Sophie Kinsella - Wedding Night

ARTHUR

Young people! With their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. They wear me out, the poor, harried things.

Dont come back, I always tell them. Dont come back.

Youth is still where you left it, and thats where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on lifes journey, youll already have taken with you.

Twenty years Ive been saying this, but do they listen? Do they, hell. Here comes another of them now. Panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. Late thirties, Id guess. Attractive enough, against the blue sky. Looks a bit like a politician. Do I mean that? Maybe a movie star.

I dont remember his face from the old days. Not that that means anything. These days I barely even recall my own face when I glimpse it in the mirror. I can see this chaps gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.

Are you Arthur? he says abruptly.

Guilty.

I scan him adroitly. Looks well off. Wearing one of those expensive-logo polo shirts. Probably good for a few double Scotches.

You must want a drink, I say pleasantly. Always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.

I dont want a drink, he says. I want to know what happened.

I cant help stifling a yawn. So predictable. He wants to know what happened. Another merchant banker having a midlife crisis, returning to the scene of his youth. The scene of the crime. Leave it where it was, I want to answer. Turn round. Return to your adult, problematic life, because you wont solve it here.

But he wouldnt believe me. They never do.

Dear boy, I say gently. You grew up. Thats what happened.

No, he says impatiently, and rubs his sweaty brow. You dont understand. Im here for a reason.

Listen to me. He comes forward a few paces, an impressive height and figure against the sun, intentness of purpose on his handsome face. Im here for a reason, he repeats. I wasnt going to get involvedbut I cant help it. I have to do this. I want to know what exactly happened.

Twenty Days Earlier

LOTTIE

Ive bought him an engagement ring. Was that a mistake?

I mean, its not a girly ring. Its a plain band with a tiny diamond in it, which the guy in the shop talked me into. If Richard doesnt like the diamond, he can always turn it round.

Or not wear it at all. Keep it on his nightstand or in a box or whatever.

Or I could take it back and never mention it. Actually, Im losing confidence in this ring by the minute, but I just felt bad that he wouldnt have anything. Men dont get the greatest deal out of a proposal. They have to set up the occasion, they have to get down on one knee, they have to ask the question, and they have to buy a ring. And what do we have to do? Say yes.

Or no, obviously.

I wonder what proportion of marriage proposals end in a yes and what proportion end in a no?

I open my mouth automatically to share this thought with Richardthen hastily close it again. Idiot.

Sorry? Richard glances up.

Nothing! I beam. Just great menu!

I wonder if hes bought a ring already. I dont mind, either way. On the one hand, its fabulously romantic if he has. On the other hand, its fabulously romantic to choose one together.

Its a win-win.

I sip my water and smile lovingly at Richard. Were sitting at a corner table overlooking the river.

Its a new restaurant on the Strand, just up from the Savoy. All black-and-white marble and vintage chandeliers and button-back chairs in pale gray. Its elegant but not showy. The perfect place for a lunchtime proposal. Im wearing an understated bride-to-be white shirt, a print skirt, and have splashed out on stay-up stockings, just in case we decide to cement the engagement later on. Ive never worn stay-up stockings before. But, then, Ive never been proposed to before.

Ooh, maybe hes booked a room at the Savoy.

No. Richards not flash like that. Hed never make a ridiculous, out-of-proportion gesture. Nice lunch, yes; overpriced hotel room, no. Which I respect.

Hes looking nervous. Hes fiddling with his cuffs and checking his phone and swirling the water round in his glass. As he sees me watching him, he smiles too.

So.

So.

Its as though were speaking in code, skirting around the real issue. I fiddle with my napkin and adjust my chair. This waiting is unbearable. Why doesnt he get it over with?

No, I dont mean get it over with. Of course I dont. Its not a vaccination. Its Well, what is it? Its a beginning. A first step. The pair of us embarking on a great adventure together. Because we want to take on life as a team. Because we cant think of anyone else wed rather share that journey with. Because I love him and he loves me.

Im getting misty-eyed already. This is hopeless. Ive been like this for days, ever since I realized what he was driving at.

Hes quite heavy-handed, Richard. I mean, in a good, lovable way. Hes direct and to the point and doesnt play games. (Thank God.) Nor does he land massive surprises on you out of the blue. On my last birthday, he hinted for ages that his present was going to be a surprise trip, which was ideal because I knew to get down my overnight bag and pack a few things.

Although, in the end, he did catch me out, because it wasnt a weekend away, as Id predicted. It was a train ticket to Stroud, which he had biked to my desk with no warning, on my midweek birthday. It turned out hed secretly arranged with my boss for me to have two days off, and when I finally arrived at Stroud, a car whisked me to the most adorable Cotswold cottage, where he was waiting with a fire burning and a sheepskin rug laid out in front of the flames. (Mmm. Lets just say that sex in front of a roaring fire is the best thing ever. Except when that stupid spark flew out and burned my thigh. But never mind. Tiny detail.)

So this time, when he began dropping hints, again they werent exactly subtle indications. They were more like massive signposts plonked in the road: I will be proposing to you soon. First he set up this date and called it a special lunch. Then he referred to a big question he had to ask me and half-winked (to which I feigned ignorance, of course). Then he started teasing me by asking if I like his surname, Finch. (As it happens, I do like it. I dont mean I wont miss being Lottie Graveney, but Ill be very happy to be Mrs. Lottie Finch.)

I almost wish hed been more roundabout and this was going to be more of a surprise. But, there again, at least I knew to get a manicure.

So, Lottie, have you decided yet? Richard looks up at me with that warm smile of his, and my stomach swoops. Just for an instant I thought he was being super-clever and that was his proposal.

Um I look down to hide my confusion.

Of course the answer will be yes. A big, joyful yes. I can still hardly believe weve arrived at this place. Marriage. I mean, marriage! In the three years Richard and I have been together, Ive deliberately avoided the question of marriage, commitment, and all associated subjects (children, houses, sofas, herbs in pots). We sort of live together at his place, but I still have my own flat. Were a couple, but at Christmas we go home to our own families. Were in that place.

After about a year, I knew we were good together. I knew I loved him. Id seen him at his best (the surprise birthday trip, tied with the time I drove over his foot by mistake and he didnt shout at me) and his worst (obstinately refusing to ask for directions, all the way to Norfolk, with broken sat nav.