Wedding Night

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?