The Proposal Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Tasmina Perry
been moments in their relationship that had been pure magic. A summer week in the Kefalonian village of Fiskardo, walking through the pastel-coloured harbour and drinking ouzo in the quayside bars, had been one of the best holidays of her life. She’d loved their autumn walks through Hyde Park, kicking leaves and kissing on benches, or cosying up in his Kensington mews house eating pizza and watching Netflix. Perhaps if she’d suggested nights out at the opera and afternoons at the polo then things would have been different now.
A tear trickled down her face and she wiped it away angrily and all her negative, defeatist thoughts with it. If Daniel Lyons didn’t like who she was, what she did, what she enjoyed doing, then screw him. Nobody in Queens ever judged her for the way she ate stupid vegetables or what she did for a living. No one on Carmichael Street ever made her feel she wasn’t good enough; on the contrary, they had always told her to get out of the old neighbourhood, to go out into the world and make something of herself, to make them proud. Back home – her real home – she was the star of the glee club, the girl-next-door made good, the little Carrell girl who had danced her way clean across to Europe. Sure, there would always be some people who would take a certain delight in her not quite having made it to the top, but screw them too. Amy allowed herself a smile; she could feel her old self creeping back, little by little. And what did she have to feel bad about anyway?
She was twenty-six and already she had danced on Broadway and in Berlin and the West End. To the goombahs back in Queens she was a star already, and she knew that simply being with them would make her feel infinitely better about herself. But the smile on her lips faded as she remembered that she was still three thousand miles from home and that her bank balance would not cope with the strain of the flight. Before Daniel – before the broken toe – money had been tight, but she had coped. Dancers didn’t exactly get paid a fortune, but when you were in a show, you danced eight performances a week and slept on your day off, so there was never time to spend what little you made. Being out of work for so long, despite the fortnightly pay packet from the Forge, had depleted her bank balance. No, depleted didn’t quite cover it: her bank account was empty. If you’d thrown a dime into it, it would have echoed.
Realising she was never going to sleep now, she sat up and clicked on the little lamp next to the sofa. She could hear Annie snoring loudly next door so she knew she wasn’t going to disturb her friend.
She looked around the Bird’s Nest – it did feel as if you were inside the treetop home of some garishly plumed magpie, with all the bric-a-brac casually strewn here and there. There was a wonderland quality about Annie’s flat that she loved; you never knew what you were going to find next. Reaching over to a rickety table to her right, Amy picked up a magazine from a pile and raised her eyebrows: The Lady . The cover featured a picture of a glamorous older woman standing next to a horse, and promised articles entitled ‘Baking up a storm’ and ‘Dressing for the opera’ and an interview with Dame Judi Dench. It seemed an unusual magazine for her friend to have in her flat, but then Annie Chapman had always walked a slightly off-kilter path.
Intrigued, Amy flicked through the magazine. It was actually strangely comforting, with features on winter perennials and recipes for jam and fruit cake. Amy felt a sort of distilled essence of Britishness coming through the pages, like an idealised version of what England was, where everyone lived in cottages with roses around the door. It was nice. As she flipped towards the back, she found herself drawn to the Appointments section, a series of advertisements unlike any she had ever seen before.
‘Wanted: housekeeper and groundskeeper for stately home. Would suit a couple. Some
A tear trickled down her face and she wiped it away angrily and all her negative, defeatist thoughts with it. If Daniel Lyons didn’t like who she was, what she did, what she enjoyed doing, then screw him. Nobody in Queens ever judged her for the way she ate stupid vegetables or what she did for a living. No one on Carmichael Street ever made her feel she wasn’t good enough; on the contrary, they had always told her to get out of the old neighbourhood, to go out into the world and make something of herself, to make them proud. Back home – her real home – she was the star of the glee club, the girl-next-door made good, the little Carrell girl who had danced her way clean across to Europe. Sure, there would always be some people who would take a certain delight in her not quite having made it to the top, but screw them too. Amy allowed herself a smile; she could feel her old self creeping back, little by little. And what did she have to feel bad about anyway?
She was twenty-six and already she had danced on Broadway and in Berlin and the West End. To the goombahs back in Queens she was a star already, and she knew that simply being with them would make her feel infinitely better about herself. But the smile on her lips faded as she remembered that she was still three thousand miles from home and that her bank balance would not cope with the strain of the flight. Before Daniel – before the broken toe – money had been tight, but she had coped. Dancers didn’t exactly get paid a fortune, but when you were in a show, you danced eight performances a week and slept on your day off, so there was never time to spend what little you made. Being out of work for so long, despite the fortnightly pay packet from the Forge, had depleted her bank balance. No, depleted didn’t quite cover it: her bank account was empty. If you’d thrown a dime into it, it would have echoed.
Realising she was never going to sleep now, she sat up and clicked on the little lamp next to the sofa. She could hear Annie snoring loudly next door so she knew she wasn’t going to disturb her friend.
She looked around the Bird’s Nest – it did feel as if you were inside the treetop home of some garishly plumed magpie, with all the bric-a-brac casually strewn here and there. There was a wonderland quality about Annie’s flat that she loved; you never knew what you were going to find next. Reaching over to a rickety table to her right, Amy picked up a magazine from a pile and raised her eyebrows: The Lady . The cover featured a picture of a glamorous older woman standing next to a horse, and promised articles entitled ‘Baking up a storm’ and ‘Dressing for the opera’ and an interview with Dame Judi Dench. It seemed an unusual magazine for her friend to have in her flat, but then Annie Chapman had always walked a slightly off-kilter path.
Intrigued, Amy flicked through the magazine. It was actually strangely comforting, with features on winter perennials and recipes for jam and fruit cake. Amy felt a sort of distilled essence of Britishness coming through the pages, like an idealised version of what England was, where everyone lived in cottages with roses around the door. It was nice. As she flipped towards the back, she found herself drawn to the Appointments section, a series of advertisements unlike any she had ever seen before.
‘Wanted: housekeeper and groundskeeper for stately home. Would suit a couple. Some