3

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?”