‘Thanks for the lift, Mike,’ I manage to splutter through the tears as he pulls up outside my house.
It started drizzling during the drive, which suits my mood. At least it makes me appreciate that it could have been worse out there on the pitch – it could have been raining.
I walk up the path, trying to find my keys in the mess at the bottom of my handbag. When I finally find them I unlock the door and push it open. As I walk into the lounge I’m immediately hit by the smell. Something is burning. I’m immediately fearful that I left my hair straighteners plugged in, before realising that Cara did my hair at her house this morning, and I haven’t used mine all week.
I hurry through to the dining room trying to work out what’s on fire, and it’s then that I see smoke billowing out from under the kitchen door. I hear noisy clattering before the smoke alarm starts ringing.
‘Oh fuck!’ shouts a voice in the kitchen and there’s that banging again.
When you arrive home and discover your house is on fire and there’s a man in the kitchen swearing and beating things, I’m pretty sure you should vacate the premises immediately. But I don’t, as the burglar in the kitchen sounds awfully like Will.
Either he was at the football and was so enraged by my embarrassing behaviour that he’s come to burn the house down, or he’s . . . I struggle to think of a more rational explanation as the noise of the alarm is so deafening.
I open the door and I’m greeted with not only the most extraordinary smell, but also with a sight that for a second I can’t comprehend. The whole kitchen is on fire. It takes me a second to realise that there are tea lights burning – hundreds of them. Will must have lit them, but the one on the kitchen table is burning wildly out of control.
I look more closely. That’s not a candle, it’s my reed diffusing air freshener. Will is beating it fiercely to death with a tea towel, but it’s clearly not working as the flames are spreading across the table top. The fire alarm is ringing and it’s so high-pitched that it’s impossible to think.
‘Oh, shit,’ says Will as the fire spreads from the table on to the tea towel, and he throws it on the tiled floor before slipping off his shoe and beating it.
‘Lexi!’ he shouts as he notices me hovering in the doorway. He’s obviously so surprised to see me that he forgets he’s beating the tea towel with his shoe and accidentally throws it. It narrowly misses my head and smashes a mug off our mug tree.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, wincing. ‘It’s all under control.’
The smoke alarm in the dining room clearly doesn’t think so as it goes off too, and the smoke slowly filters round the house.
‘What the fuck were you trying to do?’ I say, as he picks up a tea towel and beats the table again. I’m shouting as the fire alarms, which are annoyingly out of sync, are also ear-shatteringly loud.
I pick up the fire extinguisher that we usually use as a doorstop and stand over the pool of oil on the kitchen table. I pull the pin out and then stare blankly at it. We bought the fire extinguisher when we first moved into the house, when we were being proper grown-ups, but I have no frickin’ clue how to use the thing. ‘Were you trying to deliberately burn this place down?’ I shout as loudly as I can.
‘I was trying to propose in the most romantic way I could think.’
I forget that I’m holding the fire extinguisher and I let go of it. It falls to the floor hitting Will’s foot (luckily the one still in a shoe).
‘Ah, fuck!’ he shouts, immediately hopping on to his good foot and clutching the injured one.
‘I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe you still want to marry me.’
He stops hopping long enough to retrieve the fire extinguisher. ‘I do, it’s just gone so wrong.’
He points the extinguisher in the right direction, clamps the handles together and a sea of foam splays all over the fire and the rest of the kitchen table. ‘I’d forgotten we had that. See, everything’s under control.’
I look down at our faux-wood IKEA table, and I beg to differ. Where there was once a curry stain, there is now a big black charred area in the centre, and the foam has splattered all over the wall covered in paint swatches. Now we’re really going to have to decorate.
The fire alarms are still ringing and Will opens the back door and the window, while I stare at the table.
‘I think it’s going to take more than a tablecloth to hide that,’ I say, prodding it, and instantly regretting it as it’s still roasting hot.
‘I think you might be right.’
I want to ask him what possessed him to set the kitchen on fire, while he’s busy fanning the smoke alarm with another tea towel.
‘Perhaps I should put out the other candles. We wouldn’t want another attempt to burn the house down.’
The rest of the kitchen is still aglow with tea lights and I go round and blow them out one by one, wondering how long it took him to light all these sodding things. I try not to slip as also littering the floor are rose petals.
‘There,’ I say, extinguishing the last one in triumph.
I try and wave some of the residual smoke out of the way and as it dissipates I take in the scene in front of me. It’s, um, so romantic – the rose petals, hundreds of now unlit tea lights, broken crockery and the sea of foam: not to mention the smell, which is like burnt toast times a million.
I look at Will’s face and it’s the same one he has when a football game gets postponed because of bad weather. It must have taken him ages to light all those candles and decorate the room, all for it to go up in smoke – literally.
‘How did the air freshener catch light?’ I say, still not understanding what happened.
