Wedding Night

Wedding Night Page 32

It would really help if my head wasn’t spinning.

“Ben, you have to understand.” I pull my arm away again. “It’s not like when we were eighteen, OK? I don’t just want a shag. I want … other things. I want marriage. I want commitment. I want to plan a life together with someone. Kids, the whole lot.”

“So do I!” he says impatiently. “Weren’t you listening? It should have been you all along.” His eyes are burning into mine. “Lottie. I never stopped loving you.”

Oh my God, he loves me. I feel a rush of tears again. And, looking at him, it comes to me that I never stopped loving him either. Maybe I just didn’t realize it, because it was a kind of low-level, steady love. Like a background hum. And now it’s swelling back up into full-blown passion.

“Nor did I,” I say, my voice trembling with sudden conviction. “I’ve loved you for fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years.” He’s clinging to my hand. “We were insane to let each other go.”

The romance of it all is overwhelming me. Talk about a story to tell at a wedding reception. Talk about oohs and aahs. We were apart for fifteen years, but then we found each other again.

“We have to make up for lost time.” He crushes my fingers to his mouth. “Darling Lottie. My love.” His words are like balm. The feel of his lips on my skin is almost unbearably delicious. For an instant I close my eyes. But, no. Alarm bells are ringing. I can’t bear this one to go wrong like all the others.

“Stop!” I whip my hand away. “Don’t! Ben, I know how this will play out, and I can’t bear it. Not again.”

“What are you talking about?” He stares at me, baffled. “All I did was kiss your fingers.”

His voice is a bit slurred. Kish your fingersh. But, then, so probably is mine.

I wait until the waiter has brushed away the crumbs from our table, then launch in again, my voice lowered and trembling.

“I’ve been here before. I know what happens. You kiss my fingers. I kiss your fingers. We have sex. It’s great. We have more sex. We’re besotted. We go on a mini-break to the Cotswolds. Maybe we buy a sofa together, or a bookshelf from Ikea. And then suddenly it’s two years later and we should be getting married … but somehow we don’t. We’ve gone off the boil. We argue and we break up. And it’s horrible.”

My throat is tight with misery at our fate. It’s so inevitable and it’s so sad.

Ben looks bewildered by the scenario I’ve painted.

“OK,” he says at last, eyeing me warily. “Well … what if we don’t go off the boil?”

“We do! It’s the law! It always happens!” I gaze at him, my eyes full of tears. “I’ve gone off the boil with too many guys. I know.”

“Even if we don’t buy a bookshelf from Ikea?”

I know he’s trying to be funny, but I’m serious. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life dating, I suddenly realize. Dating is not the solution to anything. Dating gave me Richard. Dating is the problem.

“There’s a good reason you went off the boil with those other guys.” Ben tries again. “They weren’t the right guys. But I am!”

“Who says you’re the right guy?”

“Because … because … Jesus! What will it take?” He thrusts his fingers through his hair, looking exasperated. “OK! You win. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Lottie, will you marry me?”

“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.