Wedding Night

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 anescape. “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