Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

‘I think we need to be married for that,’ said Amy.

‘A traditionalist?’ said Tim. ‘There are a lot of things we do that you’re meant to be married for.’

For a second, Amy thought he was going to propose. It would be perfect, a new start in the new house. Planning a wedding. She’d design the invitations. Tim’s band would play at the reception.

If Tim saw that thought cross her mind, he didn’t let on. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s christen the place properly.’ He tried to pick Amy up in a fireman’s lift and she let out a surprised scream. ‘Maybe not,’ he said, placing her down and kissing her instead. ‘Let’s check out the bedroom.’

Amy lay next to Tim. They hadn’t bought a proper bed yet, just a mattress on the floor. They hadn’t even taken the plastic wrapper off, and she could feel it sticking to her bare legs.

‘I do want to, you know,’ said Tim, all of a sudden. Amy glanced at him; she thought he’d been asleep.

‘Want to what?’ said Amy. Although she thought she knew, she wanted him to say the words.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Tim. He clearly didn’t want the words spoken. ‘But I want to be sorted first. So I can take care of you.’

‘It’s not the fifties,’ said Amy. ‘I earn more than you do at my day job, plus I’ve had that gallery interested in my paintings.’ As soon as the words escaped her lips, she regretted them. Here he was, telling her he wanted to get married, and she was boasting about her own success.

‘That’s cool,’ said Tim, unperturbed. ‘But I’m a mess. You know that. I need to get the band sorted, or maybe I need to call time on it. Study law, like my dad said I should. Go back to him for a loan, tail between my legs.’

‘But music is your passion,’ said Amy, keen to make up for her earlier lack of empathy. ‘And you’re so talented.’ Although even she had to admit, he’d earned almost no money from the band for the last few years. She’d wondered herself if it was time for him to look for alternative careers. He was smart: he shouldn’t be stacking supermarket shelves for ever.

‘I love how supportive you are,’ said Tim, and Amy felt guilty again for her thoughts. He leaned over and kissed her, the plastic crinkling loudly underneath him. ‘And I just wanted you to know that one day, I’ll do it.’

‘And one day I’ll say yes,’ said Amy, wishing that was what she’d said at first.

They were interrupted by a loud bang on the bedroom door. ‘You guys decent?’ called out Chantel.

‘Just a minute,’ said Tim. They both hurriedly put their clothes back on as Chantel came through the door holding a tray, clearly stolen from a pub, with three cups of tea, a packet of shortbread and a shiny pile of keys with enormous fluffy key rings. ‘Yuck,’ she said, staring at Tim’s bare chest as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. ‘There is such a thing as a gym, you know.’

‘There is such a thing as privacy too,’ grumbled Tim, taking his tea from the tray.

Chantel popped the rest of it down on the floor and sat on the mattress. ‘Springy,’ she commented. ‘Nice.’

‘That’s a lot of keys,’ said Amy, helping herself to a biscuit. ‘And quite a collection of key rings.’

‘A copy of the front-door keys for you, one for me and two for Tim, because he’ll lose his,’ she said. Tim pulled a face at her. ‘And two copies of the back-door key. We can keep one in the kitchen and you can keep the spare, Amy, because you’re the most responsible. Great key rings, eh? My treat. Yours is the pink one,’ she said to Tim, throwing his set in his direction. He caught it, spilling his tea in the process. ‘Yours is grey, Amy,’ said Chantel. ‘To match your eyes. I’ve got brown.’

Amy took her set in her hand and squeezed it, feeling the reassuring sharpness of the key’s edge against her skin. She stroked the key ring, a grey fluff-ball that reminded Amy of a curled-up mouse. ‘Thanks Chantel,’ she said.

‘Thanks Amy,’ replied Chantel, her voice serious. ‘And you Tim. I needed this.’ She reached out and gathered them both in a large hug. Amy hugged them back. Living with the two people she loved most in the world. She knew she was going to be very happy in this house.

When Spike suggested that they meet in his ‘office’, Amy couldn’t help but picture the word in inverted commas. Probably used ironically to describe a squat that doubled as an opium den. She’d counter-proposed a café nearby, but Spike was insistent. She settled by suggesting a meeting in the morning, when she imagined there to be fewer of whatever ‘clients’ (also in inverted commas) Spike had around. He’d agreed, and surprised her by proposing eight a.m. The ‘office’ was in town and, looking at a map, Amy discovered that if she kept the meeting short and to the point, she wouldn’t even be late for work.

And she wanted to keep it as short as possible. She’d stopped by the Boots at the station again on the way and Joanna had obliged with a generous four sprays of perfume that left Amy with a slight headache. Still, it would be better than Spike’s fragrant alternative, and she couldn’t risk the scent of cannabis lingering on her clothes in her office.

So Amy was rather surprised when she found herself standing in front of a large corporate building, rather smarter than the offices of Trapper, Lemon and Hughes. She double-checked the address and then stepped inside, wondering if she’d somehow contacted the wrong Spike.

There were lots of companies in this building, and she filled in her details on a large