It's now been six months since we started out on what I call our non-relationship. Because, despite everything, there are a still a few obstacles. Only a few, true, but at least as far as these go I'm not going to back down: first of all, each of us deals with his or her own family, and so we go to all lunches, dinners and other events on our own. It was one thing putting up with his folks when I was pretending to be sleeping with him, it would be quite another to do it now that I actually am. That would be really embarrassing.
Next, no travelling together: no weekends away and no holidays, because planning holidays is something couples do, and we're not a couple, as I will keep repeating until my lips go numb. He doesn't seem at all convinced, of course, but the important thing is that he knows how I feel.
We try and work together as little as possible. After Beverly, Colin tried to foist a few more shared projects on us, but I managed to wriggle my way out of them: I know that I'm not myself when I'm around him, and I'd rather be in full possession of my mental faculties, at least while I'm at work.
No living together at weekends: this means that I refuse to spend the night at his place. My intention was to limit the number of nights we actually spent together, though I've not been very successful, since he always ends up sleeping at my place.
Where we're definitely more cosy, not to mention not alone.
I realise that I haven't succeeded in all my aims, but at least I've tried. Ian's just let himself go, showing a caring, almost sweet side of himself which terrifies me. He's as over protective as though I were some priceless Wedgwood vase he owned.
“Lunch?” asks George, appearing in the doorway.
“What about the other two?” I reply, looking up from my computer.
“They're already downstairs waiting for us,” he says impatiently. We have lunch with Tamara and Ian a lot nowadays. Being in a group of four gives rise to less gossip. Or at least, that's the theory.
From what George tells me, it's a kind of open secret that there is something vague but very tangible between me and Ian. I find it hard enough myself to deny when colleagues start trying to find something out: if I go red as soon as someone mentions him, how can I convincingly deny it?
As soon as we leave the building I meet Ian's gaze. “Hello,” he says, smiling.
“Hi,” I greet him, keeping a safe distance. Strangely, the sun is shining today and his eyes are even bluer.
To be honest, we look like a pair of total idiots.
“Come on, you two, you can't just stand there like that,” a chuckling George tuts as he walks over to kiss Tamara. We stare at them in amazement.
“You should give it a try,” he suggests.
“I'd get a punch if I tried that near the office.”
“Of course you would!” I confirm. “They're a couple, so they can kiss each other – we're not.”
Ian raises his eyebrows and looks at me defiantly. “Really?” he asks, as he approaches.
“Stay where you are!” I warn him, raising my hands to ward him off.
He grabs me too and tries to kiss me. “Ian!” I bark, in what I hope is a commanding tone.
He laughs at my embarrassment. “Do you want to calm down?” he mumbles as he moves closer and kisses me.
When he's finished, he backs away, a satisfied look on his face.
“A lifetime being chased by women, and I've ended up with you! Pretty ironic, wouldn't you say?” he asks, with a hint of a smile.
“Poetic justice,” says George, looking at us curiously.
“Looks that way,” agrees a resigned Ian. He takes my hand and we set off toward the restaurant.
Tamara and George follow us, arm in arm.
*
You think better on a full stomach, I reflect as I return from lunch. When we get back to our floor, Ian winks goodbye and I'm about to cross the threshold of my office when Mary, the receptionist, blocks my way.
“Jenny, there's a gentleman in your office,” she tells me, sounding almost agitated. “He demanded to wait inside and I couldn't talk him out of it. He didn't even introduce himself. I would have called security, but he looks… important. And I thought it might be some weirdo client of yours.”
I can't really tell her she's wrong – rich people actually are pretty weird.
“No problem,” I re-assure her. It sounds like whoever this person is, they have a nasty temper.
“If you need anything, call me,” she tells me before disappearing. Who is this going to be? I stride confidently in and am faced with a tall man with white hair who is staring at me with blue eyes, clearly frustrated at having had to wait. I recognize him instantly – it's Ian's grandfather.
“Good afternoon, duke,” I greet him cordially, “are you sure you haven't got the wrong office?” I ask, as I approach.
