I've bought him an engagement ring. Was that a mistake?
I mean, it's not a girly ring. It's a plain band with a tiny diamond in it, which the guy
in the shop talked me into. If Richard doesn't like the diamond, he can always turn it
round.
Or not wear it at all. Keep it on his nightstand or in a box or whatever.
Or I could take it back and never mention it. Actually, I'm losing conɹ dence in this
ring by the minute, but I just felt bad that he wouldn't have anything. Men don't get the
greatest deal out of a proposal. They have to set up the occasion, they have to get down
on one knee, they have to ask the question, and they have to buy a ring. And what do
we have to do? Say "yes."
Or "no," obviously.
I wonder what proportion of marriage proposals end in a "yes" and what proportion
end in a "no"? I open my mouth automatically to share this thought with Richard—then
hastily close it again. Idiot.
"Sorry?" Richard glances up.
"Nothing!" I beam. "Just … great menu!"
I wonder if he's bought a ring already. I don't mind, either way. On the one hand, it's
fabulously romantic if he has. On the other hand, it's fabulously romantic to choose one
together.
It's a win-win.
I sip my water and smile lovingly at Richard. We're sitting at a corner table
overlooking the river. It's a new restaurant on the Strand, just up from the Savoy. All
black-and-white marble and vintage chandeliers and button-back chairs in pale gray. It's
elegant but not showy. The perfect place for a lunchtime proposal. I'm wearing an
understated bride-to-be white shirt, a print skirt, and have splashed out on stay-up
stockings, just in case we decide to cement the engagement later on. I've never worn
stay-up stockings before. But, then, I've never been proposed to before.
Ooh, maybe he's booked a room at the Savoy.
No. Richard's not ɻ ash like that. He'd never make a ridiculous, out-of-proportion
gesture. Nice lunch, yes; overpriced hotel room, no. Which I respect.
He's looking nervous. He's ɹ ddling with his cuʃ s and checking his phone and swirling
the water round in his glass. As he sees me watching him, he smiles too.
"So."
"So."
It's as though we're speaking in code, skirting around the real issue. I ɹ ddle with my
napkin and adjust my chair. This waiting is unbearable. Why doesn't he get it over
with?
No, I don't mean "get it over with." Of course I don't. It's not a vaccination.
It's … Well, what is it? It's a beginning. A ɹ rst step. The pair of us embarking on a great
adventure together. Because we want to take on life as a team. Because we can't think
of anyone else we'd rather share that journey with. Because I love him and he loves me.
I'm getting misty-eyed already. This is hopeless. I've been like this for days, ever since
I realized what he was driving at.
He's quite heavy-handed, Richard. I mean, in a good, lovable way. He's direct and to
the point and doesn't play games. (Thank God.) Nor does he land massive surprises on
you out of the blue. On my last birthday, he hinted for ages that his present was going
to be a surprise trip, which was ideal because I knew to get down my overnight bag and
pack a few things.
Although, in the end, he did catch me out, because it wasn't a weekend away, as I'd
predicted. It was a train ticket to Stroud, which he had biked to my desk with no
warning, on my midweek birthday. It turned out he'd secretly arranged with my boss for
me to have two days oʃ , and when I ɹ nally arrived at Stroud, a car whisked me to the
most adorable Cotswold cottage, where he was waiting with a ɹ re burning and a
sheepskin rug laid out in front of the ɻ ames. (Mmm. Let's just say that sex in front of a
roaring ɹ re is the best thing ever. Except when that stupid spark ɻ ew out and burned my
thigh. But never mind. Tiny detail.)
So this time, when he began dropping hints, again they weren't exactly subtle
indications. They were more like massive signposts plonked in the road: I will be
proposing to you soon. First he set up this date and called it a "special lunch." Then he
referred to a "big question" he had to ask me and half-winked (to which I feigned
ignorance, of course). Then he started teasing me by asking if I like his surname, Finch.
(As it happens, I do like it. I don't mean I won't miss being Lottie Graveney, but I'll be
very happy to be Mrs. Lottie Finch.)
I almost wish he'd been more roundabout and this was going to be more of a surprise.
But, there again, at least I knew to get a manicure.
