“But … but that’s what you meant! When you ordered the champagne, and you said, ‘You tell me,’ and I said, ‘With all my heart, yes.’ It was subtle! It was beautiful!”
I’m gazing at him, longing for him to agree, longing for him to feel what I feel. But he just looks baffled, and I feel a sudden pang of dread.
“That’s … not what you meant?” My throat is so tight I can barely speak. I can’t believe this is happening. “You didn’t mean to propose?”
“Lottie, I didn’t propose!” he says forcefully. “Full stop!”
Does he have to exclaim so loudly? Heads are popping up with interest everywhere.
“OK! I get it!” I rub my nose with my napkin. “You don’t need to tell the whole restaurant.”
Waves of humiliation are washing over me. I’m rigid with misery. How can I have got this so wrong?
And if he wasn’t proposing, then why wasn’t he proposing?
“I don’t understand.” Richard is talking almost to himself. “I’ve never said anything, we’ve never discussed it—”
“You’ve said plenty!” Hurt and indignation are erupting out of me. “You said you were organizing a ‘special lunch.’ ”
“It is special!” he says defensively. “I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow.”
“And you asked me if I liked your surname! Your surname, Richard!”
“We were doing a jokey straw poll at the office!” Richard looks bewildered. “It was chitchat!”
“And you said you had to ask me a ‘big question.’ ”
“Not a big question.” He shakes his head. “A question.”
“I heard ‘big question.’ ”
There’s a wretched silence between us. The cloud of happiness has gone. The Hollywood Technicolor and swooping violins have gone. The sommelier tactfully slides a wine list onto the corner of the table and retreats quickly.
“What is it, then?” I say at last. “This really important, medium-size question?”
Richard looks trapped. “It’s not important. Forget it.”
“Come on, tell me!”
“Well, OK,” he says finally. “I was going to ask you what I should do with my air miles. I thought maybe we could plan a trip.”
“Air miles?” I can’t help lashing out. “You booked a special table and ordered champagne to talk about air miles?”
“No! I mean …” Richard winces. “Lottie, I feel terrible about all this. I had absolutely zero idea—”
“But we just had a whole bloody conversation about being engaged!” I can feel tears rising. “I was stroking your hand and saying how happy I was and how I’d thought about this moment for ages. And you were agreeing with me! What did you think I was talking about?”
Richard’s eyes are swiveling as though searching for an escape. “I thought you were … you know. Going on about stuff.”
“ ‘Going on about stuff’?” I stare at him. “What do you mean, ‘Going on about stuff’?”
Richard looks even more desperate. “The truth is, I don’t always know what you’re on about,” he says in a sudden confessional rush. “So sometimes I just … nod along.”
Nod along?
I stare back at him, stricken. I thought we had a special, unique silent bond of understanding. I thought we had a private code. And all the time he was just nodding along.
Two waiters put our salads in front of us and quickly move away, as though sensing we’re not in any mood to talk. I pick up my fork and put it down again. Richard doesn’t even seem to have noticed his plate.
“I bought you an engagement ring,” I say, breaking the silence.
“Oh God.” He buries his head in his hands.
“It’s fine. I’ll take it back.”
“Lottie …” He looks tortured. “Do we have to … I’m going away tomorrow. Couldn’t we just move away from the whole subject?”
“So, do you ever want to get married?” As I ask the question, I feel a deep anguish inside. A minute ago I thought I was engaged. I’d run the marathon. I was bursting through the finishing tape, arms up in elation. Now I’m back at the starting line, lacing up my shoes, wondering if the race is even on.
“I … God, Lottie … I dunno.” He sounds beleaguered. “I mean, yes. I suppose so.” His eyes are swiveling more and more wildly. “Maybe. You know. Eventually.”
Well. You couldn’t get a much clearer signal. Maybe he wants to get married to someone else, one day. But not to me.
