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.