“Shut up.” I scowl. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I mean it. Will you marry me?”

“Funny.” I take a slug of wine.

“I mean it. Will you marry me?”

“Stop it.”

“Will you marry me?” Now he’s speaking more loudly. A couple at the next table look over and smile.

“Shh!” I say irritably. “It’s not funny.”

To my utter shock, he gets out of his seat, kneels down, and clasps his hands. I can see other diners turning to watch.

My heart is pounding. No way. No way.

“Charlotte Graveney,” he begins, swaying slightly. “I’ve spent fifteen years chasing pale imitations of you, and now I’m back here with the original I should never have let go. My life has been darkness without you and now I want to switch on the light. Will you do me the honor of marrying me? Please?”

A weird sensation is stealing over me. I feel as if I’m turning into cotton wool. He’s proposing. He’s actually proposing. For real.

“You’re drunk,” I parry.

“Not that drunk. Will you marry me?” he repeats.

“But I don’t know you anymore!” I give a half laugh. “I don’t know what you do for a living, I don’t know where you live, I don’t know what you want in life—”

“Paper supply. Shoreditch. To be as happy as I was when I was with you. To wake up every morning and shag your brains out. To make babies who have your eyes. Lottie, I know it’s been years, but it’s still me. It’s still Ben.” His eyes crinkle in the way they always did. “Will you marry me?”

I stare at him, breathing hard, my head ringing. But I can’t quite tell if it’s bells of joy or an alarm siren.

I mean, I did think there was a chance he was still interested in me. But this is beyond all my fantasies. He’s held a torch for me, all these years! He wants to get married! He wants kids! A noise is playing at the back of my mind. I think it could be violin music. Maybe this is it. MAYBE THIS IS IT! Richard wasn’t it; Ben is it!

I take a swig of water and try to fight a way through my swirling thoughts. Let’s be sensible. Let’s just think this through carefully. Did we ever argue? No. Was he good company? Yes. Do I fancy him? Hell, yeah. Is there anything else I need to know about a potential husband?

“Do you have any nipples pierced?” I ask with sudden foreboding. Pierced nipples really aren’t my thing.

“Not one.” He rips open his shirt in a theatrical gesture, scattering buttons, and I can’t help staring. Mmm. Brown. Taut. He’s as tasty as he ever was.

“All you need to do is say ‘Yes.’” Ben spreads his arms with a drunken emphasis. “All you need to do, Lottie, is say ‘Yes.’ We spend most of our lives messing things up because we think too much. Let’s not overthink this one. Fuck it, we’ve wasted enough time. We love each other. Let’s just jump.”

He’s right. We do love each other. And he wants to make babies who have my eyes. No one’s ever said anything so beautiful to me. Not even Richard.

My head is whirling. I’m trying to stay rational, but I’m losing my footing. Is this real? Is he just talking me into bed? Is this the most romantic moment of my life or am I an idiot?

“I … I think so,” I say at last.

“You think so?”

“Just … give me a moment.”

I grab my bag and head to the Ladies’; I have to think. Clearly. Or at least as clearly as I can, bearing in mind that the room is spinning and my face in the mirror looks like it has three eyes.

It could work. I’m sure it could work. But how can I make it work? How can I not fall into the same predictable pattern as all my other dead-end, fizzle-out relationships?

As I comb my hair, my mind starts ranging over other first dates with other boyfriends. Other beginnings. I’ve stood in so many Ladies’ rooms over the years, refreshing my lipstick, thinking, Is this The One? Each time I’ve felt equally hopeful, equally fizzy. So where did I go wrong? What can I do differently? What can I not do that I normally do?

Suddenly I recall that book I was looking at this morning. The Reverse Principle. Flip the arrow. Change direction. That sounds good. Yes. But how do I change direction? And now the words of that mad old woman in the Ladies’ yesterday are ringing in my head. What did she say again? Men are like jungle creatures. The minute they’ve found their kill, they eat it and fall asleep. Maybe she wasn’t so mad after all. Maybe she had something.

Abruptly, I stop combing my hair. In a flash of inspiration, it has come to me. The answer. The left-field solution. I, Lottie Graveney, am going to reverse the pattern. I’m going to do the opposite of what I’ve done with all previous boyfriends.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. I look a little wild, but, then, is that any surprise? If I was exhilarated before, I’m euphoric now. I feel like a scientist who’s discovered a new, game-changing subatomic particle. I’m right. I know I’m right. I’m right!

