Page 29 of Five Gold Rings

‘Oh, the crew are aware. I’m going with the ring in the champagne trick. She’s just gone to the bathroom. And then I guess… I just hope my knees have it in them,’ he says with a shake in his voice. I wish I could admit the emotion of the situation affects me but really all I heard there is that there is a bathroom. Eve leaves me for a moment and goes over to give Frank a huge embrace. It’s unexpected so he laughs but hugs her back.

‘Well, we are both rooting for you. You’ve got this. It’ll be amazing.’

‘I never know what the young people mean when they say that. You’ve got this. What is this?’ he asks.

‘I think it means you have this moment. Own it, make it yours.’

Frank pauses for a moment and then looks Eve in the eye. ‘You are a very lovely young lady. Thank you. Could I ask a favour? It’s a bit cheeky but could you film it? So I can show my grandkids. I mean, if green gills here needs your attention…’

That’s me, isn’t it? I shake my head. The less Eve sees of me being completely incapacitated the better. ‘I’m fine, go,’ I tell Eve.

She makes a face at me, partly amused, partly concerned, but follows Frank back into the boat, taking her place at a nearby table. I should be watching the proposal, shouldn’t I? But instead, I watch her. I see her face fill with joy and emotion as the glasses are brought to the table and her eyes crease with laughter when Gloria shrieks as she sees the ring. She exhales softly to see Frank drop to his knee to propose, and then sheds tears that she wipes away with the tips of her fingers. And as Gloria accepts the proposal, pulling Frank to his feet, I hear her cheer along with the others in the soft light of that festive setting, I see her rooting for someone she met literally half an hour ago, I see someone rooting for love. I hold on to the side of that boat and look out as we approach Westminster. Focus on Big Ben as some sort of horizon. You can do this, Joe. You can’t taste bacon in your mouth from this morning’s breakfast. You can’t.

‘That’s our third proposal this week,’ I hear a person say next to me. I turn. It’s Santa with the saxophone. I’d like to say he’s an authentic Santa but he’s possibly in his forties and the paunch isn’t real as he swings it to the right of him so his saxophone has somewhere to rest. ‘I wouldn’t propose on the Thames.’

‘Why not?’ I say breathily, reticent to make conversation.

‘All city rivers are a bit murky really, aren’t they? Big rat swimming pools. Look at that, could be a bit of wood, could be a human turd… Who knows?’

It’s like Santa has said everything in one complete sentence to try to make me barf.

‘I hate boats,’ I tell him, putting a hand out to steady myself.

‘You hate boats? I’m a respected jazz musician, mate. I’ve played at Ronnie Scott’s and I’m spending my Christmas on this barge, dressed as some fat jolly wanker, tooting on about Rudolph and his bastard red nose.’

I force a hollow laugh under my breath. I hadn’t realised this was a competition to see who hated boats the most, but I still win.

‘You keep looking at that girl,’ he tells me. ‘She your missus? Don’t tell me you’re proposing, too. In your dinner jacket.’

‘Nah,’ I say, putting a hand to my mouth, trying my damned best to strain every muscle in my being. Don’t look at the waves, don’t imagine that same scenario in your stomach. Breathe. ‘I don’t keep looking…’

‘You do. I’m Santa, I’ve been around, I know these things… You keep looking at her because you like her…’

Or maybe she’s my horizon.

Or not. Because this boat is on a river, there’s a lot of swaying, too much swaying.

‘What’s her name?’ Sax Santa asks me.

‘Jesus…’

‘That’s seasonal.’

‘No… I–I… I’m so sorry…’

‘Why?’ he asks.

Because it’s happening. The boat lunges forward, catching a wave. I slip, trying to steady myself and grab on to Santa but just don’t manage to spin quickly enough, throwing up and into his saxophone.

EIGHT

Eve

‘Oh, Joe, I am so sorry…’ I turn and put a hand to Joe who’s taking a small moment in the back of his car to recalibrate and wipe down his face with baby wipes we picked up at a Tesco Metro. Is this how I thought I would spend my Christmas Eve? Maybe not. In some other universe, I’m spending the day with Chris, buying last minute gifts and getting ready for dinner with my brother. Yet instead, I’m here in this little car, having just experienced the magic of a cruise down the Thames and Joe almost getting beaten up by a Santa with a saxophone. I put my hands to his rattling car vents trying to warm my fingers. ‘Here, have some more Coke. I also got you some sweets, gum and crackers,’ I say, handing him goodies. ‘And I also got you these elf ears that were at the till.’

He perks up, takes the ears and bag from my hands, and like a man after my own heart, heads for the fizzy sweets first. ‘I’m mortified, Eve… That poor Santa. I think I ruined his saxophone. How do you clean a saxophone?’ he wails in the back, covering his face in shame.

‘Maybe he can soak it in Dettol,’ I say, trying to hold in my laughter. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t make fun here.’

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