Sophie Kinsella: Wedding Night

“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? 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.”