Esmé did her usual quickstep routine through the city’s pedestrian area towards the far side of the city and home. Or as Marianne called it ‘the snazzy’ rental apartment. A sophisticated rental for up and coming professionals in the trendy renovated canal side area for which Birmingham was now notorious.
‘The area has more waterways than Venice’ was Andrew’s favourite quote, boasted a little too often to friends during nights out.
If only Birmingham could guarantee Esmé a love inducing moonlight cruise, which would secure her happy-ever-after, which Venice surely could.
The apartment hadn’t been her ideal choice but Andrew had set his heart on the area, making it their only choice. She hadn’t been too fussed about the location, just desperate to move their relationship onto a more permanent footing. Within weeks, Esmé had converted the bare magnolia two bedroom apartment into a fully fledged love nest thanks to an intuitive flare for interior design. A talent that had surprised even her. That, and her savings spent on investment pieces to add focus and colour contrast.
Esmé had memorised the estate agent’s blurb too, and could recite it when family failed to understand Andrew’s steadfast attitude.
‘You’re throwing good money down the drain by renting,’ her mother frequently muttered.
‘How can an open window and a wall mounted wrought iron railing constitute a balcony?’ queried her father, having viewed the neighbourhood on more than one occasion. Esmé would smile, yet cringe, at the criticism, hoping Andrew couldn’t hear.
They had her best interests at heart but everyone had to start somewhere. Andrew had decided that Symphony Court would be their somewhere. It wasn’t Esmé’s fault that her parents had started married life on the twelfth floor of a tower block in Chelmsley Wood. Attitudes and house prices had moved on since their time.
Wasn’t she three years old before they had a garden with a lawn and a creosoted fence? But hey, if it made Andrew happy and meant they could start living their life together – what did she care?
Esmé walked towards home.
Could she put a price on coming home to Andrew? When you wake up each morning beside the one you love, money counted for nothing. Compromise. Wasn’t that the foundation of a solid relationship?
Esmé could do a little give and take in order to please others. Anyhow, she’d waited five years for them to move in together, now, after another two years, she was more than ready for the next step.
Her mind was crowded much like the busy Birmingham streets. Esmé swiftly dodged the sauntering shoppers, nimbly jumped aside as rattling pushchair wheels nipped at her heels and gallantly ignored the early weekend revellers, who like her, were pretending tonight was Friday night.
Within thirty minutes, Esmé had walked the length of Birmingham city centre, from the bronze Bull statue, through Victoria Square and onwards past The Symphony Hall. Her feet had begun to ache but her plan was mentally choreographed, minute by minute, task by task and she was eager to begin. Finally, turning off Broad Street, she saw the welcome sight of the interconnecting bridges arched over the canal network. Home.
*
Taking the flight of stairs as fast as her stilettoed boots would allow, Esmé quickly entered apartment nine.
‘Andrew?’ she shouted, purely to be on the safe side.
No answer.
Esmé’s plan required a ninety minute window of home alone time until his shift finished at the local airport.
Heaving her boots off in the narrow hallway, she peeled off her coat and threw it across the arm of their plush sofa. Esmé headed straight for their bedroom.
The room was immaculate. Esmé had made a conscious effort before leaving for work this morning to tidy her dressing table. A large room of minimalist décor, dominated by their king size bed, no clutter, no scattered clothes, no fuss – a show home standard of neatness, just as Andrew liked. All Esmé had to do was change the sheets before diving into a steaming shower to spend as long as she wished pampering herself knowing that fresh sheets were awaiting them.
There’s only so much I can do to encourage him.
Relationship-wise, they’d been in a happy place for months. No bickering, nor arguments, no upset or issues. The last six months had been harmonious, so why wait any longer? She’d be alluring, irresistible and subtle – as Marianne had said ‘let him think it was all his idea!’
Nerves trembled within her stomach, the magnitude of her precision planning and the possible outcome both excited and scared her. The constant replay, revisit, rearrange of the routine had consumed every waking hour for weeks and was about to become a reality. This. Was. It. If she could orchestrate tonight’s plan, she would have achieved the one single thing she’d wanted for so long and before her thirtieth birthday. Bonus.
If there was one domestic job Esmé hated more than most it was wrestling with an oversized duvet cover trying to locate and align corners and seams. It usually took three rounds of pummelling, a frayed temper and a break-out of sweat before their bed was transformed into a billowing heaven of duck down and expensive cotton, complete with numerous scatter cushions. She’d arrange scented candles upon each bedside cabinet as a final touch.
Grabbing a bundle of freshly ironed Egyptian cotton sheets from her neatly piled airing cupboard, Esmé returned to the bedroom, unfurled the clean cotton sheet, ensured that the matching pillowcases were present and draped them over the wicker chair while she removed the spent bedding.
She’d even planned, paid and arranged for a gourmet meal to be delivered between their champagne bubble bath and the boudoir finale. If she played her cards right, this time tomorrow she would be wearing a brilliant-cut solitaire diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand.
It still baffled her why he hadn’t proposed that night in Paris. The Temple Romantique was the dream setting, the sunset was picture perfect – it would have been the ultimate end to a perfect weekend. But no, not a hint of a proposal. Just a delayed flight back to Birmingham, a crummy cab ride in the rain and a disappointing discussion during coffee break come Monday morning.
And now, she was forced to mastermind and precision plan the situation which steered their relationship in the right direction towards them becoming Mr and Mrs Nixon.
‘Mrs Esmé Nixon,’ she said aloud to the room, slightly embarrassed and yet thrilled by the prospect.
