Wedding Night

“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.