The Proposal
“Marry me?”
I blink. My brain tries to parse the words. Tries to run them through, to make them match something that would fit the context. But it can’t. I swear my boss, Anders Anderson III, just said,Marry me?
My expectations, as far as I have any, are when I finally hear those words, some guy will be on his knees, ring proffered, somewhere remarkable. The top of a mountain, maybe. Or a penthouse suite in a luxury hotel. Or if he genuinely wants to make a dream come true, against the backdrop of the Northern Lights streaking the night sky in multi-coloured glory.
Never did I expect a proposal from a man behind a desk in his office in the middle of a business meeting at noon. While the office is spacious enough to accommodate a leather sofa and a couple of armchairs, it is still sparse and utilitarian. All white melamine and stainless steel, it is unlikely to feature in many romantic fantasies.
My boss clears his throat and speaks again. “Cora, will you marry me?”
He says it quite clearly. There is no mistaking the words. He isn’t talking into earbuds, or practising a speech, or addressing an imaginary friend. He is definitely speaking to me. And I am lost for words. Most people would describe me as talkative, the kind would say chatty; the less charitable, mouthy. There has been only one previous occasion in my life when I have ever been speechless. This moment is the second.
“Cora?” Another prompt, a little testy, rouses me enough to finally croak out that all-important word in reply.
“Umm, no.”
“Why not?”
Like walking into one of those surprise house makeovers where they’ve removed everything that made it a home, I am floored. This is our regular Friday meeting, where we set up for the week ahead. The normal topics under discussion are the contents of reports and spreadsheets, received or required, hotel bookings or travel arrangements. A proposal is completely unexpected. We are not intimate. Unlike Ginny in Marketing, I am not currently, and never have been, banging my boss. We have never even shared so much as a saucy kiss under the mistletoe at the office Christmas party.
My automatic reaction might have been,Hah! Hah!if I didn’t know that Anders Anderson was a stranger to a joke. My next thought, ‘Fuck, no!’, I throttle back because, after all, Andersismy boss. While not the easiest person to work for, he allows me to flex my time around a sick child and school commitments when necessary, ensures my pay increases in line with market rates, and never once in the three years I have worked for him, behaved inappropriately. Until today.
“Why not?” His tone is vexed, as if I am the one behaving unreasonably.
“Why not?” My voice seems to have recovered enough from the shock for words to flow. “I think the better question iswhy?Why are you asking me to marry you? To the best of my knowledge, you aren’t about to be deported, so marrying me cannot give you any additional work permits. You are good-looking and wealthy, so you can’t be short of contenders for the position of Mrs Anderson.”
I slow down at this point and tread very carefully. “Even if Imogen didn’t want to take things further, there will be another woman who will.” My cocksure boss has recently been dumped by his leggy, blonde girlfriend. I imagine such an event is a rarity and a particular blow to his ego. It probably explains his irrational behaviour now.
“Precisely,” he says. “You.” His finger lifts to point at me. His eyes seek to lock onto mine but I avoid that trap by looking down at my notebook. I learned that move early.
“Not me. Very much not me.”
“Cora,” he finally follows up his assertion with an explanation. “It isn’t often I come across anyone I can tolerate. Take the men out of that group, then those too old or too young, and you have a very small pool.” His fingers show how small. “I want a family and I am already thirty-five, past the peak period for sperm quality.”
There you have it. Why a man of his looks and his wealth might still be single at thirty-five.
“No,” I say, interrupting. “I do not want to hear one more word on the subject of sperm. In fact, let’s agree never to use the s-word again.”
“Okay, but it still stands,” he says, apparently unaware of the innuendo. “I’m not getting any younger and I don’t see the point in spending more time searching for someone who likes children and who can get along with me when you are right under my nose and tick both boxes.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. But the sarcasm is lost.
“You’re welcome. You are the obvious choice. Your fertility is proven. You take time off to go to Sports Days and such shit. Ergo, you’re a good mother.”
I could have laughed at his definition of good motherhood. Not, hauling your ass out of bed at three in the morning because you heard your child cry. Not, cooking at the stove when you have a sky-high fever and can barely stand without almost passing out because there is no one else to feed your child if you don’t. Not, being covered in vomit because your darling poppet didn’t make it to the bucket in time, but still making sure she is clean and settled before you rinse the disgusting mess out of your hair and clothes. He wants a family, but he has so much to learn. I almost agree, just so I get to watch.
Fortunately, sanity prevails. I start my rebuttal. “First off, husband and wife is a very different dynamic to boss and assistant.”
“Plenty of bosses marry their assistants.”
“And they carry on being the dominant one, the important one.” I drop my head to one side and look up, just enough to see him, not enough to catch his mesmeric eyes. “I’m not interested in spending the rest of my life running around after you. Secondly, fertility is not something you can take for granted. Babies frequently arrive when you don’t want them.” Something I knew well. “And often fail to arrive when you do. And past performance is no indicator of future performance.”
“Fair point,” he says. “But you already have a child.”
“And she already has a father.”
“Not a very good one. I’ve overheard your calls. He cancels at short notice. He forgets birthdays. He never follows through on promises. Anyway, as my mother says, ‘A child cannot have too many people to love them.’”
