3 page)

Milly’s lack of agreement as to what amounted to ‘fun’ was somehow audible. There was a moment’s silence, a rustle of bedclothes and then Milly said, ‘Look, why don’t you come to New York? I know I’m always asking you but now would be the perfect time. You’ve left your nannying job, haven’t you? You’re free? It’s lovely here just now and Thanksgiving’s only a month away.’

‘It sounds heaven! But I don’t want to spend the money.

I’m saving up for a course.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I can’t quite decide. Either tailoring, or running a small business. Whichever seems more useful when I’ve got a chunk of money, I suppose.’

‘Won’t your parents pay for you to study?’ Milly didn’t hide her indignation. ‘You didn’t go to uni, you must have saved them a fortune.’

‘Well, yes, but they won’t pay for anything they consider “recreational” like bookbinding or stained-glass making and I’m afraid tailoring comes under that heading for them. Art is different,’ she added quickly, reading her friend’s thoughts. ‘And the small-business thing would too, probably. They don’t understand people working for themselves.’ She sighed. ‘Although to be fair they haven’t got much money either.’

‘Then come to New York! It needn’t cost much. You can get really cheap deals on the fare and you could stay with me.’

‘Um …’ Sophie had put off saying this; Milly would respond just as Amanda had. However, it paid to be honest where her friend was concerned; she’d only get it out of her eventually anyway. ‘I’ve got to go and look after an aged relative. But it’s fine! He’s going to pay me.’ She crossed her fingers because she didn’t know this for a fact yet.

As expected, Milly’s (low) opinion of her friend’s family whooshed across the Atlantic. ‘Oh, Sophie! You mustn’t let your family push you into doing something that benefits them and not you. You know what they’re like.’

‘None better.’

‘They’ve always made you fit in with what they want for you and never given you the space to follow your own dreams. It’s time to take control and follow your star!’

Sophie hesitated. ‘Did you get that from a self-help book or an inspirational television programme?’

Sophie could imagine Milly’s rueful expression. ‘Well, OK,
I probably did, but just because it’s a cliché doesn’t mean it’s not true.’

‘I know. And I will try and brace up and not be a doormat.’

‘You’re not a doormat, Soph, but they are bossy and you are a bit too helpful and obliging for your own good. Now, I’m going to try and find you some sort of job that can get you over here without a green card.’

‘Thank you, Milly. I’ll overlook the fact that you’re the one being bossy now. And how did you get a green card anyway?’

‘My boss sorted it all out. I have unique skills.’

‘Oh. Is that being bossy?’

‘But I’m being bossy for your good!’ insisted Milly.

‘That’s what they all say,’ said Sophie.

‘Sophie!’ said one of the twelve-year-olds waiting patiently for her to finish sorting the cards. ‘The little ones are getting fed up. Can we play now?’

‘Sure,’ said Sophie. ‘Mills, got to go. I’m needed. I’ll ring again.’

‘And I’ll see about finding you a job over here. We’d have such fun together. I’ll show you all the sights – the best shops – it’ll be brilliant! I’ll email you,’ said Milly, who now sounded wide-awake.

‘Cool! And thanks for listening. What time is it with you?’

‘Just before ten o’clock in the morning. But it’s Sunday.’

‘Oh, no need for me to feel guilty then.’

Sophie disconnected from the second of her two best mates with a sigh and turned her attention to various cousins and the children of her parents’ friends. ‘OK, guys, have you all got a pack of cards each?’

One of the older ‘children’ had smuggled a couple of bottles of wine upstairs and now Sophie found her glass being filled. She may have been the ‘less bright’ (no one wanted to actually say she was stupid) member of the Apperly family, but she was the pretty one and by far the
kindest, which was why she was now sitting on the floor, her long legs crossed and her toffee-coloured hair done up in a knot on top of her head. After being mistaken for a waitress she had quickly changed out of her tiny black skirt and white blouse into jeans and a V-necked top she had edged with mother-of-pearl buttons salvaged from a jumble-sale bargain.

‘Let’s go through the rules, shall we?’ she said now.

As several of them hadn’t played before there was a lot of explanation as to how the game was played, account taken of the youth and inexperience of some, and penalties awarded to Racing Demon experts. Then the game began. Hands and cards flew, squeaks of indignation and yells of triumph drowned each other out. When the first round was over, Sophie comforted the youngest player.

‘This time,’ she explained, her arm round the nearly tearful six-year-old, ‘you only have to put out ten cards and everyone else has to put twelve, and your big brother has to put out fourteen because he won!’

‘Sophie,’ complained the big brother in question, ‘I think you’re making the rules up as you go along.’

‘Absolutely. My privilege.’

There were a few moans, but since Sophie was their favourite cousin and all of them had a crush on her to some degree, a full mutiny was avoided.

‘Right, fill up the glasses. Toby, you can have some wine in your lemonade, but only I can have it neat,’ she declared.

‘Not fair!’ said Toby, backed up by the others.

‘I know.’ Sophie feigned sorrow. ‘Tough, isn’t it?’ Easygoing she might be but she wasn’t going to be responsible for her younger cousins overdoing it and being sick.

Sophie continued playing until the youngest player, with a pile of only five cards to get rid of, eventually won. Honour satisfied, she got up from the floor, brushed at her jeans and
went back downstairs, having checked there was no more alcohol for her cousins to get their hands on.

As she had hoped, only the family remained, gathered in little clusters round the house. The caterers were clearing up. Sophie started gathering glasses, partly from habit, partly because she knew no one else in her family would.