"So, Lottie, have you decided yet?" Richard looks up at me with that warm smile of
his, and my stomach swoops. Just for an instant I thought he was being super-clever and
that was his proposal.
"Um …" I look down to hide my confusion.
Of course the answer will be "yes." A big, joyful "yes." I can still hardly believe we've
arrived at this place. Marriage. I mean, marriage! In the three years Richard and I have
been together, I've deliberately avoided the question of marriage, commitment, and all
associated subjects (children, houses, sofas, herbs in pots). We sort of live together at his
place, but I still have my own ɻ at. We're a couple, but at Christmas we go home to our
own families. We're in that place.
After about a year, I knew we were good together. I knew I loved him. I'd seen him at
his best (the surprise birthday trip, tied with the time I drove over his foot by mistake and he didn't shout at me) and his worst (obstinately refusing to ask for directions, all
the way to Norfolk, with broken sat nav. It took six hours). And I still wanted to be with
him. I got him. He's not the show-oʃ y kind, Richard. He's measured and deliberate.
Sometimes you think he's not even listening—but then he'll come to life so suddenly,
you realize he was alert the whole time. Like a lion, half asleep under the tree but ready
for the kill. Whereas I'm a bit more of a gazelle, leaping around. We complement each
other. It's Nature.
(Not in a food-chain sense, obviously. In a metaphorical sense.)
So I knew, after a year, he was The One. But I also knew what would happen if I put
a foot wrong. In my experience, the word "marriage" is like an enzyme. It causes all
kinds of reactions in a relationship, mostly of the breaking-down kind.
Look at what happened with Jamie, my ɹ rst long-term boyfriend. We'd been happily
together for four years and I just happened to mention that my parents got married at
the same age we were (twenty-six and twenty-three). That was it. One mention.
Whereupon he freaked out and said we had to take "a break." A break from what? Until
that moment we'd been ɹ ne. So clearly what he needed a break from was the risk of
hearing the word "marriage" again. Clearly this was such a major worry that he couldn't
even face seeing me, for fear that my mouth might start to form the word again.
Before the "break" was over, he was with that red-haired girl. I didn't mind, because
by then I'd met Seamus. Seamus, with his sexy Irish lilting voice. And I don't even know
what went wrong with him. We were besotted for about a year—crazy all-night-sex
nothing-else-in-life-matters besotted—until all of a sudden we were arguing every night
instead. We went from exhilarating to exhausting in about twenty-four hours. It was
toxic. Too many state-of-the-nation summits about "Where are we heading?" and "What
do we want from this relationship?" and it wore us both out. We limped on for another
year, and when I look back, it's as though that second year is a big black miserable blot
in my life.
Then there was Julian. That lasted two years too, but it never really took. It was like a
skeleton of a relationship. I suppose both of us were working far too hard. I'd recently
moved to Blay Pharmaceuticals and was traveling all over the country. He was trying to
get partnership at his accountancy ɹ rm. I'm not sure we ever even broke up properly—
we just drifted apart. We meet up occasionally, as friends, and it's the same for both of
us—we're not quite sure where it all went wrong. He even asked me out on a date a
year or so ago, but I had to tell him I was with someone now and really happy. And that
was Richard. The guy I really do love. The guy sitting opposite me with a ring in his
pocket (maybe).
Richard is deɹ nitely better-looking than any of my other boyfriends. (Maybe I'm
biased, but I think he's gorgeous.) He works hard as a media analyst, but he's not
obsessed. He's not as rich as Julian, but who cares? He's energetic and funny and has an
uproarious laugh that makes my spirits lift, whatever mood I'm in. He calls me "Daisy,"
ever since we went on a picnic where I made him a daisy chain. He can lose his temper
with people—but that's OK. No one's perfect. When I look back over our relationship, I
don't see a black blot, like with Seamus, or a blank space, like with Julian. I see a cheesy music video. A montage, with blue skies and smiles. Happy times. Closeness.
Laughter.
And now we're getting to the climax of the montage. The bit where he kneels down,
takes a deep breath …
I'm feeling so nervous for him. I want this to go beautifully. I want to be able to tell
our children that I fell in love with their father all over again, the day he proposed.
Our children. Our home. Our life.
