Page 57 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

We pull onto a busy main street. Jackson, like a puppet-master, has to dodge the passing people; he’s laughing now. I hear people mention the blindfold excitedly. This makes my heart beat.

I know there are doormen by the way the doors open simultaneously and sweep me in with crispy fallen leaves; the blast of a rich life hits us like interrupting an oven full of roast potatoes mid-bake. The clatter of service, clanging of trays and twanging cutlery, voices washing overhead, laughter and, somewhere, string music. Here, where the sunshine could switch on with the flick of a button like a lightbulb and shine red hot if you wanted, where candlewax drips thick as butter, pink lobster claws stare up at you, lemon slices come in handkerchiefs and you know the toilet paper is more quilted than your duvet at home. This place is posh.

I slip my burnt orange faux fur coat off my shoulders and onto a wooden hanger, with help from a staff member. I am special and loved and important and inadequate and inferior and self-conscious and guilty and consumerist and a brat and a fraud and a movie star, and all those things you’re meant to feel when someone spoils you. And the blindfold comes off. The sign reads: LOGAN’S. Posher than posh.

‘You’re a handsome Disney Prince,’ I say and he is, valiant in his long navy mac and shirt. Radiant. Someone who will turn heads. I can see in his eyes that he’s nervous by this experience too, that it isn’t just me overwhelmed and flustered.

I take in the shining chessboard-tiled floor, like something from a gothic fairy tale, as we trip-trap towards our black leather studded booth. There is marble, wine glasses, salt and pepper pots so heavy you could kill a bear. Trolleys loaded with veiny cheeses and clouds of tiramisu. A gleaming wagon of an ice bucket, like a sledge on crushed ice, rammed with bottles of wine, ready to be yanked out. The twinned arched windows, the domed ceiling, the antique Tiffany lamps and fierce candles. One of those old-fashioned lifts with the ornate guards, and, above, a huge balcony that hangs overhead. I am reminded of Christmas for some reason, but nearly everything decadent makes me think of Christmas. A giant gold clock eyeballs us; the room seems to dance.

‘Oh, you’re sneaky … ’

I go in to kiss him. He smells like expensive aftershave – the woody, smoky one he got in Liberty.

A tail of sizzling fish sails past on a speeding silver tray; heads turn; a woman tips her head back with a cackle.

‘Happy anniversary, Ells … ’ Jackson says, a bit calmer at the table. ‘You look really beautiful tonight.’

‘Oh, no, don’t, you’ll make me cry.’ I catch his eye. PING!

Waiters fuss around us like we’re superstars doing a costume change mid-performance – flapping huge menus and wine lists, reeling off specials; corn-fed chicken, steak tartare and dressed crab. Jackson and I take turns, politely murmuring, Thanksthankyouthanks.

We giggle like it’s our first date as we overhear a table, in drunken broadcasting bellows, exchange conversation: pedigree dogs, country houses and recommendations for what I’m pretty sure is that procedure where you PAY to have your bum hole cleaned out with a plastic pipe. I pull a face at Jackson. Mutter, These lot really aren’t our species. My appetite diminishing. I know Jackson wants to make an effort, as do I – I appreciate the gesture but I’m not sure this place is very us. I don’t want Jackson spending all this money on this. We’ve just bought the flat. I’d happily have beans on toast.

I scrunch up my nose, to assess how he’s feeling without sounding ungrateful, open my mouth to say, Hey, shall we just leave? This place is a bit …

And suddenly, no, he’s reaching inside his jacket pocket, getting down on one knee now. JACKSON. You’re fucking kidding me.

‘Wait … ’ I say. GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!

And then I see it. It. The navy velvet ring box and inside: a ring and all the things that come with it. I want to laugh but he’s deadly serious. I can physically see the adrenaline in his eyes. I mean, this is wonderful, magical, special and so kind but—

‘Jackson – what are you doing?’ I find myself saying.

I clap my hands over my face and feel the eyes of the staff and diners at Logan’s, an audience at this showdown. I see Jackson’s shaking hands, feel his nerves, hear his dry mouth opening to say—

PLEASE, DON’T SAY IT.

‘Will you marry me, Ella?’

His teary eyes are a jewelled promise of a good life. I know he’ll be an amazing kind forever-partner. I know he would move the earth to make us happy. I know, with him, I would always be OK. Listened to, cared for, understood, valued. I would love him. He would love me. I know he’ll get the big Dulwich house one day. The nice car. Holidays to the Maldives. I can see him as a dad, jeans rolled up past his ankles to paddle in the sea, two faceless children holding bamboo fishing nets. We’d never have to worry, solid for whatever life threw at us.

‘El?’

I realize that Jackson and the restaurant are waiting for my reply. Even the chefs, flames turned down, are egging me on. The waiter’s already peeling the gold foil from a thirty quid glass of champagne in anticipation. I’m not meant to be drinking but this is an exceptional circumstance, a once-in-a-lifetime treat. I’ve never told Jackson I was giving up for good and I suppose if I can break sobriety with my mates I can do it now, with Jackson, at something as momentous as this. As far as life events go, this is up there.

‘Sorry!’ I laugh and the restaurant laughs back like we’re kids in a school play forgetting our lines. ‘Yes?’ And the room applauds. ‘Of course, yes.’

YES. YES? YES! There, I said it. