Wedding Night (2 page)

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!