Wedding Night

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 confidence

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 flash like that. He'd never make a ridiculous, out-ofproportion gesture. Nice lunch, yes; overpriced hotel room, no. Which I respect.

He's looking nervous. He's fiddling with his cuffs 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 fiddle

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 first 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 off, and when I finally arrived at Stroud, a car whisked me to the most adorable Cotswold cottage, where he was waiting with a fire burning and a sheepskin rug laid out in front of the flames. (Mmm. Let's just say that sex in front of a roaring fire is the best thing ever. Except when that stupid spark flew 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 flat. 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-offy 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 first 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 fine. 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 firm. 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 definitely 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 crime-scene 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 flowing 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 flying off 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 office, everyone

can hear what you're saying. Including my boss."

Only a tiny flicker 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 office

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 flimsy fabric

tears in my hand. Great. Now I have both flapping 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 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.

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 people

listening 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.

I get back to work to find my desk littered with new Post-its. The phone must

have been busy while I was out. I slump down at my desk and heave a long,

shuddering sigh. Then I hear a cough. Kayla, my intern, is hovering at the door

of my tiny office. Kayla hovers round my door a lot. She's the keenest intern

I've ever met. She wrote me a two-sided Christmas card about how inspiring I

was as a role model and how she would never have come to intern at Blay

Pharmaceuticals if it wasn't for the talk I gave at Bristol University. (It was a

pretty good talk, I must admit. As recruitment speeches for pharmaceutical

companies go.)

"How was lunch?" Her eyes are sparkling.

My heart plummets. Why did I tell her Richard was going to propose? I was

just so confident. It gave me a kick, seeing her excitement. I felt like an all-round

superwoman.

"It was fine. Fine. Nice restaurant." I start to riffle through the papers on my

desk, as though searching for some vital piece of information.

"So, are you engaged?"

Her words are like lemon juice sprinkled on sore skin. Has she no finesse?

You don't ask your boss straight out, "Are you engaged?" Especially if she's not

wearing a huge, brand-new ring, which clearly I'm not. I might refer to this in

my appraisal of her. Kayla has some trouble working within appropriate

boundaries.

"Well." I brush down my jacket, playing for time, and swallowing the lump in

my throat. "Actually, no. Actually, I decided against it."

"Really?" She sounds confused.

"Yes." I nod several times. "Absolutely. I concluded that for me at my time of

life, at my career point, this wasn't a smart move."

Kayla looks poleaxed. "But ... you guys were so great together."

"Well, these things aren't as simple as they appear, Kayla." I riffle the papers

more quickly.

"He must have been devastated."

"Pretty much," I say after a pause. "Yup. Pretty crushed. In fact ... he cried."

I can say what I like. She'll never see Richard again. I'll probably never see

him again. And like a bludgeon to the stomach, the enormity of the truth hits me

again. It's all over. Gone. All of it. I'll never have sex with him again. I'll never

wake up with him again. I'll never hug him again. Somehow that fact, above all

others, makes me want to bawl.

"God, Lottie, you're so inspiring." Kayla's eyes are shining. "To know that

something is wrong for your career, and to have the courage to make that stand,

to say, 'No! I won't do what everyone expects.' "

"Exactly." I nod desperately. "I was making a stand for women everywhere."

My jaw is trembling. I have to conclude this conversation right now, before

things go horribly wrong in the bursting-into-tears-in-front-of-your-intern

department.

"So, any vital messages?" I scan the Post-its without seeing them.

"One from Steve about the presentation tomorrow, and some guy named Ben

called."

"Ben who?"

"Just Ben. He said you'd know."

No one calls himself "Just Ben." It'll be some cheeky student I met at a

recruiting seminar, trying to get a foot in the door. I'm really not in the mood for

it.

"OK. Well. I'm going to go over my presentation. So." I click busily and

randomly at my mouse till she leaves. Deep breath. Firm jaw. Move on. Move

on, move on, move on.

The phone rings and I pick it up with a sweeping, authoritative gesture.

"Charlotte Graveney."

"Lottie! It's me!"

I fight an instinct to put the receiver straight back down again.

"Oh, hi, Fliss." I swallow. "Hi."

"So ... how are you?"

I can hear the teasing note in her voice and curse myself bitterly. I should

never have texted her from the restaurant.

It's pressure. All hideous pressure. Why did I ever share my love life with my

sister? Why did I ever even tell her I was dating Richard? Let alone introduce

them. Let alone start talking about proposals.

Next time I meet a man, I'm saying nothing to anybody. Nada. Zip. Not until we've been blissfully married for a decade and have three kids and have just

renewed our wedding vows. Then, and only then, will I send a text to Fliss

saying: Guess what? I met someone! He seems nice!

"Oh, I'm fine." I muster a breezy, matter-of-fact tone. "How about you?"

"All good this end. So ...?"

She leaves the question dangling. I know exactly what she means. She means,

So, are you wearing a massive diamond ring and toasting yourself with

Bollinger as Richard sucks your toes in some amazing hotel suite?

I feel a fresh, raw pang. I can't bear to talk about it. I can't bear her sympathy

gushing over me. Find another topic. Any topic. Quick.

"So. Anyway." I try to sound bright and nonchalant. "Anyway. Um. I was just

thinking, actually. I really should get round to doing that master's on business

theory. You know I've always meant to do it. I mean, what am I waiting for? I could apply to Birkbeck, do it in my spare time.... What do you think?"