It had been a lovely afternoon and wonderful to see how close our families still were after so many years of friendship. Our mums were continuously off gossiping with each other as they brought in more mountains of food (you’d have thought the whole village was coming – it was only us lot!), while the two dads lounged on the sofa and grunted about the football. Robert and Ben had everyone in stitches as they talked through stories of our childhood (tears, tantrums and laughter), reminding the parents how much of a nuisance we all were. I sat quietly, pigging out on the sausage rolls and chicken nuggets, and listened, feeling lucky to be part of such a close-knit group – although sorry that things had become so complex that Ben had decided to leave. It didn’t seem fair.
As we left I hugged Ben goodbye on his mum’s driveway. It was the truest hug we’d had in years. Our guards were dropped. I felt an overwhelming pang of sadness knowing I’d not be seeing him for a long time. I squeezed him tightly and breathed him in, holding back the tears at having his arms wrapped around me, holding me securely.
I’m ashamed to say that I walked away from him feeling relieved at knowing he wasn’t going to be around confusing my heart once more with his almost-confession.
I waited until he’d left, and was firmly on South American soil studying Spanish in Ecuador, before I decided to tell Pearl of our encounter in the kitchen. We’d been in the Roebuck, one of Chiswick’s great gastro pubs on the High Road, for about an hour and had already scoffed our way through steak and chips (her), and bangers and mash (me). We were about to dive into the sticky toffee pudding and salted caramel ice cream, which we’d decided to share because we were so full (but cheekily asked for an extra scoop of ice cream to be added), when I told her that Ben had, quite possibly, insinuated that he’d finished with Alice because he still loved me. It was enough to make her take her eyes off our dessert, for a split second.
‘Let me get this right,’ she said slowly as she pieced together the facts, waving her spoon in the air as she did so. ‘The first time he told you he loved you he slept with someone else – the girl he got engaged to.’
‘Yep.’
‘And the second time he told you he packed his bags and went travelling? Seriously?’ She shook her head at the madness of it, before taking another mouthful of dessert.
‘Well, he didn’t actually say it this time.’
‘No chance you could’ve misread it?’
‘None.’
‘What is he playing at?’ she asked, screwing up her eyes suspiciously.
‘Nothing, he’s gone.’
‘Yes, and has left you behind, sat at home thinking of him. Crafty bugger.’
‘I don’t think that was his plan. I don’t think he had a plan. You know Ben’s not like that. I think he was just confused, he’s been through such a tough time, it hasn’t been easy.’
I stopped, knowing I was rambling in his defence.
‘His plan certainly hasn’t worked then,’ she smiled, putting the last piece of pudding smugly into her mouth.
She was wrong, I told myself. I knew Ben, and I knew it wasn’t some manipulative plan to stir up trouble. He’d innocently alluded to things. That was all. I’d brought up the conversation, I’d asked the questions, he had just answered them. As a result he’d momentarily opened the door to those old feelings and given us a glimpse of what was … but he’d left it there and slammed the door firmly shut again by going away. If he had wanted anything from me after that revelation, he would have made it clear then, rather than moving thousands of miles away from me. He’d closed the conversation before there was any real declaration of love, making it obvious he wanted nothing from me in return. There was no point in me running my mind ragged over what was clearly a slip following his break-up. There was no need for clarification.
Once again, I had to focus on my love story, the one I’d chosen, and ignore the feeling of elation Ben had caused to rise in my chest.
I’d be the first to admit that I’m not the most romantic guy in the world. I don’t buy Maddy flowers for no reason – only her birthday or anniversaries – I hardly ever run her hot baths of an evening, I probably don’t even tell her enough how gorgeous she looks – which she does, all the time. Especially today, Maddy. You look incredible!
