Dumped, Actually(7)

Again, the apologetic look is back. ‘Ah . . . vell, ve are not very familiar vith ze zong, so ve busked it a little.’ He pinches his finger and thumb together.

‘A little?’

‘Ollie!’ Samantha says. ‘Can you please explain what’s going on here? Everyone is looking at us.’

She’s not wrong. The crowd are all hanging on my every word. They must think this is a bit of street theatre laid on by the theme park. I can even see that Jacob and Silvester Marleston have joined the throng, standing next to poor old Amy, who looks like she wants the ground to swallow her up.

I have to try to salvage this before it all goes completely south.

‘I . . . I arranged all this for us, Samantha!’ I tell my girlfriend. ‘Not just for your birthday . . . but for something even more special!’

‘What? What’s so special?’

I go wide-eyed. This is the moment.

Not quite the moment I wanted – I will be demanding my money back from Barret bloody Bartholomew the first chance I get – but it is the moment, nonetheless.

I look back at Horst the trumpeter. ‘Please tell me you at least have the thing that Amy gave to you?’ I ask him.

He beams at me. ‘Of course!’ Horst then dips a pudgy hand into his lederhosen and pulls out the ring box that contains a couple of thousand pounds of my hard-earned cash, in the shape of an engagement ring.

As he bends down and hands it to me, several things happen at once. First, my legs turn completely to rubber. Second, my hands start to shake. Third, I hear Samantha gasp. Fourth, the trombonist emits a long, low, drawn-out note from his instrument that earns him a dark look from both me and Horst.

But then I turn back to my beloved, and everything else just melts away into the background.

Samantha’s hands shoot up to her mouth as she realises what’s going on. Her eyes start to bulge a little.

I slowly begin to lower myself on to bended knee.

Sadly, those rubbery legs are still not up to snuff, and I tip forward with my knee buckling, managing to squarely headbutt one of the cream-coloured flagstones beneath my feet.

‘Ow! Bloody hell!’ I wail, pulling myself back to upright, with one hand going to my forehead. That’s going to leave a nasty bruise.

‘Ollie! Are you okay?’ Samantha asks, momentarily forgetting her shock at what’s going on.

‘I will be,’ I reply, trying my best to go back on to bended knee.

It’s not going to work, though. I’m just too shaky, for a multitude of reasons. I’m just going to have to settle for doing this on both knees. This makes me look less like a proposing boyfriend and more like someone expecting to be beheaded for treason, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

I gaze up into Samantha’s eyes, and gingerly raise the ring box, opening it as I do. When the lid pops open, she gets her first look at the 24-carat shiner that I spent a month’s wages on. Her mouth drops open, and her eyes go even wider.

Around us, the crowd issue a collective intake of breath. From one corner of my eye, I see my best friend Lauren with her finger stuck right up her nose again, staring at me with what I hope is amazement.

This is it.

This is the moment.

My life since I met Samantha has been building to this.

Time to ride the rollercoaster.

‘Samantha, I love you,’ I say, voice trembling. ‘And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you . . . Will you marry me?’

Samantha looks down at me, tears in her eyes. The sun bathes her in a warm, happy light as she takes a deep breath, steels herself and opens her mouth to speak.

My heart skips.

This is where the rest of my life begins.

‘No.’

My jaw drops open and starts to twitch up and down a little. Suddenly, my tongue feels very fat. ‘Whaa?’ I manage to say.

‘No, Ollie,’ Samantha repeats, shaking her head, and backing away from me. ‘I don’t want to marry you.’

The crowd, who have been on the legendary tenterhooks this entire time, issue a collective ooooooh noise.

My jaw wobbles a couple more times. I’m starting to resemble a ventriloquist’s dummy – but one who has most definitely lost his ventriloquist somewhere unpleasant.

‘Bu . . . bu . . . bu . . .’ I say.

Samantha looks around at everyone watching us. Her face is flaming red. ‘Get up, Ollie! For God’s sake, get up!’

‘Bu . . . bu . . . bu . . .’ I repeat.

Her hands fly to her head in the time-honoured expression of overwhelming stress. ‘Oh God, Ollie! Why are you doing this?! It’s ridiculous!’

‘Bu . . . bu . . . bu . . .’ I say yet again.

She starts to shake her head. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why did you do this? On my birthday!’

‘Bu . . . bu . . . bu . . .’

Her head shakes even harder. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t do this, Ollie! I just can’t. I’ve been worried about me and you for a while now . . . And this? This just shows me what—’ Samantha looks skywards in apparent exasperation. ‘Jesus Christ!’ She looks back down; this time her face is resolute. ‘I’ve been thinking about having a talk with you, Ollie. But I didn’t want to do it like this!’

‘Bu . . . bu . . . bu . . .’