Esmé drew the heavy curtains against the twilight, after momentarily pausing to stare at the neighbouring skyline of the Jewellery Quarter. Tomorrow they would spend all day in Vyse Street consumed by the four Cs of diamond standards. Esmé recited them like a well trained jewellery assistant: cut, colour, clarity and carat.
A swoosh of the curtain rail accompanied images of sparkling diamond solitaires nestled upon velvet cushioned trays in her thoughts. Delights previously ignored, with steely determination, whilst she browsed for gold cufflinks and tie pins each Christmas.
Esmé hastily moved around the bedroom illuminating and dimming bed-side lights. She knew what her future looked like – tonight was simply a means of ending one chapter and starting the next. She wasn’t the first, and feared she wouldn’t be the last, woman to take matters into their own hands.
Esmé began tugging the spent duvet from the bed.
‘Bloody hell, Andrew,’ she muttered, repeatedly pulling to wrench the tucked in section of duvet from beneath the heavy mattress. One of Andrew’s pet hates was his feet being uncovered during the night. It was one of hers that the bottom edge of the duvet was always firmly wedged under the mattress.
Finally, the mattress released. Esmé wrenched the billowing duck down duvet to the floor revealing a slightly bobbled white cotton base that had seen better days. Esmé’s fingers nimbly located and worked at the buttoned edge.
Seven years with Andrew had prepared her for anything. They’d grown up together, enjoyed good times and endured a few rough patches, such as when holidaying with his pals in Ibiza was more important to him than her. Other couples might have split but they’d seen it through together. It was a phase, like any other. She’d supported his career choice and now his position at the airport was assured. He was working long, stressful hours but that was the nature of the beast as an air traffic controller. In return he’d gained a solid foundation, financial stability and the opportunity for future promotion.
Esmé was proud of him. Proud of herself too. She wasn’t ambitious, unlike her cousins who frequently called hers ‘a lowly office job’. She was happy selling stationery. Happy supporting her man. Her Andrew. Behind every successful man was a strong, supportive woman – Esmé knew she was a fine example. Supporting his career equated to supporting their future, their lifestyle and their future family.
With the cover gaping open, Esmé pulled frantically to retrieve the duck down duvet from its clothing.
Marianne was right. Some men need a little push in life. They knew what they wanted, had what they knew they wanted and yet, trundled along until someone pointed them towards the altar. Once on track there would be no stopping Andrew, much like a wind up clockwork toy on parquet flooring.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been planting tiny seeds for a while. It wasn’t an issue she could force as boldly as Marianne had but the hinting, the constant references to other engaged couples and the barrage of wedding invites from friends – all helped to pave the way.
Andrew was comfortable in their relationship. Too comfortable, if truth be told. So tonight was the night. And tomorrow, their seven year anniversary, would be their engagement day.
‘I’ll get the worst part over with,’ she sighed, collecting the fresh duvet cover from the wicker chair. ‘Three rounds of wrestling, then my relaxing shower.’
Esmé’s hands began gathering and rippling up the inside of the duvet cover fabric to locate the top corners.
A March engagement could easily become a June wedding; she’d plan like crazy between now and Easter – though seriously what was there she didn’t already know? She knew which dress, knew which cousins would be bridesmaids. Money wouldn’t be an issue thanks to Andrew’s astute saving habit and her parents’ additional gifts – she was their only daughter after all. The horse and carriage, the fresh flowers, matching rings, the once in a lifetime honeymoon in the Maldives and not forgetting the sumptuous reception at The MacDonald Burlington Hotel – perfect for a city centre wedding. How romantic would it be to have the reception where they’d first met? Or more precisely, above where they’d met in The Bacchus wine bar situated in the vaults beneath the hotel.
How had seven years passed so quickly?
A girls’ night out with Carys, her life-long school friend, was not supposed to be a ‘pick-up’ night. Simply two ladies sharing a bottle of merlot, a good chat and a few girly giggles. Yet, every time Esmé had looked up to speak to Carys, his dark smouldering gaze interrupted her focus. Could he have been more obvious? His constant staring had been verging on improper. And finally, after thirty minutes, he’d braved the distance between his group and their table to introduce himself.
She’d played gooseberry to Carys’s beaus on more than one occasion, so fair was fair.
Esmé smiled at the irony as her hands busily worked the duvet cover. Seven years of dating had led from one dimly lit room to another, though tonight would guarantee more than a scribbled phone number and a promise to call. Like then, she’d be ready and waiting. He’d made her wait three days. Carys had been certain he’d call in two given his reluctance to leave their table as his friends drank up and moved bars.
Esmé began flinging the medley of pillows and satin cushions to the far side of the room. The decorative headboard looked ugly and bare without the satin pillows. Another purchase chosen by Andrew, and which frequently embarrassed her in the throes of passion when it vibrated against the wall.
From the foot of the bed, Esmé grabbed the neatly folded hospital-bed corner of the spent cotton sheet, she gave one hefty pull in order to strip the mattress in one fluid movement and that’s when it appeared.
An earring.
Esmé paused and stared at the offending item lying, as proud as punch, just off centre by their large headboard.
A gold dangling earring complete with a turquoise crystal. An earring that she had never seen before.
The handful of spent cotton dropped from her clutches and she slowly sidestepped towards the head end of their bed. She needed a closer look but any sudden movement might cause the item to disappear. It didn’t. It stared boldly at her.
Had he cheated? And, in our bed! Had she slept all week with another woman’s earring inches from her own gold studs?
Esmé wasn’t sure how long she remained statue like, staring in silence, but when Andrew arrived home from his shift at the airport the silence was broken for several hours.