But I have been patient and finally, it’s paid off. Tonight may be a couple of years late according to my Life List, but it’s here now and I’m going to embrace it.
I pull the zip up at the back of my dress, arrange my hair over my shoulders, and spritz my neck with my favorite perfume. Then I slip my feet into stilettos, grab my clutch and don my coat, before heading out into the night, butterflies fluttering their wings in my stomach.
Chapter Two
I walk down the tunnel towards the restaurant. It’s an unremarkable place, self-consciously as Italian as possible. Not only is it called ‘La Dolce Vita’ but it has a big flag of Italy painted under the sign. And if I remember correctly, framed black and white photos of famous Italian actors are hung on the walls inside. Paul and I hadn’t sought it out deliberately back on our first date, we simply stumbled upon it. I hadn’t had particularly high hopes for that date. At the time, I was two or three dates into seeing a suave, cool and confident investment banker called Jared, who I thought I’d probably pursue a relationship with, even though he had a slightly annoying habit of laughing uproariously at his own mediocre jokes.
Paul and I went way back, but we hadn’t seen each other for years. We both did our degrees in Sheffield, although we went to different universities. Paul was at an arts school, specializing in graphic design, while I pursued my degree in Law. We met because we both did casual waitering work for an events company. Most of the workers were students like us, and we’d don black trousers and crisp white shirts at the weekends and serve canapes or top up glasses of wine at networking events and conferences for people decades older than us. It was decent casual work and paid pretty well, and quite a few of us became friendly, going out for drinks sometimes after our shifts. I’d always quite liked Paul. I liked his thick dark hair, laidback northern charm and dimples, but quite a few of the other waitresses had their eye on him so I never went there. I didn’t want drama at a job I depended on to get by and I was too focused on getting a good degree to really prioritize finding a boyfriend. I finished my course, moved to London, and as time passed, I forgot all about Paul. So, when I was standing on the Tube platform at Waterloo and spotted a familiar face that broke into a smile upon clocking me, with familiar dimples, it was a blast from the past.
Paul and I got chatting. We hopped onto the Tube together and swapped numbers, before he jumped off two stops away. We texted for a few days and agreed to meet up for drinks. I wasn’t sure if it was a date or just two old acquaintances catching up, and although I quite fancied Paul, I didn’t have particularly high expectations, but when we met for a drink in a bar by the river, conversation flowed. We couldn’t stop talking, getting through two or three pints, before taking a riverside stroll at sunset. By the time we got to London Bridge, our stomachs were rumbling. We wandered to the nearest restaurant – this quirky Italian joint – and ate pizzas and drank wine until closing time. I broke things off with Jared the very next day, and from that moment forth, Paul and I have been inseparable. I knew he was the one.
I approach the restaurant. It still has the sign I remember, with La Dolce Vita painted in scrolling writing, but the Italian flag has gone, as have the rickety bay windows that used to be there. My heart sinks as I realize the restaurant’s been refurbished. I peer through the window, desperate to see the cute little alcoves that used to be there, housing tables adorned with gingham tablecloths and waxy dripping candles stuffed into old wine bottles, but all of that’s gone. It’s been completely redesigned. The space has been opened up. There are no alcoves anymore. No gingham. No pictures of Italian film stars on the walls. Instead they’ve been replaced by prints advertising two-for-one offers on cocktails and cut-price dough balls. The restaurant looks like any other pizza franchise now, with tables lined in rows and a depressingly generic, sterile atmosphere. So much for a trip down memory lane.
I push the door open, remembering the portly owner of this place, who greeted me all those years ago like I was his long-lost daughter. He gave me and Paul free glasses of Limoncello at the end of our meal, alongside complementary gelato. He’s gone and instead, I’m greeted by a young waitress with a scraped back bun and a polished but cold smile. I smile back and look across the tables, scanning for Paul. I clock him sitting at the back, eyes fixed to his phone. I point across the restaurant, telling the waitress I’m meeting ‘the man in the corner’. She hands me a menu and I make my way over to Paul. The restaurant even smells different. It smelt of freshly cooked pizza dough before, but now the air smells scented, bleachy and floral. It must come from an air-freshener or cleaning products.
The tables are so tightly packed that I have to walk sideways to weave through the narrow gaps between them. Waiters zip between diners, and I overhear one upselling olives and side salads, and another telling a couple which key to press on the card reader if they’d like to leave a gratuity. I feel a little sad as I cross the restaurant. Back when Paul and I first came here, it had a convivial, relaxed atmosphere – a hearty Mediterranean vibe that felt warm and welcoming, and yet now it’s more like a pizza conveyor belt, a money-making machine. But this is central London after all. Is it any surprise that a restaurant that lets broke twenty-somethings sit around chatting all night and even gave them freebies has failed to survive? Hardly. And it’s not like I even mind efficient pizza joints, I love grabbing a quick margherita as much as the next person, I’ve just never particularly imagined being proposed to in such a place.
A couple of guys check me out as I cross the restaurant, which makes me feel a little better. At least my outfit’s a winner. Although, as I near Paul, I can’t really say the same about his clothing choices. He hasn’t exactly made an effort. He’s wearing an old navy shirt he’s had for years that’s covered in bobbles. I keep telling him to get rid of it, but he refuses. He loves that shirt. And he hasn’t brushed his hair either. I mean, seriously? Paul may work as a graphic designer in an arty coworking space, he may not be subject to the strict grooming and dress codes as my corporate job, but still. He is meant to be proposing today, he could have made a bit more of an effort.
He looks up and waves limply at me. I fix a smile onto my face, but I feel another twinge of disappointment. He hasn’t even shaved. He doesn’t even look happy. In fact, he looks quite weary and tense. Perhaps he’s as deflated as I am about the restaurant’s transformation. I wave back and try to be more positive. All is not lost. The restaurant may be a bit rubbish, but we can always go to a nice romantic cocktail bar afterwards and have a laugh at what a bust dinner was. Maybe Paul will propose there? Or perhaps we’ll wander over to London Bridge and he’ll get down on one knee with the Thames shining under the light of the moon and the city glittering in the darkness around us. That would be perfect! Maybe this has gone wrong for a reason.
By the time I reach the table, I’ve practically turned my mood around. I feel so confident that I want to be proposed to on London Bridge and that this twist of fate is in fact mine and Paul’s destiny – a cute story to tell the grandkids – that I lean in and give Paul an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.
‘You alright?’ he laughs, raising an eyebrow, as though my enthusiasm has caught him off guard.