He’s doing it!!!

A moment later, her reply appears on my screen:

Don’t tell me u r texting me in the middle of a proposal!!!

In Ladies’. Taking a moment.

V exciting!!! You make a great couple. Give him a kiss from me. xxx

Will do! Talk later xxx

“Which one is he?” says the blond girl as I put away my phone. “I’m going to have a look!” She darts out of the Ladies’, then returns a few seconds later. “Ooh, I saw him. The dark guy in the corner? He’s fab. Hey, your mascara’s smudged.” She passes me a makeup eraser pen. “Want to do a quick fix?”

“Thanks.” I smile companionably at her and start to erase the tiny black marks below my eyes. My wavy chestnut hair is swept up in a chignon, and I suddenly wonder whether to let it down so it tumbles over my shoulders for the big moment.

No. Too cheesy. Instead, I pull some tendrils out and twist them around my face while I assess everything else. Lipstick: nice coral color. Eye shadow: shimmery gray to bring out my blue eyes. Blusher: hopefully will not need touch-up as will be flushed with excitement.

“I wish my boyfriend would propose,” says a long-haired girl in black, watching me wistfully. “What’s the trick?”

“Dunno,” I reply, wishing I could be more helpful. “I suppose we’ve been together awhile, we know we’re compatible, we love each other—”

“But so do my boyfriend and I! We’ve been living together, the sex is great, it’s all great.…”

“Don’t pressure him,” says the blond girl wisely.

“I mention it, like, once a year.” The long-haired girl looks thoroughly miserable. “And he gets twitchy and we drop it. What am I supposed to do? Move out? It’s been six years now—”

“Six years?” The old woman looks up from drying her hands. “What’s wrong with you?”

The girl with the long hair flushes. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” she says. “I was having a private conversation.”

“Private, pfft.” The old woman gestures briskly around the Ladies’ room. “Everyone’s listening.”

“Aunt Dee!” The redhead looks embarrassed. “Shush!”

“Don’t you shush me, Amy!” The old woman regards the long-haired girl beadily. “Men are like jungle creatures. The minute they’ve found their kill, they eat it and fall asleep. Well, you’ve handed him his kill on a plate, haven’t you?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” says the long-haired girl resentfully.

“In my day, the men got married because they wanted sex. That was motivation all right!” The old woman gives a brisk laugh. “All you girls with your sleeping together and living together and then you want an engagement ring. It’s all back to front.” She picks up her bag. “Come along, Amy! What are you waiting for?”

Amy shoots us desperate looks of apology, then disappears out of the Ladies’ with her aunt. We all exchange raised eyebrows. What a nutter.

“Don’t worry,” I say reassuringly, and squeeze the girl’s arm. “I’m sure things will work out for you.” I want to spread the joy. I want everyone to have the good luck that Richard and I have had: finding the perfect person and knowing it.

“Yes.” She makes an obvious effort to gather herself. “Let’s hope. Well, I wish you a very happy life together.”

“Thanks!” I hand the eraser pen back to the blond girl. “Here I go! Wish me luck!”

I push my way out of the Ladies’ and survey the bustling restaurant, feeling as though I’ve just pressed play. There’s Richard, sitting in exactly the same position as when I left him. He’s not even checking his phone. He must be as focused on this moment as I am. The most special moment of our lives.

“Sorry about that.” I slide into my chair and give him my most loving, receptive smile. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

Richard smiles back, but I can tell he’s lost a bit of momentum. We might need to work back into things gradually. “It’s such a special day,” I say encouragingly. “Don’t you feel that?”

“Absolutely.” He nods.

“This place is so lovely.” I gesture around. “The perfect place for a … a big talk.”

I’ve left my hands casually on the table, and, as I intended, Richard takes them between his. He takes a deep breath and frowns.

“Speaking of that, Lottie, there’s something I wanted to ask.” As we meet eyes, his crinkle a little. “I don’t think this will come as a massive surprise.…”

Oh God, oh God, here it comes.

“Yes?” My voice is a nervous squawk.

“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.”