‘Yes! Of course, I am,’ I insist.
I take off my coat and drape it over the back of my chair. I look over at Paul, expecting him to register my dress, hoping for a compliment, but he doesn’t appear to notice it at all. He’s not even really looking at me. He’s already ordered a beer and he swigs from it, while looking at his phone.
I sit down, willing him to put his phone away and be a bit more attentive.
He taps a few keys and then finally places his phone down on the table. He reaches for his beer again and takes another sip. The bottle’s almost empty.
‘Good day?’ he asks in a low bored voice.
In fact, as he asks it, his gaze wanders across the restaurant towards one of the promotions emblazoned on the walls. His gaze bypasses my dress entirely. He doesn’t notice my curled hair, my eyelash extensions, my make-up or anything. Instead, he simply narrows his eyes at a deal on cocktails.
‘It was pretty good. I, err…’ I’m about to tell him about my afternoon of pampering but he doesn’t seem at all interested.
He’s not making any eye contact. He’s barely even registered me. I feel like I need to wave a hand in front of his face to get his attention, because his eyes are roaming from the specials board to the salt and pepper shakers and even to the faces of other diners – anywhere but me. What’s he playing at? It must just be nerves but it would be nice if he could at least look me in the eye.
A waiter passes our table and I order a large glass of red. I thought they might do some traditional Italian wines like Valpolicella or Montepulciano, but they only have commonplace choices like Merlot, Shiraz, and Cabernet Sauvignon, which the waiter refers to as ‘cab sav’. I order a glass of Merlot before asking Paul, who still seems in a total daze, what he’s having.
‘Oh!’ He looks between me and the waiter, as though startled. As if he hadn’t even noticed the waiter was there until now.
I frown at him, wondering what the hell is up. There’s nervousness but this is getting borderline rude now.
‘Can I get you another drink, sir?’ the waiter – a tall athletic guy who could easily be a model or an actor, asks.
‘A drink?’ Paul frowns at the waiter as though he’s asked him a baffling philosophical question.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
‘Yes,’ the waiter replies, smiling professionally.
‘Oh, yeah...’ Paul blinks a few times, as though reality is dawning on him. ‘I’ll, erm, I’ll have another Heineken, please,’ he says, a little hesitantly, before nodding more firmly to himself. ‘Yeah, a Heineken’
‘Great,’ the waiter replies. ‘Draught or bottle?’
Paul eyes him blankly. ‘Umm, draught. No, bottle. Oh, I don’t know,’ he sighs, ‘whatever’s biggest.’
‘Of course, sir,’ the waiter replies politely before rapidly scurrying away from us.
‘Whatever’s biggest?!’ I echo once the waiter’s out of earshot.
I get that this isn’t quite the romantic meal either of us had anticipated but is getting sloshed really the solution? When I pictured Paul down on one knee on London Bridge, it was because he was about to pop the question, not because he was struggling to stand up.
Paul shrugs. ‘Sorry,’ he grumbles.
His gaze wanders once more, uninterestedly, across the restaurant. I expect him to elaborate, to tell me that something stressful happened at work or that there was an annoying hold-up on the Tube, or something that’s made him crave a drink, but he doesn’t say anything. Silence stretches between us. I wonder whether I should make a joke about how much the restaurant’s changed, but I want Paul to ask me how I’m doing or at least look at me, and yet, he doesn’t seem bothered. He swigs the last of his beer.
‘This place is different now, isn’t it?’ I venture eventually, giving up hope of him starting conversation.
‘What do you mean?’ Paul replies, placing his empty bottle of beer back down.
‘Since we last came here! It’s completely different now,’ I remark.
‘What? When did we come here?’ Paul asks.
I laugh, rolling my eyes at what is obviously a limp effort to wind me up.
‘Umm, our first date, remember?’
Paul stares blankly back at me.
‘Our first date?!’ I repeat, my voice nervous and a little high-pitched.
Paul frowns. ‘Huh?’
My stomach does a little flip. Surely, he remembers. Surely, he’s just winding me up. How can he have forgotten our first date? That’s the whole reason we’re here, after all.
‘Yes, our first date. It was in this restaurant, but it was completely different back then,’ I remind him, feeling surreal.
‘Oh, right,’ Paul replies, swallowing. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
‘You forgot?’ I balk. ‘Why are we here then?’
‘They have good deals on pizzas. I got a two-for-one promo voucher in my inbox the other day,’ Paul tells me.
A two-for-one promo? My heart sinks. Paul loves to subscribe to discount websites that send their subscribers emails packed full of coupons and deals and vouchers. I don’t bother with them myself, but Paul loves a good bargain. On the rare occasions that we eat out, Paul will often whip out a discount voucher once the bill arrives, and although I find it slightly embarrassing, it does save us money. But I can’t believe it. The reason we’re here isn’t because it’s where we had our first date, it’s because Paul got a voucher. What’s going on?
The waiter comes over with our drinks. He places my glass of wine down first. I thank him and bring it hungrily to my lips, dying to take the edge off what’s been a terrible start to the night.
The waiter places Paul’s beer down. He immediately starts drinking too.
The wine creates a comforting buzz in my stomach, and I try to relax. So, Paul may not remember that this is where we had our first date, and he may be acting a little odd, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to propose. He’s clearly on edge about something, and that something could well be popping the question, right? After all, proposing to your partner isn’t something you do every day. I should at least try to cut him some slack and relax. I need to stop expecting everything to be perfect and just relax. Just because I’ve been waiting for this for two years, doesn’t mean the stars are going to automatically align and everything’s going to be ideal.
I reach across the table and take Paul’s hand, showing I’m on his side.
‘What’s up?’ I ask as I trace my thumb over his knuckles.
He smiles sadly.
‘I love you, boo boo,’ I add in a quiet babyish voice. I don’t usually call Paul ‘boo boo’ in public. It’s a pet name we have for each other that we normally use exclusively at home.
It started as ‘baby’, but then ‘baby’ became ‘babes’, sometimes ‘bubs’, sometimes ‘bubby’, and then ‘boo boo’. At least ‘boo boo’ is my own personal favorite. Paul secretly likes our pet names, but tonight, it doesn’t have the desired effect on him at all and instead causes his mouth to twist into a grimace.
He pulls his hand from mine and looks around at the diners seated at the tables around ours, embarrassed, in case someone overheard, even though no one else is paying us any attention. The restaurant is full of young professionals catching up after work. There’s a loud hum of conversation and it’s not like anyone would have heard.