So, because of my lack of effort in everyday life, I knew I had to do something seriously wonderful when popping the question …
Maddy
Twenty-five years old …
Robert had asked me to take the Friday before our nine-year anniversary off work, but wouldn’t let me know what he’d arranged, insisting that he wanted to surprise me. We’d never done much for our anniversaries in the past. I think that was possibly the only downside to being friends before we became a couple – it made all that lovey stuff seem weird, making us both prefer to do something fairly chilled, like curl up on the sofa with a pizza or something. It’s because of that and the fact that he wasn’t normally one for big romantic gestures, or planning ahead, that made me so excited to see what he’d organized.
The night before I’d come home to find him waiting for me in the kitchen, wearing one of my aprons over the top of his trackie bottoms and t-shirt (it was what he’d worn for school that day). In his ruffled but delicious attire, he was stirring the contents of a pot on the stove. Just by the smell I could tell he was cooking a pasta sauce – one of the only meals he’d learned to make at university that was actually quite tasty. Not only was he cooking, but the table had been laid and decorated with a dozen red roses in a vase and some glittery heart-shaped sequins were sprinkled on the cream cloth. Two glasses of wine had been poured out in preparation for my arrival. I couldn’t help but smile at the effort.
‘This is all very lovely,’ I grinned, putting down my coat and bag before walking over to him in the kitchen and inspecting the sauce he was concocting.
‘You haven’t seen anything yet,’ he teased, leaning over and giving me a kiss.
‘Really?’
‘Yep,’ he grinned. ‘You’re in for quite a treat.’
I let out a girlie giggle as I put my arms around his waist and gave him a kiss. ‘I love you.’
‘Good. Now, sit down, have some wine,’ he ordered, ushering me out of the kitchen and into the dining area. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’
Once we’d finished the scrummy meal and our tummies were protruding from the carb-fest overload – there’d been a massive slice of triple chocolate cheesecake for dessert (shop bought) – I decided to fish for more information on the next day’s activities.
‘So, what are you planning for tomorrow, then?’ I asked coyly, tilting my head and batting my eyelashes in an effort to win him over. Hoping he wasn’t going to keep me in the dark any longer.
‘Ah, I can’t tell you that, but take this,’ he said, handing me a red envelope.
‘What is it?’
‘Open it.’
I tore it open to find an anniversary card with a handwritten poem inside:
For nine years you’ve made me smile by being by my side,
I hope you know how much your love fills me with pride.
For three days we’ll go away, it’ll just be you and me,
So grab your coat and pack your bags, there’s lots of things to see.
‘We’re going away?’ I shrieked excitedly, jumping up from my seat and standing in the middle of the room in surprise, unsure of what to do with all the giddiness twirling around inside me.
‘Yep,’ he laughed.
‘Where?’
‘I’m not telling you that until tomorrow.’
‘Rob, please!’ I begged, with a desperate laugh. ‘How will I know what clothes to pack?’
‘Oh, hadn’t thought of that.’ His face creased up as he pondered over an answer. ‘Just bring warm stuff that you feel comfortable in. But also nice bits. Maybe a dress?’
‘What?!’
‘Trust me,’ he said, standing up with a grin and kissing me before piling up the dirty di
shes and walking them to the sink. ‘You go get started, I’ll wash these and then come up.’
‘You’re washing up too?’
‘Of course. Oh, and bring your camera,’ he added over his shoulder.
I couldn’t help smiling as I made my way up the stairs and pulled my empty suitcase from the airing cupboard. As I opened it on the bed and started making piles of possible clothing to take, I thought of my own anniversary gift to Robert with horror. Even with just the home-cooked meal he’d made that night, he’d already outdone my stupid picture book. I grabbed a pile of sexy underwear that I kept at the back of my knicker drawer for special occasions and packed them inside the suitcase first, thinking they’d go a long way in balancing things up.
At five thirty the following morning Robert’s phone played out its irritating alarm tune. For once I didn’t mind it. I slid to his side of the bed and nestled into his warm body, my own body perfectly fitting into the nook of his armpit, as I rested my head on his shoulder.
‘Morning,’ I whispered, my hand sliding up his muscular chest.
