Thomas - Millions of women are waiting to meet you : a story of life, love and Internet dating

For Lenina

How do you propose? I mean, what is the best way to propose? What's the right stage in a relationship to do it? Why, how, who? Where? Hello?

I'm stuck. I have this strange feeling that I want to propose to my girlfriend, Claire, right now, right here, on the roof of my flat as we sip warm Spanish champagne. But the momentousness of it is holding me back. I'm thirty-nine years old and it all seems too remarkable, too unexpected and frightening. Frankly, I'd come to the conclusion that this moment, THE moment, might never arrive; and maybe I never wanted it to arrive, for such a long time. And yet somehow the moment seems to have sidled into my life like a sweet little kid sneaking in the back door of the cinema.

I've been thinking of proposing for a while now. I've even had a few daydreams as to the best place. Last week, I had plans to do it in Venice, in a gondola, under a swooning Adriatic moon. The week before that, I considered taking my girlfriend to Paris, where we could do it walking the Tuileries Garden amidst the lilacs. Then I looked at my bank statement and thought that the local park might be nice, as long as it wasn't drizzling. But here I am sitting on the roof of my flat in London and I have a sudden urge to do it anyway, right now, right here.

My sudden urge to propose, and the consequent loss of my Venetian daydreams, is perhaps partly based on the proposal experience of a friend of mine. The other day when I was discussing my plans for popping the question, he told me his proposal story.

My friend did it properly. He did this big buildup to The Question and took his girlfriend to a beautiful part of Greece. He set up a lovely dinner with candles and chilled retsina and moonlit views of the twinkling Aegean. Then when he leaned forward across the crisp white tablecloth and took his girlfriend's delicate hand and said, "I have something to say," his girlfriend started weirdly trembling and then when he said, "My God, what's wrong?" she said, "You're going to finish with me, aren't you, that's why you've brought me here! You bastard!" With that she went into a spaz-out, disappeared into the loos for three hours, and had to be slowly coaxed out and told that no, her boyfriend wasn't going to finish with her. My friend finally asked the big question in the back of a scruffy minicab as they returned to their Greek hotel.

So what does this tell me? I think it tells me that portentous buildups to romantic moments can be somewhat counterproductive. And so that's one of the reasons I am suddenly thinking: Now. Here. Do it. A further thought that is egging me on is that somehow this is the right place to propose, in a weird way: in the city I have lived in and loved all my life. Next to the loudly humming air conditioner of the Pizza Paradiso restaurant, next door.

Setting down my wineglass I go over to Claire and we kiss a little. We kiss some more. It's a good stalling tactic. I can keep this up for a while, as I work up the courage to DO IT. But then Claire starts gasping for air and so I have to let her go.

But the urge is still with me; the blind, groping instinct to ask the fateful question. This urge feels a little weird. It's a bit like knowing you're going to throw up when you are a kid. You want it to happen-and yet you don't. Anyway, here it comes. Stepping back, I open my mouth and ...

And I close my mouth again. Because Claire is squinting at me oddly. And this has got me thinking that maybe she's a bit tipsy, after three or four glasses of champagne. That's a concern. Should I propose to her when she's had a fair number of drinks? Won't that nullify anything she says? Will her answer be legally binding?

Worse still, will she even remember my question tomorrow?

What, you proposed?! When was that?

The problems in my head are multiplying. I should have come straight out with it a few seconds ago, when I had the queasy urge, the nauseous feeling. Now it comes to it I can see a host of other complexities. Like: just how should I phrase this telling question?

On reflection, "Will you marry me?" seems kind of forceful, rather aggressive, and blunt. Slightly too close to "You will marry me!" But maybe that's a good thing? How about honesty? Maybe candor and frankness are called for here, not cold calculation? On that basis, perhaps I should run across the roof terrace and fling my arms open and just say, "Oh marry me!" in a kind of passionate and impetuous outburst.

What am I saying? We're on top of the roof. It's five stories down to the busy London street, where I can hear the pizza waiters chucking out the prosecco bottles. If I start shouting impetuous stuff as I leap across the asphalt, Claire might topple over the edge in surprise and fall to her death. Which would be a pretty brief engagement.

There's no choice. I've got to build up to it slowly. Start again.

Going over to Claire I smile, and kiss her on the neck. Then I pull back and tuck some stray blonde hair behind her ear, in a vaguely soppy way. I say something in a low whisper. We laugh. I can feel the moment swaying towards me once more, across the disco floor of life. So I take a deep breath and I look at Claire. Her eyes are shiny and languid in the night; the champagne is giving her golden hiccups.

"Claire ... ?"

I have adopted a profound, wise, and loving expression; the look of a man you can trust, in a lifelong kind of way. Claire squints at me.

"Yep? What is it, babe?"

"... Claire, I've been wondering ... "

Her eyes widen.

"Yes?"

"And, well... "

I let the words hang in the air, like the scent of flowers in a warm, moonlit garden. I am aiming to get my timing right. So I pause for a few more seconds and then I think about opening my mouth. It's going to happen. I'm going to say these words for the first-and hopefully the only-time in my life; I am going to say the words that will change our lives, that will commit us, that will ennoble our love and deepen our affection. And so I lean forward and I extend a hand and I open my mouth and Claire says:

"Shall we get pizza?"

I stare. She adds:

"Oh, sorry. You want Thai, right?"

My mouth shuts. I nod and sigh. Then I turn away and walk across the roof terrace and sit on the ledge that overlooks the road. Claire puts a hand to her mouth and says:

"Sorry, darling. You were gonna say something?"

"Oh, no... "

"No. You were. What?"

"Oh ... you know ... Just thinking ... maybe we could rent a DVD or something."

Claire tilts her blonde, pretty, smart, twenty-nine-yearold Scottish head.

"... at midnight?"

She is skeptically drinking her champagne, with her arms crossed. I watch her sip that delicately tilted flute. I watch her sigh with contentment in the warm summer air. Then she peers across the Bloomsbury rooftops and with a giggle she says, "I forgot you can see the British Museum from here!" After that she wanders airily over in her nice sexy dress and she sits down close to me.