“Will he make a go of it?” I ask tentatively.
“He might.” Lorcan exhales. “But if he doesn’t do it now, it’s never.”
“And what will you do when you leave?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll take up that job offer I had in London.”
“London?” I say, brightening in spite of myself.
“Or Paris,” he says teasingly. “I’m fluent in French.”
“Paris is crap,” I say. “Everyone knows that.”
“Quebec, then.”
“Funny.” I hit him.
“I’m a lawyer.” Lorcan’s teasing tone disappears; he looks thoughtful. “That was my training. That was my career. And maybe I was knocked off course for a while. Maybe I did make the wrong choice.” His eyes flicker toward mine, and I nod in acknowledgment. “But now it’s time to get back on course.”
“Rev up the engine.”
“Full steam ahead,” he counters.
“You see life as a boat trip?” I say, in mock incredulity. “It’s a road trip. Everyone knows that.”
“It’s a boat trip.”
“It’s so a road trip.”
We sit there for a while, watching as the sunset turns from orange and pink to mauve and indigo and streaks of vivid crimson. It really is a corker.
Presently, Lottie and Richard come sauntering along the beach, and they perch on the wall beside us. They look good together, I can’t help thinking yet again. They just fit.
“So, I’m out of a job,” says Lorcan conversationally to Lottie, “and it’s all your sister’s fault.”
“It’s not my fault!” I exclaim at once. “How is it my fault?”
“If you hadn’t made me look at my life with a fresh pair of eyes, I never would have resigned.” His mouth twitches. “You have a lot to answer for.”
“I did you a favor,” I retort.
“Still your fault.” His eyes twinkle.
“Well …” I cast around. “No. I dispute that. It’s actually Lottie’s fault. If she hadn’t run off and got married, I would never have met you and we never would have discussed the matter.”
“Ah.” Lorcan nods. “Good point. I blame you.” He swivels to Lottie.
“It’s not my fault!” she retorts. “It’s Ben’s fault! That stupid marriage was all his idea. If he hadn’t proposed, I would never have come out here, and you would never have met Fliss.”
“So Ben’s the villain of the piece?” Lorcan raises a quizzical eyebrow.
“Yes,” Lottie and I say in unison.
“Yes,” agrees Richard firmly.
The sky is a deep purple by now, mottled with midnight blue. The sun is a sliver of orange brightness at the horizon. I imagine it sliding down to another bit of the world, another bit of the sky, shining on other sets of Lotties and Flisses, with all their troubles and joys.
“Wait,” I say, and sit bolt upright at the realization. “The villain of the piece isn’t Ben, it’s Richard. If he’d proposed to Lottie in the first place, none of this would have happened.”
“Oh,” says Richard, and rubs his nose. “Ah.”
There’s a weird, silent little beat, in which I wonder wildly whether Richard will hurl himself onto one knee on the sand and do the business, but it passes, and no one says anything. Yet there’s a strangeness in the air now; this is pretty awkward; I should never have mentioned it.…
“Well, I can do something about that.” Lottie has a strange fire in her eyes. “Wait there. I need my bag.”
We all watch in puzzlement as she hurries back to the restaurant, heads straight to our table, and starts scrabbling in her handbag. What on earth is she up to?
And then suddenly I gasp. Oh God. I know. I want to hug myself with glee, with nerves, with anticipation. This could be amazing, this could be brilliant.…
Do not fuck it up, Richard.
And now she’s coming back toward us and her chin is up but trembling, and I can see exactly what she’s going to do, and I am so, so, so glad I am here to see this.
I can’t breathe. Lottie is walking slowly and deliberately up to Richard. She kneels down in front of him and holds out a ring.
It’s quite a nice ring, I see, to my relief. Quite manly.
“Richard,” she says, and blows out sharply, as though with nerves. “Richard …”
36
LOTTIE
Tears are in my eyes. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s what I should have done in the first place.
“Richard,” I say for a third time. “Even though I’m currently married to someone else—will you marry me?”
There’s a taut, still silence. The last sliver of light from the sun slips away into the sea, and, above us, tiny stars start to glimmer in the deep-blue sky.
“Of course. Of course. Of course.” Richard envelops me in a bear hug.
“You will?”
“Of course! It’s what I want. Marriage. To you. Nothing else. I was an idiot before.” He hits his own head. “I was a fool. I was a—”
“It’s OK,” I say gently. “I know. So … it’s a yes?”
“Of course it’s a yes! Oh God.” He shakes his head. “Of course it’s a yes. I’m not letting you get away again.” He’s holding my hand so tightly, I think he may break a bone.
“Congratulations!” Fliss throws her arms around me, while Lorcan pumps Richard’s hand energetically. “You’re engaged! For real this time! We need champagne!”
“And an annulment,” puts in Lorcan drily.
I’m engaged! To Richard! I feel light-headed with euphoria and shock at myself. I proposed? I proposed? Why didn’t I do this before? It was easy!
“Good work!” says Lorcan, kissing me. “Congratulations!”
“I’m so happy.” Fliss is hugging herself. “So, so, so happy. It’s exactly what I hoped for.” She shakes her head disbelievingly. “After all that.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“After all that.” I squeeze it back. A waiter is passing, and Fliss summons him over.
“Champagne, please! We have an engagement to celebrate!”
And now, as we all finally draw breath, there’s a pause. Everyone’s looking at the ring lying in my palm. Richard still hasn’t taken it from me. Should I slide it onto his finger? Or just hand it over? Or … what? What are you supposed to do with men’s engagement rings?
“Sweetheart, about the ring,” says Richard at last. I can tell he’s trying to contort his face from “dubious” to “enthusiastic,” but it’s not working.
“Nice ring,” observes Lorcan.
“It’s lovely,” says Fliss encouragingly.
“Absolutely,” says Richard quickly. “Very … shiny. Very smart. It’s just that—”
“You don’t have to wear it,” I say hastily. “It’s not for wearing. You can keep it on your nightstand or whatever … maybe keep it in a drawer … or in a safe.…”
The look of relief on Richard’s face is so palpable, I can’t help laughing. As he hugs me tight again, I slip the ring into my pocket. We’ll just quietly forget it.
I knew that ring was a mistake.
For Sybella
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To everyone who helped: thank you.
BY SOPHIE KINSELLA
Confessions of a Shopaholic
Shopaholic Takes Manhattan
Shopaholic Ties the Knot
Can You Keep a Secret?
Shopaholic & Sister
The Undomestic Goddess
Shopaholic & Baby
Remember Me?
Twenties Girl
Mini Shopaholic
I’ve Got Your Number
Wedding Night
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SOPHIE KINSELLA is the author of the bestselling Shopaholic series, as well as I’ve Got Your Number, Twenties Girl, Remember Me?, The Undomestic Goddess, and Can You Keep a Secret? She lives in England.
Sophie Kinsella, Wedding Night
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