As I let my mind roll around the images, I feel a release inside me. I'm ready for this.
I'm thirty-three years old and I'm ready. All my grown-up life, I've steered away from
the subject of marriage. My friends are the same. It's as though there's been a crimescene cordon around the whole area: NO ENTRY. You just don't go there, because if you
do, you've jinxed it and your boyfriend chucks you.
But now there's nothing to jinx. I can feel the love ɻ owing between us, over the table.
I want to grab Richard's hands. I want to envelop him in my arms. He is such a
wonderful, wonderful man. I'm so lucky. In forty years when we're both wrinkled and
gray, perhaps we'll walk up the Strand hand in hand and remember today and thank
God we found each other. I mean, what were the chances, in this teeming world of
strangers? Love is so random. So random. It's a miracle, really.…
Oh God, I'm blinking.…
"Lottie?" Richard has noticed my damp eyes. "Hey, Daisy-doo. Are you OK? What's
up?"
Even though I've been more honest with Richard than I have with any other
boyfriend, it's probably not a good idea to reveal my entire thought process to him. Fliss,
my big sister, says I think in Hollywood Technicolor and I have to remember that other
people can't hear the swooping violins.
"Sorry!" I dab at my eyes. "Nothing. I just wish you didn't have to go."
Richard is ɻ ying oʃ tonight to an assignment in San Francisco. It's three months—
could be worse—but I'll miss him terribly. In fact, it's only the thought that I'll have a
wedding to plan which is distracting me.
"Sweetheart, don't cry. I can't bear it." He reaches out to take my hands. "We'll Skype
every day."
"I know." I squeeze his hands back. "I'll be ready."
"Although you might want to remember that, if I'm in my oɽ ce, everyone can hear
what you're saying. Including my boss."
Only a tiny ɻ icker of his eyes gives away the fact that he's teasing me. The last time
he was away and we Skyped, I started giving him advice on how to manage his
nightmare boss, forgetting that Richard was in an open-plan oɽ ce and the nightmare
boss was liable to walk past at any minute. (Luckily, he didn't.)
"Thanks for that tip." I shrug, equally deadpan.
"Also, they can see you. So you might not want to be totally naked."
"Not totally," I agree. "Maybe just a transparent bra and panties. Keep it simple."
Richard grins and grasps my hands more tightly. "I love you." His voice is low and
warm and melting. I will never, ever get sick of him saying that.
Me too."
"In fact, Lottie …" He clears his throat. "I have something to ask you.…"
My insides feel as if they're going to explode. My face is a rictus of anticipation while
my thoughts are spinning wildly. Oh God … he's doing it.… My whole life changes here.…
Concentrate, Lottie … savor the moment.… Shit! What's wrong with my leg?
I stare down at it in horror.
Whoever made these "stay-up stockings" is a liar and will go to hell, because one of
them hasn't bloody well stayed up. It's collapsed around my knee and there's a really
gross plastic "adhesive" strip flapping around my calf. This is hideous.
I can't be proposed to like this. I can't spend the rest of my life looking back and
thinking, It was such a romantic moment; shame about the stocking.
"Sorry, Richard." I cut him off. "Just wait a sec.…"
Surreptitiously, I reach down and yank the stocking up—but the ɻ imsy fabric tears in
my hand. Great. Now I have both ɻ apping plastic and shreds of nylon decorating my
leg. I cannot believe my marriage proposal is being wrecked by hosiery. I should have
gone for bare legs.
"Everything OK?" Richard looks a little baffled as I emerge from under the table.
"I have to go to the Ladies'," I mutter. "I'm sorry. Sorry. Can we put things on pause?
Just for a nanosecond?"
"Are you OK?"
"I'm fine." I'm red with embarrassment. "I've had a … a garment mishap. I don't want
you to see. Will you look away?"
Obediently, Richard averts his head. I push my chair back and walk swiftly across the
room, ignoring the looks of other lunchtime diners. There's no point trying to mask it.
It's a flappy stocking.
I bang through the door of the Ladies', wrench oʃ my shoe and the stupid stocking,
then stare at myself in the mirror, my heart pounding. I can't believe I've just put my
proposal on pause.