I stride back into the restaurant, staggering a little in my heels, and approach the table.

“No sex,” I say firmly.

“What?”

“Till we’re married. No sex.” I sit down. “Take it or leave it.”

“What?” Ben looks flabbergasted, but I just smile serenely back. I’m brilliant. If he really loves me, he’ll wait. And there’ll be no chance of anyone going off the boil. None. And the best part is, we’ll have the hottest honeymoon ever. We’ll be connected and united and blissed out. Exactly like honeymooners should be.

His shirt is still hanging open. I picture him naked, in some gorgeous hotel bed, surrounded by rose petals. Just the idea makes me quiver.

“You’re kidding.” His face has completely dropped. “Why?”

“Because I want things to be different. I want to break the mold. I love you, yes? You love me? We want to make a life together?”

“For fifteen years I’ve loved you.” He shakes his head. “Fifteen fucking years, we wasted, Lottie—”

I can tell he’s going to start another drunken speech.

“So.” I cut him off. “We wait a bit longer. And then we can have a wedding night. A proper wedding night. Think about it. We’ll both be gagging for it by then. Absolutely … gagging.” I reach under the table with my bare foot and slowly walk it up the inside of his leg. His face is transfixed. Never fails, this one.

For a moment, neither of us talks. Let’s say we’re communicating in a different way.

“Actually …,” he says at last, his voice thick, “that could be fun.”

“A lot of fun.” Casually, I unbutton my top a couple of notches and lean forward, giving him maximum view of my uplift bra. My other foot is moving up to his crotch now. Ben seems unable to speak. “Remember the night of your birthday?” I say huskily. “On the beach? We could reprise that.”

If we reprise that, I am wearing protective knee guards. I had scabs for a week. As if he’s reading my mind, Ben closes his eyes and moans faintly. “You’re killing me.”

“It’ll be amazing.” I have a sudden memory of us as teenagers, lying entwined in my room at the guest house, lit only by the flickering of all my scented candles.

“Do you know how hot you are? Do you realize how badly I want to get under this table now?” He grabs my hand and starts nibbling at the tip of my thumb. But this time I don’t move it away. My entire body seems wired to the feel of his lips and teeth on my skin. I want them everywhere. I remember this. I remember him. How could I have forgotten?

“Wedding night, huh?” he says at last. My toes are still doing their stuff, and there’s pretty firm evidence that he’s enjoying it. All still in working order, then.

“Wedding night.” I nod.

“You realize I’ll die of frustration meanwhile?”

“Me too. And then I’ll explode.” He takes my thumb right inside his mouth, and I gasp inwardly as the sensation rockets through my body. We need to leave soon or the waiter will be telling us to get a room.

And when Richard hears about this—

No. Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with Richard. It’s fate. It’s part of a bigger picture. A huge, sweeping romantic story starring Ben and me, with Richard only a bit part along the way.

I know I’m drunk. I know this is rushed. But it feels so right. And if there’s still a soreness deep in my heart, then this is like some magical soothing lotion. I was meant to break up with Richard. I was meant to be miserable. The karma for my suffering is that now I get a wedding ring and the hottest sex of my life.

I feel like my raffle prize wasn’t a thousand pounds. It was a million pounds.

Ben’s eyes are glazed. I’m breathing more and more heavily. I’m not sure I can stand this.

“When shall we get married?” I murmur.

“Soon.” He sounds desperate. “Really, really soon.”


5

FLISS

I hope Lottie’s OK, I really do. I’ve been away for two weeks and I haven’t heard one word from her. She hasn’t answered any of my friendly texts, and the last phone call we had was when she was planning to fly to San Francisco and surprise Richard. As Unfortunate Choices go, that one took the biscuit. Thank God I headed it off.

But since then: nothing. I’ve tried leaving voicemails as well as texting, but no response. I did manage to get through to her intern, who assured me that she was coming in to work every day—so at least I know she’s alive and well. But it’s not like Lottie to be incommunicado. It troubles me. I’ll go round and see her tonight, make sure she’s OK.

I pull out my phone and send her yet another text: Hi, how’s it going??? Then I put it away and survey the school playground. It’s thronging with parents, children, nannies, dogs, and toddlers on scooters. It’s the first day of term, so there are lots of tanned faces and shiny shoes and new haircuts. And that’s just the mothers.