Wedding Night

course it is. Ghastly. But secretly I can’t help feeling a bit relieved too. The façade is down. Her denial has cracked. This is
good
. This is
progress
.
    “Anyway, I’ve decided what to do, and I feel so much better. It’s all fallen into place, Fliss.” She blows her nose noisily. “I feel like I have a purpose. A plan. A goal.”
    My ears twitch. Uh-oh. A “goal.” That’s one of my post-breakup alarm-bell terms. Along with “project,” “change of direction,” and “amazing new friend.”
    “Right,” I say cautiously. “Great! So … um … what’s your goal?”
    My mind is already scurrying around the possibilities. Please not another piercing. Or another crazy property purchase. I’ve talked her out of quitting her job so many times, it
can’t
be that again, surely?
    Please not move to Australia.
    Please not “lose a stone.” Because 1) she’s skinny already, and 2) last time she went on a diet, she made me be her “buddy” and instructed me to phone up every half hour and say, “Keep to the plan, you fat bitch,” then complained when I refused.
    “So, what is it?” I press her as lightly as I can, my entire body screwed up with dread.
    “I’m going to fly to San Francisco on the first flight I can get and surprise Richard and propose!”
    “What?”
I nearly drop the phone. “No! Bad idea!”
    What’s she planning to do, burst into his office? Wait on his doorstep? Kneel down and present him with the so-called “manly” engagement ring? I can’t let this happen. She’ll be utterly humiliated and devastated and
I’ll
have to pick up the pieces afterward.
    “But I love him!” She sounds totally hyper. “I love him so much! And if he can’t see that we’re meant to be together, then surely I have to
show
him! Surely it has to be
me
who makes the move! I’m on the Virgin Atlantic website right now. Should I get premium economy? Can you get me a discount?”
    “No! Do
not
book a flight to San Francisco,” I say in the firmest, most authoritative tones I can muster. “Close down your computer. Step away from the internet.”
    “But—”
    “Lottie, face it,” I say more gently. “Richard had his chance. If he’d wanted to get married, it would be happening.”
    I know what I’m saying sounds harsh. But it’s true. Men who want to get married propose. You don’t need to read the signs. They propose and that’s the sign.
    “But he just doesn’t
realize
he wants to get married!” she says eagerly. “He just needs
persuading
. If I just gave him a little
nudge
 …”
    Little nudge? Bloody great elbow in the ribs, more like.
    I have a sudden vision of Lottie dragging Richard up the aisle by his hair, and I wince. I know exactly where that story ends up. It ends up in the office of Barnaby Rees, Family Lawyer, at five hundred quid for the first consultation.
    “Lottie, listen,” I say severely. “And listen hard. You don’t want to go into a marriage anything less than two hundred percent sure it’s going to work out. No, make that
six
hundred percent.” I eye Daniel’s latest divorce demands morosely. “Believe me. It’s not worth it. I’ve been there and it’s … Well, it’s hideous.”
    There’s silence at the other end of the phone. I know Lottie so well. I can practically
see
her hearts-and-flowers image of proposing to Richard on the Golden Gate Bridge melting away.
    “Think about it first, at least,” I say. “Don’t jump in. A few weeks won’t make any difference.”
    I’m holding my breath, crossing my fingers.
    “OK,” says Lottie at last, sounding forlorn. “I’ll think about it.”
    I blink in astonishment. I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! For the first time in my life, I’ve headed off one of Lottie’s Unfortunate Choices before it even happened. I’ve stamped out the infection before it could take hold.
    Maybe she’s getting more rational in her old age.
    “Let’s go out to lunch,” I suggest, to cheer her up. “My treat. As soon as I get back from holiday.”
    “Yes, that would be nice,” says Lottie in a small voice. “Thanks, Fliss.”
    “Take care. Talk soon.”
    She rings off and I exhale my frustration in a groan—although I’m not sure who I’m most frustrated with. Richard? Daniel? Gavin? Gunter? All men? No, not
all
men. Maybe all men except various honorable exceptions, viz: Barnaby; my lovely milkman, Neville; the Dalai Lama, obviously—
    My eyes suddenly focus on my reflection