Wedding Night

“We’ll Skype every day.”
    “I know.” I squeeze his hands back. “I’ll be ready.”
    “Although you
might
want to remember that, if I’m in my office, everyone can hear what you’re saying. Including my boss.”
    Only a tiny flicker of his eyes gives away the fact that he’steasing me. The last time he was away and we Skyped, I started giving him advice on how to manage his nightmare boss, forgetting that Richard was in an open-plan office and the nightmare boss was liable to walk past at any minute. (Luckily, he didn’t.)
    “Thanks for that tip.” I shrug, equally deadpan.
    “Also, they can see you. So you might not want to be
totally
naked.”
    “Not
totally
,” I agree. “Maybe just a transparent bra and panties. Keep it simple.”
    Richard grins and grasps my hands more tightly. “I love you.” His voice is low and warm and melting. I will never, ever get sick of him saying that.
    “Me too.”
    “In fact, Lottie …” He clears his throat. “I have something to ask you.…”
    My insides feel as if they’re going to explode. My face is a rictus of anticipation while my thoughts are spinning wildly.
Oh God … he’s doing it.… My whole life changes here.… Concentrate, Lottie … savor the moment.… Shit! What’s wrong with my leg?
    I stare down at it in horror.
    Whoever made these “stay-up stockings” is a liar and will go to hell, because one of them
hasn’t
bloody well stayed up. It’s collapsed around my knee and there’s a really gross plastic “adhesive” strip flapping around my calf. This is hideous.
    I can’t be proposed to like this. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking back and thinking,
It was such a romantic moment; shame about the stocking
.
    “Sorry, Richard.” I cut him off. “Just wait a sec.…”
    Surreptitiously, I reach down and yank the stocking up—butthe flimsy fabric tears in my hand. Great. Now I have both flapping plastic
and
shreds of nylon decorating my leg. I cannot believe my marriage proposal is being wrecked by hosiery. I should have gone for bare legs.
    “Everything OK?” Richard looks a little baffled as I emerge from under the table.
    “I have to go to the Ladies’,” I mutter. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Can we put things on pause? Just for a nanosecond?”
    “Are you OK?”
    “I’m fine.” I’m red with embarrassment. “I’ve had a … a garment mishap. I don’t want you to see. Will you look away?”
    Obediently, Richard averts his head. I push my chair back and walk swiftly across the room, ignoring the looks of other lunchtime diners. There’s no point trying to mask it. It’s a flappy stocking.
    I bang through the door of the Ladies’, wrench off my shoe and the stupid stocking, then stare at myself in the mirror, my heart pounding. I can’t believe I’ve just put my proposal on pause.
    I feel as though time is on hold. As though we’re in a sci-fi movie and Richard is in suspended animation and I’ve got all the time in the world to think about whether I want to marry him.
    Which, obviously, I don’t need, because the answer is: I do.
    A blond girl with a beaded headband turns to peer at me, lip liner in hand. I guess I do look a bit odd, standing motionless with a shoe and stocking in my hand.
    “There’s a bin over there.” She nods. “Do you feel OK?”
    “Fine. Thanks.” I suddenly have the urge to share the momentousnessof this occasion. “My boyfriend’s in the middle of proposing to me!”
    “No
way
.” All the women at the mirrors turn to stare at me.
    “What do you mean, ‘in the middle of’?” demands a thin redheaded girl in pink, her eyebrows narrowed. “What’s he said, ‘Will you …’?”
    “He started, but I had a stocking catastrophe.” I wave the holdup. “So he’s on pause.”
    “On
pause
?” says someone incredulously.
    “Well, I’d get back out there quick,” says the redhead. “You don’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.”
    “How exciting!” says the blond girl. “Can we watch? Can I film you?”
    “We could put it on YouTube!” says her friend. “Has he hired a flash mob or anything?”
    “I don’t
think
so—”
    “How does this work?” An old woman with metal-gray hair cuts across our discussion imperiously. She’s waving her hands angrily underneath the automatic hand-wash dispenser. “Why do they invent these machines? What’s wrong with a bar of soap?”
    “Look, like this, Aunt Dee,” says the redheaded girl