I feel as though time is on hold. As though we're in a sci-ɹ movie and Richard is in
suspended animation and I've got all the time in the world to think about whether I
want to marry him.
Which, obviously, I don't need, because the answer is: I do.
A blond girl with a beaded headband turns to peer at me, lip liner in hand. I guess I
do look a bit odd, standing motionless with a shoe and stocking in my hand.
"There's a bin over there." She nods. "Do you feel OK?"
"Fine. Thanks." I suddenly have the urge to share the momentousness of this occasion.
"My boyfriend's in the middle of proposing to me!"
"No way." All the women at the mirrors turn to stare at me.
"What do you mean, 'in the middle of'?" demands a thin redheaded girl in pink, her
eyebrows narrowed. "What's he said, 'Will you …'?"
"He started, but I had a stocking catastrophe." I wave the holdup. "So he's on pause."
"On pause?" says someone incredulously.
"Well, I'd get back out there quick," says the redhead. "You don't want to give him a chance to change his mind."
"How exciting!" says the blond girl. "Can we watch? Can I film you?"
"We could put it on YouTube!" says her friend. "Has he hired a ɻ ash mob or
anything?"
"I don't think so—"
"How does this work?" An old woman with metal-gray hair cuts across our discussion
imperiously. She's waving her hands angrily underneath the automatic hand-wash
dispenser. "Why do they invent these machines? What's wrong with a bar of soap?"
"Look, like this, Aunt Dee," says the redheaded girl soothingly. "Your hands are too
high."
I pull oʃ my other shoe and stocking, and, since I'm here, reach for the hand lotion to
slather on my bare legs. I don't want to look back and think, It was such a romantic
moment; shame about the scaly shins. Then I get out my phone. I have to text Fliss. I
quickly type:
He's doing it!!!
A moment later, her reply appears on my screen:
Don't tell me u r texting me in the middle of a proposal!!!
In Ladies'. Taking a moment.
V exciting!!! You make a great couple. Give him a kiss from me. xxx
Will do! Talk later xxx
"Which one is he?" says the blond girl as I put away my phone. "I'm going to have a
look!" She darts out of the Ladies', then returns a few seconds later. "Ooh, I saw him.
The dark guy in the corner? He's fab. Hey, your mascara's smudged." She passes me a
makeup eraser pen. "Want to do a quick fix?"
"Thanks." I smile companionably at her and start to erase the tiny black marks below
my eyes. My wavy chestnut hair is swept up in a chignon, and I suddenly wonder
whether to let it down so it tumbles over my shoulders for the big moment.
No. Too cheesy. Instead, I pull some tendrils out and twist them around my face while
I assess everything else. Lipstick: nice coral color. Eye shadow: shimmery gray to bring
out my blue eyes. Blusher: hopefully will not need touch-up as will be ɻ ushed with
excitement.
"I wish my boyfriend would propose," says a long-haired girl in black, watching me
wistfully. "What's the trick?"
"Dunno," I reply, wishing I could be more helpful. "I suppose we've been together
awhile, we know we're compatible, we love each other—"
"But so do my boyfriend and I! We've been living together, the sex is great, it's all
great.…"
"Don't pressure him," says the blond girl wisely.
"I mention it, like, once a year." The long-haired girl looks thoroughly miserable "And he gets twitchy and we drop it. What am I supposed to do? Move out? It's been six
years now—"
"Six years?" The old woman looks up from drying her hands. "What's wrong with
you?"
The girl with the long hair ɻ ushes. "Nothing's wrong with me," she says. "I was having
a private conversation."
"Private, pʃ t." The old woman gestures briskly around the Ladies' room. "Everyone's
listening."
"Aunt Dee!" The redhead looks embarrassed. "Shush!"
"Don't you shush me, Amy!" The old woman regards the long-haired girl beadily.
"Men are like jungle creatures. The minute they've found their kill, they eat it and fall
asleep. Well, you've handed him his kill on a plate, haven't you?"
"It's not as simple as that," says the long-haired girl resentfully.
"In my day, the men got married because they wanted sex. That was motivation all
right!" The old woman gives a brisk laugh. "All you girls with your sleeping together
and living together and then you want an engagement ring. It's all back to front." She
picks up her bag. "Come along, Amy! What are you waiting for?"
