Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,18

“Of course. People who expect perfection in relationships are doomed to disappointment. Anyway, it’s the imperfections that make the best stories. In years to come, Bee and Tom won’t remember the cinematic moment when Tom asked Bee to marry him. They’ll remember that he dropped the ring in Bee’s vodka and nearly lost it.” I smile at him. “It’ll become just another Wright family dinner-party story. I know all about those, because my boyfriends have largely become apocryphal at this point.”

He laughs and then sobers. “I like that way of thinking,” he says musingly.

“How would you do it, anyway?” I ask, suddenly filled with the desire to know.

“What?” he asks. “Propose marriage?” I nod, and he looks thoughtful. “I wouldn’t do it in public. To me, it’s one of the most intensely private things you can do.” He shrugs. “I think I’d wait until we were curled up at home all snug and warm and it would come from one of those moments when I’d have a sudden realisation of how much I love the other person and want to spend my life with them. Then I’d say, ‘I have a question for you.’”

He trails off awkwardly, and silence falls. I have a sudden, incredibly powerful yearning for it to be me on the other end of Jack’s dream proposal. I squash that thought like it’s an irritating bug. Jack’s dreams will never include me. When he proposes, it will be to someone who looks like they belong on an advertising billboard. Probably for aftershave. They always look like smug bastards.

“That’s lovely,” I say in a low voice. “Really lovely.”

He flushes, and, to rescue both of us, I hastily suggest, “Let’s go to breakfast.”

Half an hour later, dressed in skinny jeans, combat boots, and an oversized black jumper, I follow him into the restaurant. As usual, we’re comfortable together again, the awkwardness easily left behind.

I look around in appreciation at the series of wood-panelled rooms. Huge sash windows let in the winter sunshine, illuminating the beautiful artwork on the walls and the bright blue and purple velvet chairs that surround wide, wooden dining tables. The effect is tasteful and comfortable. Against the wall opposite us, there’s a series of refectory tables filled with food of every description. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of coffee and bacon and fresh toast.

Rubbing my hands together, I grin at Jack. “See you in a bit,” I say cheerfully.

Five minutes later, I settle opposite him with a plate that’s piled high with food, including two croissants, toast and jam, and thick slices of ham.

He grins at me. “Surely you’re eating more than that, Arlo. You’ll waste away.”

“I’m a growing boy, and we need to eat every scrap to justify the extortionate prices here.” I unroll my cutlery and settle the heavy napkin over my lap. “Anyway, this is just a preliminary snack. I want eggs benedict afterwards.”

“Are you a hobbit?” he asks seriously.

I laugh. “I can’t even grow hair on my chest, Jack. Let alone on my feet.”

“I ordered coffee for you,” he says, digging into his own more modest breakfast of cold meats and cheese.

“Is that all you’re eating?” I ask disapprovingly.

“Yes, because we can’t all consume meals that look fit for Henry the Eighth.” He smiles. “I don’t know where you put it.”

“My cock,” I say. Unfortunately, my voice is a bit too loud, and the comment lands in the sudden pocket of silence around us like a brick in a puddle.

An old couple at a nearby table turn their heads slowly to look at me.

“Oh,” I say, trying to think quickly. “Oh dear… My clock! My clock isn’t working this morning.”

The old couple relax slightly and turn back to their meal, and when I look at Jack, it’s to find him red-faced and fighting obvious laughter.

“Hush,” I say primly. “This is a nice hotel, Jack. Have some decorum.” A snort escapes him, and I tap my fork on my plate. “We need to line our stomachs for this pub crawl. Otherwise, I’ll be left on the pavement again. A testament to lost dreams and poor alcohol tolerance.”

“Happy holidays,” he says wryly.

I smile, and then, at the sound of nearby laughter, we look up to see our friends coming towards us. I eye them consideringly, and, damn them, they don’t look hungover. Then I see Bee’s glowing face.

“You’ll never guess what,” he says excitedly as he arrives at our table.

“Oh my God,” I shout, getting to my feet and hugging