‘Rosie! Would you please stop moving?’
I poke my tongue out at Wes and continue wriggling my toes.
‘Careful, or I’ll paint you that way,’ he warns.
‘You are not Leonardo DiCaprio, and I am not one of your French girls. I’m getting a cramp,’ I say, shifting again on the grass in a futile attempt to get more comfortable. ‘Is there any catering on this set?’
I crane my neck to look across Galdwell Park, praying that Mr Whippy will magically appear across the lake.
‘Is that the faint chimes of “Greensleeves” I can hear in the distance?’ I exclaim, trying to will an ice-cream truck into existence. ‘I swear whoever decided that creepy music was the perfect soundtrack for seven-year-olds to purchase their double-scoops with sprinkles needs to be shot. It may be perfect for a possessed clown, but not . . . Oh! I think I can see a van!’
‘Rosie!’
‘Okay, okay.’ I swivel back to face a dismayed Wes and his easel. He’s wearing his teeny tiny football painting shorts, and I’ve been very much enjoying the glorious full thigh-to-calf view. I make a mental note not to complain the next time Wes disappears to the gym for ‘leg’ day. Although, now that the BIG gallery is officially open, gym visits have become few and far between anyway. Thanks to Penny ‘launching the shit’ out of the gallery with a Scuttlebutt collab and her A-list network (there’s no bad blood, but we thought it best to leave Markus off the guest list), Wes has been run off his feet with a constant rotation of local exhibitors appearing alongside his own art. So those delicious-looking calves are more likely shaped by climbing up and down ladders than pumping iron.
Of course, Penny is delighted she has a ‘vibey’ new place to swan around with dates – or with Ange and I on a Friday or Saturday evening (the only nights of the week I can stay up past 8 pm).
What with my new radio job and the gallery, we’ve both been burning the candles at both ends, which is why I’m so excited for our holiday to Japan next month. Yes, we are finally booked to see those cherry blossoms. Dad and Naomi are joining us as the last stop on their epic three-month, around-the-world honeymoon, and I’ve roped them into helping me execute a surprise proposal.
I’ve read that the beauty of seeing the sakura, or cherry blossoms, bloom is in experiencing a moment that is temporary: mono no aware, a phrase that tries to encapsulate the impermanence of nature. But I am determined to capture the moment forever. I’ve organised a Japanese illustrator to sketch the scene as I drop on one knee in Tokyo’s Ueno Park.
I can hardly wait, and I also can’t wait until I don’t have to keep my secret any longer – I’ve almost ruined it a bunch of times!
I readjust myself yet again, pulling a stick out from underneath my butt. That’s better.
‘Honestly, how do you sit behind that mic for hours on end?’
‘I don’t. Unlike Ceddie, Tess lets me plan out the show to the last millisecond. So I can schedule a run of songs, then duck to the kitchen and wolf down brekkie. I sometimes even take a walk.’
I miss Ceddie desperately, but my job as the solo host of a growing independent morning drivetime show is going well, and I am happy. I’m also lucky I can do digital marketing work on the side to help pay the bills and our insane Sydney rent. Wes and I have already been back to Mudgee a handful of times, each time with Squash in tow. He is terrible in the car but has thankfully taken a shine to Wes’s beanie, curling up on my lap, the soft wool tucked under his tiny paw like a baby blanket. The pompom doubles as entertainment whenever he stirs.
‘Pffft.’ Wes’s eyes don’t leave his artwork. ‘You don’t take a mid-show stroll.’
‘You don’t know that.’
He stops painting and looks up at me. ‘Yes, Rosie. I very much do.’
It’s true. At the most, I’ll dash to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. But only if I’m so desperate to pee I think I’ll wet my pants. The show is doing so well, I don’t want to do anything to risk messing it up.
‘Just give me five more minutes of your time, then I’ll take you for pizza,’ Wes says.
‘Not a family-friendly place I hope?’
He peers over his canvas, a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Those shorts are R-rated,’ I tease.
‘An R-rated pizza joint then,’ Wes shoots right back.
‘Ohhh, imagine the people watching there! Strippers, poles and pizzas.’
I have a theory that regular bantering with Wes helps keep my radio skills razor-sharp. Lucky we’re so fluent.
Wes’s shoulders bounce up and down. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Rosie. I’ll ruin the painting.’
‘What’s this even for again?’