Amy shoots us desperate looks of apology, then disappears out of the Ladies' with her
aunt. We all exchange raised eyebrows. What a nutter.
"Don't worry," I say reassuringly, and squeeze the girl's arm. "I'm sure things will
work out for you." I want to spread the joy. I want everyone to have the good luck that
Richard and I have had: finding the perfect person and knowing it.
"Yes." She makes an obvious eʃ ort to gather herself. "Let's hope. Well, I wish you a
very happy life together."
"Thanks!" I hand the eraser pen back to the blond girl. "Here I go! Wish me luck!"
I push my way out of the Ladies' and survey the bustling restaurant, feeling as though
I've just pressed play. There's Richard, sitting in exactly the same position as when I left
him. He's not even checking his phone. He must be as focused on this moment as I am.
The most special moment of our lives.
"Sorry about that." I slide into my chair and give him my most loving, receptive smile.
"Shall we pick up where we left off?"
Richard smiles back, but I can tell he's lost a bit of momentum. We might need to
work back into things gradually. "It's such a special day," I say encouragingly. "Don't
you feel that?"
"Absolutely." He nods.
"This place is so lovely." I gesture around. "The perfect place for a … a big talk."
I've left my hands casually on the table, and, as I intended, Richard takes them
between his. He takes a deep breath and frowns.
"Speaking of that, Lottie, there's something I wanted to ask." As we meet eyes, his
crinkle a little. "I don't think this will come as a massive surprise.…"
Oh God, oh God, here it comes.
"Yes?" My voice is a nervous squawk.
"Bread for the table?
Richard starts in shock and my head jerks up. A waiter has approached so quietly,
neither of us noticed him. Almost before I know it, Richard has dropped my hand and is
talking about brown soda bread. I want to whack the whole basket away in frustration.
Couldn't the waiter tell? Don't they train them in imminent-proposal spotting?
I can tell Richard's been thrown oʃ track too. Stupid, stupid waiter. How dare he spoil
my boyfriend's big moment?
"So," I say encouragingly, as soon as the waiter's gone. "You had a question?"
"Well. Yes." He focuses on me and takes a deep breath—then his face changes shape
again. I turn round in surprise, to see that another bloody waiter has loomed up. Well, to
be fair, I suppose it's what you expect in a restaurant.
We both order some food—I'm barely aware of what I'm choosing—and the waiter
melts away. But another one will be back, any minute. I feel more sorry for Richard
than ever. How's he supposed to propose in these circumstances? How do men do it?
I can't help grinning at him wryly. "Not your day."
"Not really."
"The wine waiter will be along in a minute," I point out.
"It's like Piccadilly Circus here." He rolls his eyes ruefully, and I feel a warm sense of
collusion. We're in this together. Who cares when he proposes? Who cares if it's not
some perfect, staged moment? "Shall we get some champagne?" he adds.
I can't help giving him a knowing smile. "Would that be a little … premature, do you
think?"
"Well, that depends." He raises his eyebrows. "You tell me."
The subtext is so obvious, I don't know whether I want to laugh or hug him.
"Well, in that case …" I pause a delicious length of time, eking it out for both of us.
"Yes. My answer would be yes."
His brow relaxes and I can see the tension ɻ ood out of him. Did he really think I
might say no? He's so unassuming. He's such a darling man. Oh God. We're getting
married!
"With all my heart, Richard, yes," I add for emphasis, my voice suddenly wobbling.
"You have to know how much this means to me. It's … I don't know what to say."
His ɹ ngers squeeze mine, and it's as though we have our own private code. I almost
feel sorry for other couples, who have to spell things out. They don't have the
connection we do.
For a moment we're just silent. I can feel a cloud of happiness surrounding us. I want
that cloud to stay there forever. I can see us now in the future, painting a house,
wheeling a pram, decorating a Christmas tree with our little toddlers.… His parents
might want to come and stay for Christmas, and that's ɹ ne, because I love his parents.
In fact, the ɹ rst thing I'll do when this is all announced is go and see his mother in
Sussex. She'll adore helping with the wedding, and it's not as though I've got a mother of
my own to do it.