‘The what? That was an air freshener?’
I nod. ‘It’s a reed diffuser.’
‘Oh. I thought it was a scented candle.’
I try and suppress a laugh, clamping my lips together to stop it escaping as he looks so hurt. But I can’t help myself, and the giggle starts to erupt, and before long it’s a huge belly laugh that has my whole body shaking.
‘I’m sorry. It’s not you – it’s today. If you’d had any idea what I did earlier on, you’d be laughing too. I tried to propose to you too, and while I didn’t do my best impression of an arsonist, it went pretty spectacularly wrong. I went to the football, and went on to the pitch at half-time.’
I close my eyes; it’s too soon to relive it. The embarrassment’s still raw. At least the only saving grace is that if he’s here, he didn’t see it.
When I open my eyes, Will’s laughing too.
‘I saw it. On YouTube about half an hour ago.’
FFS.
‘It’s on there already?’ I say, sinking down on to one of the kitchen chairs and getting a wet bum thanks to the foam that is everywhere.
‘Yeah, it’s on there a few times. There’s even one with you doing it to a Celine Dion “All By Myself” slash Beyoncé “Put a Ring On It” mash-up.’
I hang my head in shame. I can’t believe it’s gone viral already – I’m never going to live this thing down.
‘How come you weren’t there? You’re always there,’ I say, thinking that at least if he’d been at the game it wouldn’t have been so embarrassing. ‘They said your season ticket was scanned.’
‘I lent it to Aaron,’ he says, shrugging.
I gasp. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never known him to give up his seat to a game.
‘I’d been doing some thinking and I realised I didn’t want to let you go. You were right in Barbados about a lot of things. I do take you for granted sometimes and I do probably watch too much sport. But you were wrong, in that I wouldn’t choose sports over you.’
‘I know, Vanessa told me the real reason that you missed her wedding. If I’d known . . .’ I trail off, thinking how different it all could have been.
He shakes his head as if to say it doesn’t matter.
‘I wanted to come here and propose again during match time, so that you’d see that you were more important. Only when I got here, you weren’t here, and then Tom phoned me to tell me what happened.’
I’m about to open my mouth to speak when I’m hit again by the smoke and I start to cough.
Will slips his other shoe back on, before he puts some tea lights on a plate and pulls me up from the chair.
‘Come on,’ he says, grabbing my hand, taking me out of the smoky kitchen and leading me down the garden path.
It’s still pouring and we’re getting soaked, but luckily our garden is tiny and we soon reach our shed at the end of it, and he forcefully yanks the broken door open.
It’s the first time I’ve been in the shed for a long time, since I tried and failed to cut the grass as I couldn’t even get the mower out. In my defence, there was a spider’s web so thick on the handle I got completely freaked out. From that moment on, I declared it a Will job and this became his space – and he’s completely transformed it.
OK, so there are still far too many spiders’ webs and unfathomable garden implements for my liking, but at least they’re all tidied neatly away. There’s about enough room to stand inside next to his deckchair and there’s a little plant pot turned upside down with a radio on it.
It’s not the man shed of George Clarke’s dreams, but clearly Will’s claimed it as his own.
‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ I say, turning back to him.
He’s lit the little plate of tea lights. And after moving the radio, he places them on the upturned flowerpot.
It creates a lovely warming glow, and, despite the wind battering at the plastic window and the roof, it feels pretty cosy.
Will bends down and I’m about to sit in the deckchair, thinking we’re about to get settled, before I realise that he’s down on one knee.
‘What are you doing?’ I say. My eyes can clearly see the ring box in his hand and logically I know what’s going on, but I still can’t quite believe it.
Could it be third time, or is this technically the fourth time, lucky?
‘I didn’t quite imagine it could go so badly,’ he says. ‘I mean, how hard is it to ask someone that you love to spend the rest of their life with you? But Lexi Hunter, will you marry me?’
For a second I’m too stunned to say anything. It’s been a rollercoaster of a day. I feel ever so light-headed and start to feel a little sick, my heart racing furiously. I need to sit down before I collapse, and I propel myself a little too forcefully into the deckchair.
‘Woah,’ says Will, grabbing hold of it before it tips me backwards like Graham Norton’s big red chair.
‘We’re not very good at this whole proposal thing, are we?’ he says, laughing. ‘You see, this is why it took me so bloody long to do it in the first place. All that pressure to make it spectacular and different.’
I look round at the shed, although trying not to look too hard in case I spot a big spider.
‘I’d say this is pretty different. And one to tell the grandkids.’
‘Oh, right, so we’re having kids and grandkids, are we? That’s good to know. Does that mean that it’s a yes, as this concrete floor is bloody killing my knee, so it would be good if you could finally put me out of my misery.’
‘Oh, yes, of course it’s a yes.’
Will lunges forward and the deckchair collapses in a heap on the floor.
