THE DE BEERS CONTINENTAL HOTEL, 4TH FLOOR, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, 7:10 P.M.
• • •
Here it was, room 131, an executive suite. Phoebe knocked, the sound deadened by thick wood and plush carpet, and stood wondering if George was looking at her through the spyhole. He opened the door. He was wearing a white waffle robe and smiling with his lips closed and eyebrows raised, the way he did when Phoebe had proved herself endearingly incompetent. Behind him, dozens of tea lights flickered. George took her hand, leading her into the dark, candlelit suite. Crimson petals were scattered over the fortress-like bed. She decided to edit out this detail when she described the scene, as she already knew she would. Concentrate, Phoebe, she thought. It’s actually happening. The thing you’ve been waiting for. There was George, down on one knee. From the robe pocket he took a little blue velvet box, and opened it with a flourish that she suspected might have been rehearsed. The ring was a huge sapphire surrounded by diamonds, like Kate Middleton’s. It looked nothing like any of her jewelry. She pushed down a surge of disappointment, and its accompanying shame for being so awful.
“Phoebe,” he said, his head level with her crotch, “will you—would you be my wife?”
“Yes!” she squealed, hugging his head awkwardly as he staggered slightly to stand up. His knee clicked, and they kissed. “I’m so happy,” she said into his mouth. “I love you.”
“Me too,” he said, taking the ring, pushing it onto her finger, and kissing her hand. He began maneuvering her toward the bed.
“George,” she said, “sorry—just I really needed to pee when I arrived.” He rolled his eyes fondly, and she walked to the bathroom. It was palatial. She wondered how much the suite had cost. Sitting on the loo, she studied the ring. It had probably cost loads, too. She turned her fingers in the light, thinking how grown-up her hand looked. A cork popped outside. She stood in front of the huge three-way mirror, excitement pooling in her stomach, hoping she looked somehow different. You’re engaged! she told her reflection silently, as she pondered who to tell first, and whether she’d say it had been a shock, or admit that she’d suspected this when George’s text had summoned her to a hotel. Visions of an engagement party, and wedding dress shopping, and a hen weekend in Paris, or maybe Ibiza, blossomed in her mind. She stripped to her underwear and pulled on the second white robe. Its thick folds made her look pleasingly delicate. After examining the freebies by the marble sinks, she tousled her hair and padded out. George was sitting on a pert brocade sofa, photographing two champagne flutes with his phone.
“I had this on ice,” he said. “It’s Moët rosé. Chose it specially. To my beautiful bride to be,” he said, offering her one of the glasses. He sipped, making the rasping noise he always did when he drank special wine. “Wow. Good stuff.”
Phoebe grinned. “You know I can’t tell the difference between this and prosecco,” she said, even though after six years with George, and going to so many nice places with her dad, she could.
“We can work on that, Phoebles.” He reached over and ruffled the top of her head.
“It’s beautiful, by the way,” she said, waggling her hand so the ring flashed.
“Knew you’d like it,” he said. “It’s very you.”
• • •
Later, lying in the crook of George’s armpit, she felt herself beginning to believe she was engaged. Dinner in the Michelin-starred restaurant downstairs, and the free champagne the staff sent over, had helped. It must have been the shock, before, that had made it seem a bit unreal. Shock could numb responses, she was sure she had read that somewhere. And now that flurries of “likes” and “Congratulations!!!!!” were appearing on Instagram and Facebook, she’d started to warm to the ring, too. Maybe it was time she graduated to “lady jewelry” (her friend Saskia’s shorthand for dainty, diamondy stuff). She checked her phone—the selfie she’d posted earlier captioned Engaged! And modeling his’n’hers bathrobes #BlindDateThrowback had got 224 likes, a personal best. She showed George, the little image of them clinking champagne flutes lighting up the dark suite.
“Awesome,” he said. “But I don’t get it—blind date?”
“Duh! ’Cause the couples on Blind Date always used to wear white bathrobes, and be, like, drinking champagne and being really cheesy. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Huh! Yeah!” he said. She wasn’t sure he got it. Sometimes references like that went over George’s head. He’d captioned the same photo #Moët #LTD #lifegoals. Loads of people had commented on what a pretty couple they made.
“That steak was genuinely amazing,” said George, into the dimness. “Gym tomorrow!” She didn’t reply. She was thinking how silky the sheets felt against her legs, and how much she loved hotels, and how the rest of her life, with George, would be a series of places like this.
“I wish,” she said, “someone would come and turn down my bed every night.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, princess,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow and smiling down at her.
“You do realize Mummy is going to be an absolute nightmare over the wedding,” she said. Her mother had sounded so emotional on the phone earlier. She’d actually started sobbing with happiness. A bit extreme, but sweet. “She’s probably desperate for grandchildren,” Phoebe carried on. Usually the whole topic of babies felt off limits with George, but this evening had given her courage. She snuggled in closer.
“No wonder, with your sister,” said George.
“Hey! Olivia’s saving the world. She can’t help it if she’s too busy for men,” said Phoebe, slapping his chest. Funny, she thought, how she often moaned about Olivia herself, but didn’t like to hear her criticized by anyone else. George wouldn’t understand, being the third of four siblings whose main aim seemed to be to insult one another. Their younger sister, Mouse (real name Claire), was mostly talked over.
“When’s she back anyway?” he said. “When does lockdown start?”
“The twenty-third. It’ll be nice to have her back at Christmas, for a change.”
George did his snorty laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing. Has she even replied to you yet?”
“She will. Not sure she has signal there.”
They lay in silence for a while. A strip of fake Christmas lights from Knightsbridge, far below, glowed above the suede curtains. After a while, George’s breathing slowed, and his arm relaxed around her shoulder.
She looked at him, asleep. It occurred to her that her overwhelming feeling was one of relief. No more waiting. No more hoping, every time they watched a sunset, that now might be the moment. No more fighting back ungenerous tears with each engagement paraded on Facebook. At last, it had happened. She lay, fingering the jewels on her hand, trying to absorb the idea of “married.” The cumulous duvet was suddenly too hot, and she stood up for water from the minibar. An opened envelope on top of the fridge caught her eye. She guessed it was the bill, and teased out the sheet of paper inside to see how much George had spent. It was sweet of him to have gone to so much effort. The thought of him lighting all the candles, even strewing the tacky rose petals, was so unlike him it was touching. The paper read:
THE PROPOSAL PACKAGE
Advance ring consultation and delivery: . . . . £500
Room preparation, including candles, rose petals, Moët & Chandon Rosé Impérial champagne, fruit basket, disposable camera, and personalized chocolates: . . . . £350
Executive Suite, including breakfast: . . . . £1,000
She turned, not sure if she should make a joke of it, or not. But George was snoring.