So many possibilities. So many plans. So much glorious life to live together.
"So," I say at last, gently rubbing his fingers. "Pleased? Happy?"
"Couldn't be more happy." He caresses my hand.
"I've thought about this for ages." I sigh contentedly. "But I never thought … You just
don't, do you? It's like … what will it be like? What will it feel like?"
"I know what you mean." He nods.
"I'll always remember this room. I'll always remember the way you're looking right
now." I squeeze his hand even harder.
"Me too," he says simply.
What I love about Richard is, he can convey so much with simply a sidelong look or a
tilt of his head. He doesn't need to say much, because I can read him so easily.
I can see the long-haired girl watching us from across the room, and I can't help
smiling at her. (Not a triumphant smile, because that would be insensitive. A humble,
grateful smile.)
"Some wine for the table, sir? Mademoiselle?" The sommelier approaches and I beam
up at him.
"I think we need some champagne."
"Absolument." He smiles back at me. "The house champagne? Or we have a very nice
Ruinart for a special occasion."
"I think the Ruinart." I can't resist sharing our joy. "It's a very special day! We've just
got engaged!"
"Mademoiselle!" The sommelier's face creases into a smile. "Félicitations! Sir! Many
congratulations!" We both turn to Richard—but to my surprise he's not entering into the
spirit of the moment. He's staring at me as though I'm some sort of specter. Why does he
look so spooked? What's wrong?
"What—" His voice is strangled. "What do you mean?"
I suddenly realize why he's upset. Of course. Trust me to spoil everything by jumping
in.
"Richard, I'm so sorry. Did you want to tell your parents ɹ rst?" I squeeze his hand. "I
completely understand. We won't tell anyone else, promise."
"Tell them what?" He's wide-eyed and starey. "Lottie, we're not engaged."
"But …" I look at him uncertainly. "You just proposed to me. And I said yes."
"No, I didn't!" He yanks his hand out of mine.
OK, one of us is going mad here. The sommelier has retreated tactfully, and I can see
him shooing away the waiter with the bread basket, who was approaching again.
"Lottie, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about." Richard thrusts his
hands through his hair. "I haven't mentioned marriage or engagement, or anything."
"But … but that's what you meant! When you ordered the champagne, and you said,
'You tell me,' and I said, 'With all my heart, yes.' It was subtle! It was beautiful!"
I'm gazing at him, longing for him to agree, longing for him to feel what I feel. But he
just looks baffled, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.
"That's … not what you meant?" My throat is so tight I can barely speak. I can't
believe this is happening. "You didn't mean to propose?"
"Lottie, I didn't propose!" he says forcefully. "Full stop!"
Does he have to exclaim so loudly? Heads are popping up with interest everywhere.
"OK! I get it!" I rub my nose with my napkin. "You don't need to tell the whole restaurant."
Waves of humiliation are washing over me. I'm rigid with misery. How can I have got
this so wrong?
And if he wasn't proposing, then why wasn't he proposing?
"I don't understand." Richard is talking almost to himself. "I've never said anything,
we've never discussed it—"
"You've said plenty!" Hurt and indignation are erupting out of me. "You said you
were organizing a 'special lunch.' "
"It is special!" he says defensively. "I'm going to San Francisco tomorrow."
"And you asked me if I liked your surname! Your surname, Richard!"
"We were doing a jokey straw poll at the oɽ ce!" Richard looks bewildered. "It was
chitchat!"
"And you said you had to ask me a 'big question.' "
"Not a big question." He shakes his head. "A question."
"I heard 'big question.' "
There's a wretched silence between us. The cloud of happiness has gone. The
Hollywood Technicolor and swooping violins have gone. The sommelier tactfully slides
a wine list onto the corner of the table and retreats quickly.
"What is it, then?" I say at last. "This really important, medium-size question?"
Richard looks trapped. "It's not important. Forget it."
"Come on, tell me!"
"Well, OK," he says ɹ nally. "I was going to ask you what I should do with my air
miles. I thought maybe we could plan a trip."
"Air miles?" I can't help lashing out. "You booked a special table and ordered
champagne to talk about air miles?"
