Wedding Night
Page 4
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—but the 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 momentousness of 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 soothingly. “Your hands are too high.”
I pull off my other shoe and stocking, and, since I’m here, reach for the hand lotion to slather on my bare legs. I don’t want to look back and think, It was such a romantic moment; shame about the scaly shins. Then I get out my phone. I have to text Fliss. I quickly type:
He’s doing it!!!
A moment later, her reply appears on my screen:
Don’t tell me u r texting me in the middle of a proposal!!!
In Ladies’. Taking a moment.
V exciting!!! You make a great couple. Give him a kiss from me. xxx
Will do! Talk later xxx
“Which one is he?” says the blond girl as I put away my phone. “I’m going to have a look!” She darts out of the Ladies’, then returns a few seconds later. “Ooh, I saw him. The dark guy in the corner? He’s fab. Hey, your mascara’s smudged.” She passes me a makeup eraser pen. “Want to do a quick fix?”
“Thanks.” I smile companionably at her and start to erase the tiny black marks below my eyes. My wavy chestnut hair is swept up in a chignon, and I suddenly wonder whether to let it down so it tumbles over my shoulders for the big moment.
No. Too cheesy. Instead, I pull some tendrils out and twist them around my face while I assess everything else. Lipstick: nice coral color. Eye shadow: shimmery gray to bring out my blue eyes. Blusher: hopefully will not need touch-up as will be flushed with excitement.
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—but the 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 momentousness of 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 soothingly. “Your hands are too high.”
I pull off my other shoe and stocking, and, since I’m here, reach for the hand lotion to slather on my bare legs. I don’t want to look back and think, It was such a romantic moment; shame about the scaly shins. Then I get out my phone. I have to text Fliss. I quickly type:
He’s doing it!!!
A moment later, her reply appears on my screen:
Don’t tell me u r texting me in the middle of a proposal!!!
In Ladies’. Taking a moment.
V exciting!!! You make a great couple. Give him a kiss from me. xxx
Will do! Talk later xxx
“Which one is he?” says the blond girl as I put away my phone. “I’m going to have a look!” She darts out of the Ladies’, then returns a few seconds later. “Ooh, I saw him. The dark guy in the corner? He’s fab. Hey, your mascara’s smudged.” She passes me a makeup eraser pen. “Want to do a quick fix?”
“Thanks.” I smile companionably at her and start to erase the tiny black marks below my eyes. My wavy chestnut hair is swept up in a chignon, and I suddenly wonder whether to let it down so it tumbles over my shoulders for the big moment.
No. Too cheesy. Instead, I pull some tendrils out and twist them around my face while I assess everything else. Lipstick: nice coral color. Eye shadow: shimmery gray to bring out my blue eyes. Blusher: hopefully will not need touch-up as will be flushed with excitement.