He finds my finger and slides on the most perfect-looking princess cut diamond ring and looks me deep in the eyes.
‘I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else.’
He kisses me gently, and I shudder briefly at the memory of Robin’s kiss. Cher was so right – it’s totally in his kiss.
‘You’re more important than anything else in the world and I’d even give up my season ticket for you, if that’s what you wanted,’ he says as he pulls away from me.
‘Really?’ I say, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’d give it up if I asked you to?’
He nods. ‘Well, you know if you really, really wanted me to. You know, if it was that important.’
‘Oh, right then,’ I say, giggling and knowing full well that if he did I’d never hear the end of it. ‘But, actually, I like you out of the house. When else would I get to catch up on all the TV that I record?’
The relief on his face is evident and he lets out the breath he’s been holding. At least the thought was there, and I now know that if I really did want him to give it up, he would.
‘You know, if you wanted me out of the house more, I could pimp out the shed. Put a big flat-screen in here and run a second Sky box. I could get that easy chair I’ve always wanted, and one of those little beer fridges. The boys would love it, what with Aaron’s missus about to pop. Just think, we’d never disturb you again when we’re watching a midnight boxing match.’
As tempting as that sounds, I can just imagine the muddy footprints all through the house as they traipse in and out of the garden. Not to mention, I see enough of Aaron and Tom as it is, let alone giving them some sort of designated clubhouse to indulge their brotherhood of sport.
‘No, thank you. After a week of having full control of the telebox, I’ve decided that I don’t mind sharing it with you. And besides, when we have kids there’ll be no time for man sheds or sporting games anyway. The only thing you’ll be watching is Mr Tumble on repeat.’
‘Mr who? No no no. I’ll be that guy at the football matches with a baby in one of those harness things dangling off him. I’m sure babies get in free to matches if they sit on your lap. It’d be like two for the price of one with the season ticket. Might as well make the most of it, before we have to start paying for their ticket as well.’
‘I’d never really considered that in having kids I might be spawning a mini-you,’ I say, laughing. ‘Is there time to change my mind?’
I go to pull the engagement ring off in jest, but as I catch a look at it, I get a lump in my throat. After all these years, Will and I are going to get married. I’m going to take him as he is, for better for worse, but at least I know what I’m getting myself into.
‘Come on,’ says Will, standing up again.
I’m quite liking his new taking charge attitude. We make a run for it back towards the house, and it smells no better than it did when we left it. I go to open the cupboard under the sink to make a start on clearing up, but Will slams it shut.
‘We should celebrate our engagement, just us two. Let’s go away somewhere for the night and we can come back to this and tell everyone later.’ He goes over to the back door and locks it.
‘That sounds amazing.’
I squeal with excitement as I walk out of the kitchen and go to climb the stairs to start packing.
‘How do you fancy a couple of nights in Dubai – the golf’s on – or a night up in London as there’s a match at Twickers tomorrow . . .’
My nostrils flare, and I turn to see him laughing.
‘Only kidding. How about a country hotel in the middle of nowhere, where the only sport is croquet?’
‘Now you’re talking. And no Sky Sports in the room.’
I see a twitch in his eyebrow.
‘And no mobile phones,’ I add quickly.
‘Deal,’ he says.
I go back over and give him a kiss.
I know I may be consigning myself to being a sports widow for life, but I have that glimmer of hope that sometimes – just sometimes – he may choose me over sports.
He scoops me up and picks up his keys from the worktop.
‘What are you doing?’ I scream, kicking my legs as he carries me through the house.
‘I’m taking you away.’
‘What about packing some stuff to take with us?’
‘Ah, sod it. Let’s buy stuff on the way. We’re only going somewhere for the night and if I have my way we won’t leave the hotel room. Besides, I’m being romantic. I’m carrying you over the threshold.’
‘Um, technically you’re supposed to wait until we’re married and do it the other way round, in from outside.’
‘Ah, sod you, then,’ he says, dropping me before kissing me again. ‘I won’t pick you up again like that until we get married.’
‘Get married,’ I say, shaking my head, still not believing it. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually going to do it.’
‘I know,’ he says opening the door, ‘I had a look on the BBC Sport website and I reckon there’s a two-week window next July if you fancy it.’
Ah, the romance of the BBC Sport website.
‘Why not.’
If I can’t beat him, why not join him? I’m getting married to my soulmate and who cares if it’s based around the sporting calendar. The main thing is I’m spending the rest of my life with the man I love. And let’s remember, this is the man that gives me the gift of time to myself and holidays to tropical destinations (as long as someone is playing cricket). Don’t be jealous, I know I’m one lucky lady.
While I might always be a neglected girlfriend/fiancée/wife, I do at least now have a few tricks up my sleeve for how to cope with it. See-through underwear, clumsy fingers on the volume control . . . Just as long as I don’t blog about it, we’ll be fine, right?