“Miss Percy,” he greets me, rising from his chair and shaking my hand. “I am in absolutely the right office,” he says with conviction.
Too bad – I was hoping he really had got the wrong room.
“In that case, please make yourself comfortable.” Meanwhile, I sit down in front of him. “To what do I owe this visit?” I ask, trying to maintain a formal tone.
He looks at me thoughtfully. “You look happy,” he says, glumly.
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask with a hint of irony.
He doesn't answer. “You also look as though you are in love,” he adds even more gloomily, after having carefully observed me for a few moments.
“I doubt that,” I say in annoyance. Where the hell is this going?
“I note with very little pleasure that you have not followed my advice in the least.”
This conversation is really starting to get on my nerves. “What exactly are we talking about?” I ask sharply.
“About you, and Ian, and your relationship,” he answers, as though it were obvious.
“Not that it is any of your business, but there is no relationship.”
The Duke looks at me defiantly. “Do not make fun of me, Miss Percy. You are bright, very bright, I will give you that, but now you are going too far.” His tone of voice does not invite discussion, but unfortunately for him I am the kind of person who isn't easily intimidated. In fact, if possible, this type of thing only makes me even less willing to listen to advice.
“To what exactly are you referring?” I ask in exasperation.
“Ian has asked me to give him his grandmother's engagement ring. It does not require a genius to work out what his intentions are,” he answers coldly.
What? Did I hear that right? I must have gone as white as a sheet.
“I can assure you that he does not want to marry me,” I reply, but more hesitantly than I would like because suddenly I'm not sure of anything.
“You are absolutely sure?” asks the Duke scornfully.
I remain silent for a moment before whispering, “Tell me that you didn't give it to him.”
My heart is beating like crazy at the idea that Ian could even have considered doing such a thing, but I force the thought to one side and try to focus on reality.
He observes me in what looks like surprise. “And how could I not give it to him?” he complains. “He threatened that he would buy an even bigger one if I didn't! And we are talking about a five-carat diamond—”
Oh my goodness.
“I'm sure I'm not the intended recipient of such a gift,” I repeat, as I try to regain my composure. Ian's not totally out of his mind.
“I understand the relationship with you to be my grandson's only serious relationship. If we exclude the one from junior school,” he retorts sarcastically.
“What the hell is the matter with all of you?” I explode. “Ian and I are seeing each other, ok, but we're not a couple and we've never spoken about a future or anything serious!”
“Because you will not let him,” interrupts the Duke. How the hell does he know that?
“My grandson thinks – I cannot judge whether rightly or wrongly – that he is in love, and since he is unaccustomed to such a thing, he reacts impulsively. But marriage is really too big a thing, Miss Percy.”
On this we are in complete agreement.
“Are you in love with him?” he asks finally, when he realises that I am absolutely speechless.
Here is the question that I have been avoiding even thinking about for six months now – the question that brings me out in a cold sweat.
“Does that matter?” I ask.
He looks at me, beaten. “So unfortunately, you are—” he states, looking into my eyes. “It would have been easier otherwise.”
“You don't choose who you fall in love with!”
“No, I imagine not—” he confirms thoughtfully.
We sit in silence for a few moments.
“It is clear, however, that you cannot marry him,” he says.
I sigh in annoyance. “I know that very well, thank you. I know, really I do. And I still believe that he will never ask me. He'd have to be mad!”
The Duke looks at me calmly. “I may be of a certain age, but even I remember that when one is in love, one is mad.”
He's probably right too, because I feel as though I've completely lost my mind since all this began.
“So do I have your promise that you will not say yes?” he insists.
“Really, he will never ask—”
“But do I have it in any case?” he asks again.
“If it makes you feel better, all right, you have it,” I reply in exasperation at his insistence. What a stubborn old man! He's almost as bad as his grandson!
Satisfied at having extorted this promise from me, the Duke rises to his feet and holds out his hand in farewell.
“Very well, I will let you return to your work.”
“Thanks,” I reply doubtfully, “Good day.” And I watch him walk out of my office.