‘Darling!’ said her mother, pretty, artistic and now ever so slightly drunk, putting her arm round her youngest child as she went past. ‘I’ve hardly seen you. Have you been keeping an eye on the little ones?’

‘Some of them are quite old now,’ Sophie said, ‘but yes.’

‘Such a sweet girl!’ Sophie’s mother started stroking her hair, which made it tumble further out of its clip. ‘Always so good with children.’

‘Glad to be of service,’ said Sophie, trying not to feel damned with faint praise. ‘I think I’ll give Linda and Bob a hand in the kitchen.’

‘See if there’s another bottle of fizz while you’re there,’ said a crisper voice from the hallway, ‘I’ve been talking to some boring old friend of Dad’s and haven’t had a drink for ages.’

Sophie’s older sister Joanna was her favourite sibling. While they all treated Sophie as if she was slightly simple, Joanna did at least realise she was no longer a child.

Sophie found a bottle of champagne and a couple of clean glasses and returned to look for her sister. She tracked her down in the conservatory, having a sneaky fag. ‘Do you want me to open the bottle for you?’ Sophie asked.

‘I’ve been opening bottles of champagne since before you were born,’ her sister said, putting down her cigarette.

‘What, since you were fifteen? I’m shocked!’

Joanna took no notice. ‘Are you joining me?’

‘I’ll just help them clear up a bit. They’re all really tired in the kitchen and they’ve got another do on this evening.’ Sophie paused, not sure if she was ready to see the funny side
yet. ‘Did you know? That old cow who used to go to art class with Mum thought I was a waitress! Asked for a clean glass and then was picky about what sort of wine she got.’

Joanna shrugged. ‘Well, you do rather throw yourself into helpful mode. I’ll save some champagne for you. The cousins and their offspring will be going in a minute. We can put our feet up and have a chat. I can’t believe they’ve talked you into looking after Evil-Uncle-Eric.’

As Sophie couldn’t either, she retreated to the kitchen; the sooner everything was cleared up the sooner she could have a quiet drink with her sister and relax.

Alas, a quiet drink wasn’t on anyone’s agenda. Although all the aunts, uncles and cousins went home, the remaining family members, the host and hostess’s children, became combative. It often happened and Sophie could never quite decide if it was alcohol induced or just because they were naturally argumentative and jealous and didn’t bother to hide it when they were together as a family.

First, Sophie’s eldest brother came storming into the conservatory. Stephen worked for an environmental charity and Sophie felt he gave saving the planet a bad name. He was preachy and bombastic and boring. Already annoyed because he’d discovered his children playing poker, he was looking for someone to blame now the cousins were out of reach. He found new fuel for his anger in the slight smell of smoke that lingered among the plumbago and weeping figs.

‘Honestly, Jo, you haven’t been letting Sophie smoke, have you?’ he said.

Sophie didn’t react. There was no point in reminding her brother that she was old enough to smoke if she wanted to.

‘Of course not,’ said Joanna, her feet up on the sofa, puffing away. ‘And I only let her have a small glass of champagne.’

‘I’ve been legally allowed to drink in pubs for four years now, Stephen,’ said Sophie, who was curled up in a chair, almost hidden by jasmine.

He ignored this. In his eyes Sophie was too young to do anything remotely fun but quite old enough to be a
scapegoat. He stood over her, hands on hips. ‘Was it you who started them playing cards? I found my two gambling!’

‘Only with matches,’ Sophie said. ‘The poor things had to do something. It’s terribly boring being a child at a grown-up party, you know. Especially when the guests are so stuffy.’

‘Poor old Soph got mistaken for a waitress,’ explained Joanna, tipping the remains of the bottle into her glass.

‘I thought you were supposed to be looking after them?’ her brother stormed on, determined to fight with someone and finding his much younger sister the easiest target.

‘I played Racing Demon with them all for a bit, but then I came back down,’ said Sophie. ‘They must have carried on playing cards when the others left with their parents. They are your children, you know. Your responsibility, not mine.’

This pressed his guilt button, as it was supposed to. Stephen took his responsibilities seriously. ‘I just wasn’t pleased to find my children playing games of chance—’

‘For matches,’ said Joanna and Sophie together.

‘Where’s Hermione?’ asked Sophie, referring to his wife.

‘She’s having a chat with Myrtle and Rue about the perils of gambling.’

The sisters exchanged glances.

‘I’m sure you think it’s very funny,’ Stephen went on, correctly reading his sisters’ expressions, ‘but we work very hard to instil a proper moral code in our children. We don’t want it all undone in an afternoon.’

‘Well, either you should supervise your children better,’ said Joanna, who always enjoyed a ruckus with her big brother, ‘or you should trust that you have instilled a moral code into them – along with the home-knitted muesli and yoghurt.’

‘Just because we’ve chosen to have a sustainable lifestyle there is absolutely no need to mock!’

‘But, darling, there is!’ insisted Joanna.

‘Shall I make some tea?’ said Sophie, wanting five minutes to herself. Her family always left her needing tea. Champagne made Joanna quarrelsome but as she didn’t come home often and they had champagne even less often, Sophie always forgot not to let her have it. Tea might help her, too. Sometimes she felt she must have been swapped at the hospital, she was so different from the rest of her family. But as she did look very like her mother she accepted she must have inherited her character and skills from some ancestor. These things often skipped a generation.

The caterers had left the kitchen immaculate but Sophie used the time the kettle took to boil to empty the dishwasher. By the time she’d done this, made tea, found some alcohol-blotting biscuits and headed back to the conservatory, Michael and her parents had joined the group and the mood was escalating from argumentative to blood-drawing. Sophie immediately turned tail, muttering, ‘More mugs,’ as she retreated.