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 off 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-fi 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 flash 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 off 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 flushed 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 flushes. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” she says. “I was having a private conversation.”
“Private, pfft.” 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 effort 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 off 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 flood 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 fingers 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 fine, because I love his parents. In fact, the first 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 first?” 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 office!” 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 finally. “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 finishing 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 off, but what’s the point? I won’t be phoning all my friends with the joyful news after all.