‘Morning,’ he replied sleepily, lifting his head and giving me a kiss.
‘Am I allowed to know now?’ I smirked.
‘Nope,’ he teased, as he shook his head and pursed his lips together tightly, pretending to zip them up.
‘But you said I’d find out today,’ I moaned, shifting so that my chin was resting on his chest, half of my body splayed on top of his.
‘Yes, but not right now.’
I pouted at him like a little child, hoping that would persuade him to tell me, but it didn’t work – he was far too in-tune with my little feminine tricks and had clearly built up a protective shield against them over the years, rendering their power useless. I’d have to wait and find out whenever he was ready.
‘It’s so unfair,’ I moaned – my last attempt in persuading him.
‘You’re such a monkey,’ he smiled, craning his neck to give me another kiss.
‘Please?’
‘No!’ he laughed, a smug smile forming at his mouth. ‘Right, let’s get showered – taxi’s going to be here soon.’
‘You mean, we’re not driving?’
‘No …’ he teased.
My eyes widened with excitement. I’d no idea what Robert had planned, but the fact we weren’t driving to wherever we were going was extremely intriguing. In fact, it blew any suspicions of what he had planned out of the water.
When, an hour and a half later, the cab dropped us off outside King’s Cross Station, my head whipped round to Robert as a smile exploded onto my face.
‘Are we …?’ I asked with surprise, unable to finish the question.
His face creased up as he laughed in response. Ignoring the swell of early morning commuters who tutted as they made their way around us and into the station, he clasped at the lapels of my coat and pulled me into him.
‘I thought it might be nice to go back and see where this little love of ours blossomed,’ he winked, kissing me before pulling out two first-class Eurostar tickets from his pocket. ‘But, this time, I thought we’d steer away from a smelly coach.’
‘Paris!’ I beamed in confirmation, throwing my arms around him and plastering his face with dozens of kisses.
‘Although we’ll probably still need these,’ he laughed, pulling away from me as he handed me two battered French phrase books. The same two we’d taken with us all those years before – they even had our names written in blue biro on the first page.
I couldn’t believe my luck. It was the most thoughtfully romantic thing that Robert had ever done for me. I was astounded at the gesture.
I was still pinching myself as we pulled into Paris’s grand Gare du Nord three hours later, and when we got in a taxi and took in the sights as we drove through the Parisian streets, and as we eventually pulled up outside our luxurious-looking accommodation, Hotel Vernet. A four-star boutique hotel, not far from the Arc de Triomphe, at the top of the Champs Elysées – the famous road lined with fabulous restaurants and expensive shops. Our hotel exterior was what you’d expect in Paris, its traditional stony cream surface patterned with horizontal lines, while at the bottom of its many windows sat intricately detailed black railings, woven with the green twigs of potted plants. Red canopies hung over each of them, giving the place an air of opulence, helped by its expansive glass entrance. It was a far cry from the shabby-looking place we’d stayed in before – it even had a lift, and a porter to take care of our bags as we checked in.
‘This is amazing, Rob,’ I said, looking around our suite – yes, a suite no less! Not only did the room have a stonkingly massive bed with an army-load of pillows laid on top of it, but it also had another room with a large cream sofa, a massive flat-screen TV and a desk – in case we felt the need to do any work while we were on our romantic trip. It was like nothing I’d ever stayed in before with its high ceilings and curtains that ran all the way up to them at the huge windows – there was even a box of Ladurée macaroons waiting for us on arrival. I took them to the bed and collapsed into the pillows while I popped a pink one into my mouth. Yum, strawberries and cream, I was in heaven.
‘Glad you like it,’ Robert smiled.
‘Ah, I could stay here all day.’
‘Oh really?’ he said, climbing onto the bed and straddling me at my waist, taking a yellow macaroon and shoving it in his mouth whole, groaning at its deliciousness. ‘That sounds like a very tempting idea.’
‘Doesn’t it …’
I pulled him down to me, hooking my arms around his neck as I licked his lips with the tip of my tongue.
