I, however, do not have anything better to do. Yes, anything might be better, but my schedule is wide open.
As JJ keeps telling me, there’s no amount of editing that is going to sell my book; it could be incredible, it could be absolute trash. The issue is getting it through the door, and I’m waiting for another biography job to come in, so I’m in work limbo as well as relationship limbo – as well as life limbo. It really, truly is such a big old mess. All of it.
Still, we move, so here I am, ring box in hand, clutching it like it’s a live grenade.
The swanky jewellers where I collected it from only made it all the more painful. The place was pure luxury. I had to go through two locked doors just to get in – briefly being held in some kind of glass chamber while they checked what a pleb like me was doing at such a fine establishment (in hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have worn Crocs, even if these ones do have a heel). They even gave me champagne when I arrived – although I noticed they stopped topping up the glass once they realised I was collecting the ring on behalf of someone else, not for myself.
So I signed the form and took the ring into my custody, then jumped straight on the train to Rosewood Grange – and here I am. I’ve got some time to kill so I’m walking around the gardens, thinking about my life choices.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
JJ
Don’t lose it!
Whitney
Wow, I hadn’t thought of that…
JJ
I know you. You won’t mean to do it, but you’ll accidentally feed it to a swan or something, then feel so guilty about it – it will be a whole thing.
Whitney
Fair point. I’m keeping it safe.
I’m keeping it so safe that I’m carrying it in my hand – the box, that is – so that I can’t accidentally leave it behind or lose it from my bag. JJ is right: I can be clumsy, and I can be accidentally careless. I need to keep my eye on this one.
That said, I may be keeping an eye on it, but ironically, I haven’t actually looked at it – at the ring, inside the box. Lovely as the box is, I want to look inside so badly, but I know that it will probably upset me. It won’t matter what it looks like. If it’s expensive, whether I love it or hate it. It will only make it feel real. I guess I need to try not to think about it.
The gardens here are huge. There must be so much land, and yet it’s so busy. There are visitors pretty much everywhere you turn. I wonder how they make money – I suppose they rinse you in the tea rooms, or the gift shop, and I’ll bet the weddings are so expensive. Plus, if they deal in fancy horses, I’ll bet they’re not cheap.
Still, their gardening bills must be astronomical. I can’t even begin to imagine, but I know how much my bikini line costs to keep in check, and that takes seconds. Here it’s all lawns and hedges and flower beds – so much to keep on top of.
It’s an undeniably dreamy spot for a wedding, no doubt about it, especially now that the weather is much warmer and the sun is shining.
It’s such a beautiful spot, the perfect place to fall in love – or cement your love with someone, I guess.
I follow the path through the gardens because Andy told me to meet him and Cordelia at the main house at eleven, and I’ve still got like twenty minutes to kill. I may as well explore, stroll away some of the time, try to keep my mind from…
I look at the ring box in my hand. The live grenade. So far I’m yet to pull the pin, to open it, but I’m so, so tempted. Just to see…
I need to focus on my surroundings, to try a grounding technique maybe. What is it? Five things you can see – the fountain, the perfectly trimmed hedges, an influencer shooting a vlog, a statue of a man with a sword, a magpie. Then four things you can feel – the gravel beneath my feet, the sun on my head, the ring box in my hand…
Looking down at it snaps me from my thoughts.
I want to see it. I know, I shouldn’t, but I do. I’ll look at it, just quickly.
I sit down on the edge of the fountain and slowly open the box.
Christ, it’s like the briefcase fromPulp Fiction. The rock on this thing is so big it pings sunlight in all directions. Oh, and if one diamond isn’t big enough, the band is covered in them too.
If anything it serves as a reminder that Andy is actually doing really well. He can afford stuff like this; he definitely doesn’t need a roommate, so I suppose I’m lucky that he’s chosen to keep living with me for as long as he has.
It’s a beautiful ring, it really is. He has great taste. I wonder, if I’d told him how I felt, if we’d got together, if he had ultimately proposed to me, would he have chosen this ring for me?
Ugh, this is like pressing a bruise only to see how much it hurts. If it were ugly, if it were gaudy, if it was something I could make fun of, then maybe I could delude myself into feeling okay. I could take comfort in… something.