Liz Fielding - A Surprise Christmas Proposal

‘How did you know I was—’ he made a gesture in the direction of the floor ‘—lying there?’

‘Look, my name is Sophie Harrington,’ I said, turning to the nearest policeman. ‘I was sent here by the Garland Agency. They’ll vouch for me. When no one answered the doorbell I looked through the letterbox and saw Mr York lying unconscious—’ he snorted dismissively at this ‘—lying unconscious,’ I repeated, ‘on the floor at the foot of the stairs, so I climbed up the downpipe and in through the window.’

The policeman turned to Gabriel York for a response to this. This time he didn’t snort. After a few moments’ silent contemplation he nodded, then winced, then said, ‘My neighbour undoubtedly did the correct thing, but Miss Harrington is right—’ well, hallelujah ‘—she’s here to walk my dogs.’

‘Lifesaving is all part of the service,’ I volunteered, earning myself another black look.

‘I’m sorry you’ve been bothered, gentlemen,’ he added, clearly hoping they’d leave so that he could collapse quietly. To be honest, he looked so grim that I had to force myself to stay put and not rush over to him and make him sit down before he collapsed in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Something warned me that it would not be a good idea.

Fortunately I did have one ace up my sleeve. I turned to the policemen. ‘They’re not the only ones who’ve been bothered, I’m afraid. Before I climbed in through the upstairs window and applied the kiss of life—’

‘I was not dead!’

No. He certainly wasn’t that. Even in extremis he’d managed a fairly good impression of being very much alive.

‘—I called for an ambulance,’ I finished, as if I had not been interrupted, hoping that I sounded as if I didn’t care one way or another if it ever arrived.

‘Then you can ring them again and call them off.’

The effort of talking was exhausting him, but his eyes held mine with an inner power. They were full of anger at his own weakness, hating me for having seen him that way, and I knew that there was no way I was going to be keeping this job—which was, I suppose, why I shrugged and said, ‘If you can make it to the phone, Mr York, you can call them off yourself. Otherwise you’re stuck with them.’ I smiled at the younger of the two policemen. He looked barely old enough to shave. Blissfully, he blushed. ‘You’ll stay until the paramedics arrive, gentlemen? These poor dogs really have to do what a dog has to do.’

They raised no objection.

The dogs’ leads were looped over a chair, along with—oh, joy—a pooper-scooper and some plastic bags. I picked them up, fastened the leads to the dogs’ collars and, leaving my employer in the capable care of two strapping policemen, said, ‘Okay, boys. Walkies.’

Joe needed no second bidding, leaping to his paws, his feathered tail whirling, his slender cream body quivering with excitement beneath his short silky coat. Percy looked to his master.

Gabriel York never took his eyes off me, and I found myself reliving the moment when the kiss of life had become something much more personal, remembering exactly how his lips had felt beneath mine, how his dark hair had felt beneath my hand as I’d brushed it back from his forehead. The strength of his jaw as I’d cradled it…

Then, with the slightest movement of his hand, he gave his dogs permission to go, and with a jerk on my aching shoulder I found myself being towed through the door, down the steps and into the street.

An ambulance turned the corner as we headed in the direction of Battersea Park and I grinned.

Obviously he hadn’t got to the phone in time.

It was only when I reached the park and set the dogs loose that I wondered what on earth I was going to do with them if the paramedics carted him off to hospital.

THE alarm was like a chainsaw chewing through my brain. That was the trouble with surprise parties. They took you by surprise and you didn’t have time to remind yourself of the golden rule about not drinking on an empty stomach. More particularly the platinum, diamond-encrusted rule about not drinking too many margaritas on an empty stomach.

Since I’d been expecting nothing more than a quiet drink with a mate, I hadn’t made a huge effort with my appearance either, going for comfort rather than glamour. I’d taken a long hot shower, to remove what seemed like half of Battersea Park, filed down the ruins of my nails and decided to forgo the doubtful pleasure of spending hours with a brush and hairdryer in an effort to return my hair to sleek perfection, and gone for the rumpled, dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards look instead.

Well, it had come close.

A dab of concealer on the nicely developing bruise, a pair of favourite—if past their fashion statement days—trousers, a baggy shirt and a pair of boots and I’d been all set.

Then I’d walked into the bar.

Everyone else had been dressed to kill, of course. I’d been the only one actually in the mood to perform the deed.

Tony, a bloke a girl could usually rely on not to do anything clever, had ignored my ‘I do not want to even think about this birthday, let alone celebrate it’ response to his query about a party. He’d assumed that I was joking—I said he wasn’t clever—and pulled out all the stops.

But—and these are probably the three most damning words in the English language—he’d meant well. To be honest, after the second margarita what I was wearing hadn’t seemed to matter that much, and I’d surprised myself by having a great time. Cleverer than I thought, perhaps…

I groped for the clock, turned it off and fell out of bed while I was still awake. A walk—a long walk with two very lively dogs—would undoubtedly be good for me. Always assuming I could remember how to put one foot in front of another. Always assuming I still had a job.

On my return to Gabriel York’s house yesterday I had been met by a frosty-faced Mrs York, who had wordlessly handed me a large towel at arm’s length and watched from a safe distance while I’d removed all traces of mud from the dogs. Then, with the minimum of words, she’d indicated I should take them downstairs to the utility room and give them some water. After I’d removed my shoes. Clearly she didn’t ‘do’ dogs.

Actually, I sympathised. She’d been wearing a charcoal grey business suit that had clearly cost a mint and in her place I wouldn’t have wanted two excitable and muddy hounds near me. Honesty compels me to admit that it had been a mistake not to clip their leads back on before we reached the lake. It was asking for trouble and, as usual, I got it. They’d instantly spotted a couple of ducks so far away that I hadn’t noticed them and plunged right in, proving to be selectively deaf when I’d called them to heel.

They’d heard ‘walkies’, no problem.

Anyway, I’d mopped up the resulting mess under her chilling gaze, and in an effort to break the ice—and because I had a stake in his health, besides really wanting to know—enquired after Mr York. All the time I’d been out with the dogs I’d wondered whether he’d been hauled off in an ambulance, undoubtedly protesting that it wasn’t in the least bit necessary, and what I was going to do if he had.

No worries. There’d been lights on all over the place when I returned. Great. And Mrs York was there to answer the door. Not so great.

In reply to my query, she had informed me that he was ‘as well as could be expected under the circumstances’—which told me precisely nothing. I mean, I’d have liked to know if he was suffering from a bad bout of something flulike so that I could stock up on painkillers and tissues. One look at her had suggested it might not be advisable to explain about my ‘kiss of life’. She hadn’t looked as if she’d appreciate my sacrifice.