‘Maddy Hurst!’
‘Yes?’ I asked, widening my eyes innocently.
‘You little minx,’ he growled, nibbling at my lip.
I hadn’t even had time to unpack the frilly knickers I’d packed before we started greedily tearing each other’s clothes off.
Once we’d managed to untangle ourselves and leave our gorgeous hotel room, we wrapped up warm and wandered leisurely, hand in hand, down the Champs Elysées, taking in the vastness of it as we went, and stopping to eat crêpes (filled with Nutella and banana) in one of Jardin des Tuileries’ restaurants for lunch.
We had decided to revisit some of our favourite spots from our teenage trip – starting with the Louvre, which had become increasingly well known since our previous visit thanks to the book (and film) The Da Vinci Code, making its glass pyramid even more famous than before. Dozens of people stood queuing, just to have their photo taken next to it, each adopting the same thumbs-up pose.
That night Robert had booked us into a restaurant for dinner, telling me to wear the smartest outfit I’d brought with me. We looked quite the dashing pair as we checked ourselves over in the hotel mirror before we left. Robert had put on a brown fitted tweed suit for the occasion and had even put a cream hankie in his breast pocket (extra posh), and polished his best black shoes so much that they gleamed. His short hair was waxed in a messy yet organized manner, finishing off the look nicely. Robert’s slickly groomed appearance was hugely different from the sweaty state he would come home in every night after a day of sports with the kids. He looked scrummy. I’d decided (after lots of deliberation) on a tight black below-the-knee dress that hugged my curves and showed just the right amount of cleavage – enough to keep Robert entertained if I were to lean across the table at dinner, but not too much that other men would ogle inappropriately. With my hair curled and pinned to the side so that it hung over one shoulder, little silver hoops in my ears, and killer black stilettos with silver heels on my feet, my look was complete. Yes, we really did look dashing. I couldn’t help but feel proud of how well we’d scrubbed up.
My jaw practically dropped as the maître d’ guided us through the high-ceilinged restaurant. The chic room was covered in gold – from the sparkly chandelier that hung from the centre of the gold-encrusted ceiling, to the candelabras placed on each table which caused the glasswear to twinkle in the candlelight. Th
e majestic feeling was taken further by classical background music being played softly by a pianist and harpist in the corner. It was like nothing we’d ever been to together before – it was so grand and sophisticated.
We were taken to a window seat, giving us a spectacular, uninterrupted view of the iconic Eiffel Tower.
Taking into account that we were in Paris, that it was our anniversary weekend, and that we’d just been given the best table in the restaurant, it’s not surprising that I suddenly assumed Robert was going to be getting down on one knee that night. It had always been a topic I pondered over whenever we went away or celebrated a birthday or anniversary (or New Year’s Eve, or Valentine’s Day; anything that had a name attached to it, really). I was always speculating over when he might do it, but, sitting there amongst all that splendour, for the first time it seemed like it was likely to become a reality.
For that reason, the excited butterflies in my tummy went berserk, stopping me from eating or enjoying myself as I cheerfully watched Robert like a hawk for any further signs – checking to see whether he was quieter than normal, nervous in some way or acting shifty. I saw nothing. Robert looked calm and relaxed as he talked non-stop, ate off my plate (apparently making the most of my lack of appetite) and guzzled down the red wine. Each time our dirty plates were taken off to the kitchen, and we were left to gaze at the view, I’d stop breathing, thinking that it could be the moment Robert had planned to ask.
Nothing came after our starters.
Nothing came after our mains.
Nothing came after our desserts.
Nothing came after our coffees.
Nothing.
Once the bill was paid and Robert stood up to leave, I stayed sitting at the table in a state of shock.
‘Let’s stand outside and get another look at the Tower before we get a taxi back,’ he winked.
My heart almost leapt into my throat at the wink, thinking it was him being suggestive – that the proposal was on its way. I gathered my bag and coat in haste, before grabbing his hand and following him outside.
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