Last night, Amy shared her impending possible engagement news over a bottle of prosecco with Sarah, her best friend from uni, at Amuse Bouche. They’ve been going there since their first year in London and it was where they broke big news. At the same table, six months ago, Amy announced that Jamie had given her a key to his flat. Sarah announced she’d just bought her third.
Investment analyst Sarah was predictably sceptical of Amy’s proposal theory.
‘Go on, then. What’s different this time?’
Amy made the same announcement before every trip, so Sarah was right to wonder. But now it really was different: Amy felt something big brewing.
‘Last time you told me he was going to propose at his grandfather’s funeral.’
‘He was dropping major hints! Talking about how short life is, how we should be happy, how we shouldn’t let chances pass us by.’
‘He was talking about work again, wasn’t he?’
‘OK, fine, fine. There’s more evidence. We’ve been together for two years …’
‘Not evidence.’
‘It’s perfect timing! And Jamie likes things in twos – it’s his lucky number.’
Sarah frowned at her.
‘Two eggs in the morning. Double coffee shot. He’s always telling me I’m his number two.’
‘Who’s his number one?’
‘He is.’
‘Wow.’
‘He’s joking! Plus, Mum cried on the phone for absolutely no reason the other day.’
‘The Strictly Come Dancing final? Gin? Your dad’s new socks and sandals retirement uniform? His constant presence, now that he’s retired?’
‘She’s saying goodbye to her little girl! I’m an only child, remember? This is big for her.’
‘You’re thirty-two, Amy, not twelve.’
‘Exactly. I’m sure Jamie realises it’s now or never. He knows my clock is ticking.’
‘Amy!’ She choked. ‘I can’t believe you just said that.’
‘What?’
‘It’s like you’ve accepted that Sword of Damocles with open arms. Your purpose isn’t to reproduce – it’s to be happy, whatever shape or form that takes.’
‘I know, but maybe reproducing will make me happy. Maybe my happiness takes the shape of a melon under my jumper.’
‘My happiness takes the shape of Daniel Craig feeding me mashed potato on a Mexican beach.’ Sarah laughed and took a sip from her glass before squeezing Amy’s hand across the table.
‘Amy, just promise me you aren’t doing the marriage-and-babies thing because of your age and because everyone else is doing it. You have to really want kids.’
Amy stared back at her. ‘I know. I do.’
‘You’ll have to do things and go places,’ Sarah continued. ‘Like petting zoos and funfairs and kids’ parties. No more being a slob on the sofa in your knickers on a Sunday, watching Friends back-to-back. Oh my God, Amy, you’ll have to put pants on every day!’ Her face turned to mock horror.
‘Sarah, I do want kids! And not just because of my age or because everyone else is doing it. It’s because I like them. I always have done – I just don’t go on about it. I want to do more with my Sundays than watch Netflix marathons. And I can’t ignore my age – it’s science. Besides, why are we talking about kids when I’m not even engaged yet?’
‘Why get married at all? Just have his baby. If you’re sure Jamie’s The One.’
‘Well, he’s the only one.’
Sarah stared at her.
‘I’m kidding! I’m happy. Life is moving forward, just like it’s supposed to.’
‘You know, you don’t have to be like everyone else, Amy.’
‘I am me. And you are you. And Jamie is Jamie.’ She hiccuped. ‘And this empty glass is this empty glass.’
On the tube back to Jamie’s, Amy wondered if Sarah’s reaction was because she was feeling sad about losing her single sidekick. Or perhaps she was feeling upset that Amy was choosing to spend the rest of her life with a man she can’t stand. The relationship between her best friend and her boyfriend was as awkward as a lone lift ride with a date you didn’t text back. The first and last time she left them alone, she came back to find Jamie studying the ingredients on his low-carb beer label and Sarah pretending to send emails on a phone that had run out of battery. Alone, Amy probed them about their feelings towards each other.
‘I’d like him if he stopped staring at my mouth,’ Sarah had hissed.
‘I’d like her if she waxed her moustache and stopped trying to be funny,’ Jamie had muttered.
‘You don’t think any women are funny.’ Amy had sighed. Why did he have to be such a dick, so often? Why couldn’t he just make an effort with her friends?
‘Well, maybe it’s because they aren’t,’ he responded, before grabbing her by the waist and blowing a raspberry on her neck. ‘Except you, of course. You funny little Piglet.’
And Amy had laughed and let it go.
Jamie’s words can certainly bite, but his touch makes her feel adored. His go-to tactic for ending a heated discussion is a passionate Hollywood kiss, and while Amy has long suspected he does it to physically stop her from stating her case, she falls for it every time. Anyone would, with lips and a grip like his.
She rolls over and rubs her eyes. She has to stop thinking so negatively about the man she’s hoping to spend the rest of her life with. Jamie isn’t perfect, but he does do lots of things to show her that he cares. Last week he sent her a surprise supper delivery when he cancelled their Saturday-night plans because he had to meet a potential investor. The jackfruit salad went straight in the bin because the smell made her gag, but it was the thought that counted. And when he comes over after one too many, he is so affectionate it makes her heart explode. Squeezy hugs, sweet nothings, back rubs and head strokes. After a few vodka sodas, his true character comes out. Sometimes she wishes he drank every night. It’s rare for Jamie to let himself go like that. He’s too health-conscious, too focused, and his business comes before leisure. And that’s OK right now. She wants him to do well, even if it means they see less of each other.
She could do far worse than Jamie. Before Jamie there was Beer Ben, who was only ever happy with his hands on a pint and his eyes on the sport. It didn’t matter what sport it was, as long as there was a ball involved. She knew she had to call it quits when their fifth date was a bowling alley, and not the cool kind. Before him there was Dull Dan, who fancied himself as an amateur sommelier and bored Amy to tears droning on about the difference between Merlot and Shiraz, while picking at an overpriced charcuterie board. She shudders when she thinks of his fingernails spearing the chorizo. They were always five millimetres too long.
Jamie’s fingernails are short and clean. He doesn’t smell of stale beer. He talks about the future, not goals or grape varieties. And although she’s never been explicitly featured in this future, she must fit in somewhere. Otherwise why would he have said he’d buy her a brand-new wardrobe when he made his first million?
Amy hears the door go and Jamie bursts in, wheezing. He smiles at her and his crow’s feet wrinkle up, making her heart beat a bit faster. And faster still when he bends over to remove his shorts, his six-pack tensing and his jet-black hair flopping in his green eyes. Climbing under the covers, he hugs her from the side and she tenses her stomach muscles to stop Tinky Winky, aka her Teletummy, from spoiling the mood. It’s a nickname Jamie introduced the other day, and to be honest, she doesn’t love it. She also doesn’t love how he always hugs her stomach, especially after eating a huge meal.