"No! I mean …" Richard winces. "Lottie, I feel terrible about all this. I had absolutely
zero idea—"
"But we just had a whole bloody conversation about being engaged!" I can feel tears
rising. "I was stroking your hand and saying how happy I was and how I'd thought
about this moment for ages. And you were agreeing with me! What did you think I was
talking about?"
Richard's eyes are swiveling as though searching for an escape. "I thought you
were … you know. Going on about stuff."
" 'Going on about stuff'?" I stare at him. "What do you mean, 'Going on about stuff'?"
Richard looks even more desperate. "The truth is, I don't always know what you're on
about," he says in a sudden confessional rush. "So sometimes I just … nod along."
Nod along?
I stare back at him, stricken. I thought we had a special, unique silent bond of
understanding. I thought we had a private code. And all the time he was just nodding
along.
Two waiters put our salads in front of us and quickly move away, as though sensing
we're not in any mood to talk. I pick up my fork and put it down again. Richard doesn't
even seem to have noticed his plate.
"I bought you an engagement ring," I say, breaking the silence.
"Oh God." He buries his head in his hands.
"It's fine. I'll take it back."
"Lottie …" He looks tortured. "Do we have to … I'm going away tomorrow. Couldn't
we just move away from the whole subject?"
"So, do you ever want to get married?" As I ask the question, I feel a deep anguish
inside. A minute ago I thought I was engaged. I'd run the marathon. I was bursting
through the ɹ nishing tape, arms up in elation. Now I'm back at the starting line, lacing
up my shoes, wondering if the race is even on.
"I … God, Lottie … I dunno." He sounds beleaguered. "I mean, yes. I suppose so." His
eyes are swiveling more and more wildly. "Maybe. You know. Eventually."
Well. You couldn't get a much clearer signal. Maybe he wants to get married to
someone else, one day. But not to me.
And suddenly a bleak despair comes over me. I believed with all my heart that he was
The One. How could I have got it so wrong? I feel as though I can't trust myself on
anything anymore.
"Right." I stare down at my salad for a few moments, running my eyes over leaves
and slices of avocado and pomegranate seeds, trying to get my thoughts together. "The
thing is, Richard, I do want to get married. I want marriage, kids, a house—the whole
bit. And I wanted them with you. But marriage is kind of a two-way thing." I pause,
breathing hard but determined to keep my composure. "So I guess it's good that I know
the truth sooner rather than later. Thanks for that, anyway."
"Lottie!" says Richard in alarm. "Wait! This doesn't change anything—"
"It changes everything. I'm too old to be on a waiting list. If it's not going to happen
with us, then I'd rather know now and move on. You know?" I try to smile, but my
happy muscles have stopped working. "Have fun in San Francisco. I think I'd better go."
Tears are edging past my lashes. I need to leave, quickly. I'll go back to work and check
on my presentation for tomorrow. I'd taken the afternoon oʃ , but what's the point? I
won't be phoning all my friends with the joyful news after all.
As I'm making my way out, I feel a hand grabbing my arm. I turn in shock to see the
blond girl with the beaded headband looking up at me.
"What happened?" she demands excitedly. "Did he give you a ring?"
Her question is like a knife stabbing in my heart. He didn't give me a ring and he isn't
even my boyfriend anymore. But I'd rather die than admit it.
"Actually …" I lift my chin proudly. "Actually, he proposed but I said 'No.' "
"Oh." Her hand shoots to her mouth.
"That's right." I catch the eye of the long-haired girl, who's eavesdropping blatantly at
the next table. "I said 'No.' "
"You said 'No'?" She looks so incredulous that I feel a pang of indignation.
"Yes!" I glare at her defiantly. "I said 'No.' We weren't right for each other after all, so
I made the decision to end it. Even though he really wanted to marry me and have kids
and a dog and everything …"
I can feel curious eyes on my back, and I swivel round to face yet more peopleistening agog. Is the whole bloody restaurant in on this now?
"I said 'No'!" My voice is rising in distress. "I said 'No.' No!" I call over loudly to
Richard, who is still sitting at the table, looking dumbfounded. "I'm sorry, Richard. I
know you're in love with me and I know I'm breaking your heart right now. But the
answer's no!"
And, feeling a tiny bit better, I stride out of the restaurant.