‘I told you. I’m working on this technique that I’m rubbish at. It’s –’
‘FUCKKKK!’ My screech pierces through the air, and I jump to my feet. ‘GET AWAY, GET AWAY!’ I yelp as I slap my burning backside. ‘I’ve been sitting on an ant nest!’ I rush over to Wes. ‘Check me, check me please! I think I can feel one crawling into my crack.’
Wes drops his paintbrush and bends down to inspect my behind. I’m wearing a dress, so his hand shoots up underneath and he starts swiping haphazardly. The stinging subsides just as quickly as it arrived, replaced by a delicious warmth.
‘Better?’ he asks.
‘Much,’ I say, manoeuvring my body slightly until his hand brushes up against an entirely different area. He looks up at me and smirks.
It doesn’t occur to either of us that this is completely inappropriate behaviour for a public park until a couple walking past with their dog does a double take before dragging their poor dachshund away.
Wes retracts his hand, and his smirk transforms into a wide grin.
‘Imagine if it were you and me observing us? How do you think you’d describe our story?’ he asks, still kneeling on the ground.
I can see from his eager expression he’s itching to share his assessment. ‘Hmmm. You go first.’
‘Boy and girl return to the childhood park where they fell in love, to fall back in love, and can’t help but get a bit frisky.’
‘Awww, that’s lovely.’
‘I agree. Getting frisky is lovely,’ Wes remarks.
‘You know I mean the falling back in love part . . . Hey! This is really good,’ I exclaim, Wes’s painting suddenly catching my eye.
It makes sense now why Wes refused to let me sit on a picnic blanket. The green grass perfectly complements my eyes.
‘You even got the shade of the piss bits right,’ I say, leaning in more closely to inspect the painting.
‘Of course I did. I’ve put in a lot of hours staring into those eyes. I was going for mildly dehydrated wee, like should-drink-a-glass-of-water-but-will-probably-survive-if-you don’t.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever get sick of matching my eyes to the health department’s urine colour chart?’
‘Never ever.’
His words send a contented ripple throughout my body.
My wee eyes explore the rest of the painting. Wes has me sitting cross-legged on the grass in my dress and Converse. My face is a mixture of bemused and bored.
My gaze shifts to my arms, which rest at my side. One of the hardest things about being an amateur model is not knowing what to do with your hands. I wonder if Kate Winslet had the same issue in Titanic. She appeared to solve the problem by arranging them delicately around her face. Also, by being naked. Not hugely park appropriate – as just confirmed by the couple with the dachshund.
Wes has drawn a ring on one of my hands. It’s not to scale like the rest of the details, but more the size of one of those jumbo ring pops. I never wear jewellery . . . and I’m not wearing any now. Wait. That’s the left hand, fourth finger . . .
I turn around, confused, and look down at Wes. He’s rearranged himself onto one knee and is holding a ring box.
‘No. Get up! Get up!’ I hear myself exclaim before I’m able to form a coherent thought. My heart is pounding so loudly it feels as though it’s about to leap from my chest.
His face drains of colour.
Shit.
‘No, no, no. It’s not that. I want to marry you.’ I fold down on the ground next to him.
Wes clutches the ring box tightly to his chest. ‘Fuck, Rosie. Are you trying to kill me?’
‘It’s just that I sort of had something organised myself . . .’
I trail off as I see his pulsating temple.
‘But a proposal right now would work just fine, too. In fact, I’d really love one,’ I say.
Wes blinks, like he’s trying to puzzle together my words, before a goofy, lopsided grin unfurls from the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, I’m glad. Because your dad, Naomi, Pen, Ange, Ceddie, Bee – the whole gang – are waiting for us back at our apartment. Cam has the champagne on ice. And, yes, before you ask, there’s catering. And wine.’
My mind instantly goes to whether he’s ordered enough food, then switches to wondering whether we’ve emptied Squash’s litter box . . .
But the moment Wes flips open the ring box, and I see a vintage posy ring – a cluster of tiny sparkling diamonds set on a dainty band and nestled on the soft velvet pillow – everything else fades away.
It’s happening now. Not among the cherry blossoms in Ueno Park, but right here, underneath the gum trees at Galdwell Park.
‘Rosie Royce?’ Wes’s rust eyes bore into me.
‘Yes?’ Even though I know what’s coming next, my knees feel weak. I’m going to buckle from raw emotion.
‘Will you marry me?’
I don’t hesitate.
‘Yes, Wes. The biggest, BIGGEST yes.’