Page 32 of Five Gold Rings

‘Just cover for me. I will be there, but this is different, it’s important,’ I tell her, glancing over at Eve listening into the conversation. ‘Look, I’ll give you a ring this evening.’

‘You better, Joe, or I’ll come to London and find you and slap you myself.’

She hangs up and Eve side-eyes me as we walk alongside the Thames onwards to the next ring-delivering mission, the winter breeze still biting but the fresh air and walk doing my topsy-turvy guts the world of good.

‘Apologies. That was an angry festive sister,’ I explain.

‘Does she have a name?’ Eve enquires.

‘Carrie. She’s the eldest, the one who still thinks she can boss me about.’

‘She sounds angry about you going home. Seriously, if you need to get away…’

I shake my head. ‘Not at all. They’re just angry they don’t have a kitchen hand, there’s no one to bully into peeling all the vegetables or getting the extra table out of the spooky shed at the end of the garden. I’ll go when we’re done. It’s all good.’

Eve is quiet as I think she tries to work out why I’m here, why I’m enduring this marathon of ring bearing, but after seeing Frank’s proposal, it’s dawned on me that what we’re doing is pretty special. We’re making sure these special moments that they’re trying to create go off without a hitch, and I’m fortified by that sense of purpose. I mean, I get to spend time with Eve, too – let’s not forget that much.

However, if I was looking to make an impression on Eve, I don’t think what happened on that boat helped one bit. Of course, to build a relationship, there are moments where you want someone to see you vulnerable, but I don’t think she needed to see what came out of me or witness me clinging to a random pole on a boat telling her the world was spinning and that I thought I might be dying. And the aftermath probably didn’t help either, lying there in my car telling her my elf shorts sometimes chafe, asking her if she wanted deodorant, i.e. implying she might smell, and then getting her to smell me. Those are not classy moves that one puts on a girl, all that smell-based talk.

‘Are you OK with walking?’ I ask her. ‘We can always jump in a taxi.’

She links her arm into mine. ‘Oh no, parking the car again would have been a faff. It’s only five minutes away plus, you know. London at Christmas, it’s a bit special, isn’t it?’ she says, looking up at the fairy lights hanging over the lamp posts, red London buses whizzing past with festive messages, the smell of a street vendor roasting chestnuts across the road. ‘Plus, I think that talc trick works, well done you.’

‘Stick with me. I know lots of tit tape hacks, too,’ I say. Did I just talk about tit tape? Did it make it sound like I use tit tape? ‘I mean…’ Please laugh.

But as I try to backtrack, I sense I may have been saved by Eve’s attention being diverted elsewhere. She freezes as she looks out on to Somerset House and the ice rink that they set up in the grounds. She leaves me standing there on my own as she walks up to a gate, watching.

‘Well, if you wanted to see London at Christmas, that is the place, isn’t it?’ It’s always a splendid sight, the towering tree to the front, swathed in gold and lights and all those usual things in the surrounds that lend themselves to the season: hot chocolate, rosy joyful cheeks and comedy woolly hats. But when I look down at Eve, I start to see tears fall down her face and she looks upon all of this in some state of shock.

‘Whoa, are you OK?’ I ask her and she falls into me, into a hug, still sobbing.

‘Sorry. I’m such an idiot,’ she says, lifting her head and trying to wipe her tears with her hand. ‘Ignore me.’

I try to work out what may be happening. Did she possibly have a traumatic moment ice skating as a child? I always think it quite baffling we let members of the public engage in the sport without formal training where very sharp blades and ice are involved.

‘Is this a Chris thing?’ I ask, taking a wild guess.

She nods as more tears start to fall. I fumble in my pocket and hand her a tissue. ‘I really am very sorry.’

‘Please don’t apologise. All of that only happened yesterday. Was ice-skating your thing then?’

She stops crying to snigger under her breath. ‘Yes, every winter we came out dressed as Torvill and Dean, in purple chiffon and diamante.’

I try to return the laugh but show some sense of empathy in my eyes.

She takes a deep breath. ‘Back at my flat, when I found Chris and… Allegra, the other woman, I found other things. There was a printout for an ice-skating session at Somerset House. They were going to have a date here yesterday morning… after their sex, before I came back that afternoon.’

To admit that much to me out loud must be gutting for her. ‘Oh. Ouch.’

She continues to cry, wiping her eyes, trying to save her eye make-up, and attempts to shrug it off but I can see how her hurt penetrates so very deep. A passer-by walks past just as she blows her nose loudly and gives me a dirty look like I might be the cause of her tears. I scan around the streets.

‘Look, let’s grab a quick coffee before the next ring delivery. Come with me.’ I pull her hand towards a pretty patisserie shop across the way,Le Manger, hoping it will provide a corner of privacy for her. A bell rings as I push against the dark wooden door and we join a queue as two girls behind the counter in berets wait to serve us, just in case we didn’t think this place wasn’t French enough.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame… How can I help?’ one of them asks. I look around the place with its café decor and classic French prints. It’s a classy Noël in here, from the music to the cinnamon stick decorations adorning the place but the pièce de résistance is the glass counter where lines of cakes, tarts and confections sit in neat lines, waiting to be bought, consumed and savoured.

‘Two cafés au lait, please,’ I tell the girl.

‘Un moment,’ she replies, as she rolls her eyes at the old lady in front of us in the queue, taking her time. I glare back at her for her lack of patience. This lady wears a fur-lined trench coat and in her handbag sits a very small dog who stares back at me, as if he’s looking into my soul. I smell, don’t I? She tries to get some money out of her purse, but she drops some coins and her umbrella.

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