A Question of Timing

Like most of my disasters, it began with an overcooked egg and an undercooked plan. I blinked at the ceiling, stared through paper-thin curtains, and into my blinded corneas as that blinding February sun barreled through. "Blast it," I whispered, covering my eyes. "Where did winter go?" I am Clara Fields, and sadly, I'm very awake. It shouldn't be warm in Oxford in February. It's supposed to be grey, dreary, drizzly – ideal weather for drowning your romantic aspirations. But no. The sky today was practically Mediterranean. And on all days of today, there was a plan. A plan would need candles, roast duck, a tidy kitchen, and courage. I kicked my legs out of the bed and took a deep breath. I could do this. 

Tonight, I would ask Jules to marry me. Julian Marchand, my flatmate, co-worker, best friend, and, as far as I know (which, I admit, is not confirmed with him), my lover's lover. Tall, somewhat clumsy, having poet's hands and labrador's eyes. I lived with her seven years ago at the publishing house where we both worked: he being an editor, me his hapless assistant's tea spilling on a first edition Austen. Our was a Victorian type of courtship: Slowing to a glacial rate. We shared many late-nlate-nightways, late-nlate-nighthon viewing of Test Belarus, and accidental hand touches. He once brought me some soup when I was suffering from the flu. Once, I punched his ex in the face at a Christmas party (long story), and he claimed that he had never laughed more. 

So, indeed, I was about to propose. Because if I did, I feared nothing ever could. Jules was a charming, shrewd-minded man but not much forward like a snail. I always made the first move –our first lunch was by me, our weekends planned, my mug brand chased. If I waited for him, I'd be eighty and crocheting love letters. I opened the nightstand door and found the little navy box. Within it was a small silver ring, a simple sapphire stone inside—less than one might expect, but very pretty, just like Jules. I smiled. Then, I threw the box to my porridge immediately. Meanwhile, in another part of Oxford, another box was being polished. Eliot Hart smoothed his tie in the bathroom mirror in the Larkspur Hospital. 

He was already ten minutes late for his proposal, quintessential of an individual whose thesis had hung around for two extra years and who got his idea of romance from annotated medical journals. But today had to be perfect. He was asking Helena Wilde to marry him, the girl who had convinced him of second chances today. Eliot and Helena had first laid eyes on each other eight years ago on a park bench, where both were trying to work out how to live their crumbling lives. He'd just lost his scholarship. She'd just lost a patient. She dropped a textbook. He picked it up. Cliché, maybe, but it worked. They became friends. Then almost-lovers. Then friends again. For a time, Eliot even believed that was sufficient. But last year, Helena performed a song at a hospital benefit. For him. No other than Roberta Flack. 

He cried. She vanished. He later located a Valentine's card at the office; no name, only her handwriting. They kissed in the car park. Then, I caught up on lost time. A year later, he was hiding a ring in his coat pocket, surprising her in the same parks where it had all started. The band was warming up already. The sunflowers were wrapped. All he needed was Helena. 

In my flat, the roast duck was on fire. "No, no, no!" I waved my arms at the smoke from the oven, with my phone stuck between my ear and shoulder. "Clara?" came Jules' calm voice. "You okay?" "Yes! No! I mean—do you like duck?" "As long as it doesn't still quack, fine." "Perfect. 6:00. My place. Bring wine. And maybe an extinguisher." He laughed. I melted. When he finally came round to my door at the all-right-say-the-time (of course), I was wearing red heels, a silk blouse, and my grandmother's locket. The ring was squashed into my pocket, and I was sweating so much that I shouldn't have held the wine glasses. Dinner was a mess. The duck was overcooked, the potatoes were undercooked, and I swallowed up water down my front. 

But Jules? He smiled at me like I'd served him a Michelin-star dinner. After dessert (bought tiramisu), I stood warily. I started, reaching for the box. "Jules,"… I whispered. 'I have something to query you about,' said Asante. He looked up, puzzled. "You okay?" "Yes. I mean, not really. I'm terrified. But here goes..." I bent down, fully conscious that I hadn't mopped my kitchen floor since December. I opened the box. "Will you—" "Oh no." I blinked. "Pardon?" Jules was pale. "Clara, I—I thought you knew." The room tilted slightly. "Knew what?" He rubbed his face. "I've been seeing someone. One that I met at the clinic. Her name is Helena. I want to tell you sooner but... I didn't know how." "The clinic? The psych clinic?" I asked, looking to keep my voice lighthearted, my insides crumbling. He nodded slowly.

 You know, sometimes I volunteer there. She's a doctor. Brilliant. And she reminds me of you. The ring was trapped between us as an uncomfortable guest. Green Park was unusually radiant. The marigold flowing dress that Helena Wilde wore walked toward Eliot with a smile that made the sun seem smaller. He offered her the sunflowers, shaking. "Sweetheart!" she gasped. "You remembered." Eliot took a breath. I gave a signal. The band began to play. Helena turned, startled. The song was familiar—her song. He had dropped to one knee, the ring box in his right hand. You are the bravest, brightest person I ever met, Dr. Helena Wilde. Will you marry me?" 

Tears glistened in her eyes. "Yes. Absolutely." Later that night, after putting the untouched ring back in its box and crying with half-eaten tiramisu into my hand, I stood by the window looking into the night. A dim light shone from next door. I watched as Jules and Helena danced in his kitchen. She wore a marigold dress. He seemed happier than at any time I'd ever seen him. I sighed. Then laughed. Then they opened a bottle of wine. This may not be the conclusion of my love story. It may be the beginning. Epilogue: Clara Fields wrote her first novel, A Question of Timing, a year later. It became a surprise bestseller. She autographed her first copies at a small bookshop in Bath, where she bumped into a shied illustrator, Theo, who spilled his coffee down her sleeve and offered her his scarf. They've been inseparable ever since.