the very short skirt of her dress. Milly, quite aware of this, flashed a beautiful smile at the crowd as she picked her way daintily over
the various cables on the floor, stepping, perhaps, a little higher than she strictly needed to each time to flash a fraction more upper thigh.
‘Baby!’ Tarquin said devoutly as she reached his side, slipping into American jargon temporarily, something he never allowed himself in his lyrics. ‘I love you so much, I wrote
that song for you –
you’re
my blue seahorse!’
‘Oh, Tark,’ Milly breathed, staring up at him with big round blue eyes just as enthusiastic as if she had thought even
he
knew what he meant by calling her that. ‘I
love you too.’
Tarquin’s jacket was unbuttoned; he reached into the pocket of his silk-backed waistcoat, pulled out a little box and dropped to one knee.
‘Ah,
bollocks
!’ Lance mouthed to Elden. Even Tristram, the bassist, who never said much, shook his head as if trying to cancel out what Tarquin was clearly about to do.
‘Milly Gamble, my blue seahorse, will you do me the very great honour of saying yes in front of all these lovely people . . .’
Roars of appreciation for Tarquin’s acknowledgement of the audience rose from the field. A few girls at the front, tears beginning to pour down their faces, shrieked: ‘No, Tarquin,
no! Don’t do it! Marry
me
!’ but their voices were generally lost in the crowd as Tarquin continued.
‘Milly, you’re my muse, my inspiration for my songs, my soulmate. We’re twin hearts, beating together. Without you I was lost, and when I found you I came home. Will you do me
the very great honour of becoming my wife?’
Milly’s expression never faltered, but as she looked down at Tarquin her brain was racing with calculation. She raised her hands to the sides of her face, pantomiming her surprise without
obscuring her features for the TV cameras recording the festival; she knew exactly where they were. Her cupid’s-bow lips parted in a round O of amazement that she knew suited her
tremendously.
She hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t perceived Tarquin as much more than a very useful stepping stone to someone even more famous and useful than him; but it was quite true that since
she’d started dating him a year and a half ago, his profile had done nothing but rise, the awards his band had won around the world had multiplied to the point that they’d fill up
countless mantelpieces and still overflow. And with a proposal this public – live on camera, on the main stage of one of the trendiest festivals in the UK – how could she say no? She
simply couldn’t. And a wedding would be
fantastic
publicity for her . . .
‘Oh my God! This is
such
a surprise – but of course I will!’ she blurted out in her sweet baby voice.
Beaming from ear to ear, Tarquin jumped to his feet and opened the box. And when she saw what was inside, Milly had to use every single trick in her box of acting skills in order to manage an
enthusiastic: ‘
Oh, Tark!
’ and keep the smile on her face.
‘I chose it specially to match your eyes!’ he said as he slid the turquoise ring onto her finger.
‘It’s
beautiful
,’ she breathed, taking just the right amount of time to look at it in wonder before raising her eyes to her fiancé’s face so that he could
kiss her for the cameraphones which were now going off in a perpetual stutter of clicks; even the sobbing girls were holding theirs up, wanting to capture the moment so that they could text it to
their friends with captions scrawled over the screen like:
I want 2 DIE kill me NOWWWW OMG why why why Tark is MINE! :( :( :(
The stink of Tarquin’s suit was almost unbearable. Milly disengaged herself from it immediately, waved charmingly at the audience and tripped lightly offstage, flashing radiant smiles at
Elden, Lance and Tristram. She was perfectly aware that they all disliked her and was highly enjoying their crestfallen
the various cables on the floor, stepping, perhaps, a little higher than she strictly needed to each time to flash a fraction more upper thigh.
‘Baby!’ Tarquin said devoutly as she reached his side, slipping into American jargon temporarily, something he never allowed himself in his lyrics. ‘I love you so much, I wrote
that song for you –
you’re
my blue seahorse!’
‘Oh, Tark,’ Milly breathed, staring up at him with big round blue eyes just as enthusiastic as if she had thought even
he
knew what he meant by calling her that. ‘I
love you too.’
Tarquin’s jacket was unbuttoned; he reached into the pocket of his silk-backed waistcoat, pulled out a little box and dropped to one knee.
‘Ah,
bollocks
!’ Lance mouthed to Elden. Even Tristram, the bassist, who never said much, shook his head as if trying to cancel out what Tarquin was clearly about to do.
‘Milly Gamble, my blue seahorse, will you do me the very great honour of saying yes in front of all these lovely people . . .’
Roars of appreciation for Tarquin’s acknowledgement of the audience rose from the field. A few girls at the front, tears beginning to pour down their faces, shrieked: ‘No, Tarquin,
no! Don’t do it! Marry
me
!’ but their voices were generally lost in the crowd as Tarquin continued.
‘Milly, you’re my muse, my inspiration for my songs, my soulmate. We’re twin hearts, beating together. Without you I was lost, and when I found you I came home. Will you do me
the very great honour of becoming my wife?’
Milly’s expression never faltered, but as she looked down at Tarquin her brain was racing with calculation. She raised her hands to the sides of her face, pantomiming her surprise without
obscuring her features for the TV cameras recording the festival; she knew exactly where they were. Her cupid’s-bow lips parted in a round O of amazement that she knew suited her
tremendously.
She hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t perceived Tarquin as much more than a very useful stepping stone to someone even more famous and useful than him; but it was quite true that since
she’d started dating him a year and a half ago, his profile had done nothing but rise, the awards his band had won around the world had multiplied to the point that they’d fill up
countless mantelpieces and still overflow. And with a proposal this public – live on camera, on the main stage of one of the trendiest festivals in the UK – how could she say no? She
simply couldn’t. And a wedding would be
fantastic
publicity for her . . .
‘Oh my God! This is
such
a surprise – but of course I will!’ she blurted out in her sweet baby voice.
Beaming from ear to ear, Tarquin jumped to his feet and opened the box. And when she saw what was inside, Milly had to use every single trick in her box of acting skills in order to manage an
enthusiastic: ‘
Oh, Tark!
’ and keep the smile on her face.
‘I chose it specially to match your eyes!’ he said as he slid the turquoise ring onto her finger.
‘It’s
beautiful
,’ she breathed, taking just the right amount of time to look at it in wonder before raising her eyes to her fiancé’s face so that he could
kiss her for the cameraphones which were now going off in a perpetual stutter of clicks; even the sobbing girls were holding theirs up, wanting to capture the moment so that they could text it to
their friends with captions scrawled over the screen like:
I want 2 DIE kill me NOWWWW OMG why why why Tark is MINE! :( :( :(
The stink of Tarquin’s suit was almost unbearable. Milly disengaged herself from it immediately, waved charmingly at the audience and tripped lightly offstage, flashing radiant smiles at
Elden, Lance and Tristram. She was perfectly aware that they all disliked her and was highly enjoying their crestfallen
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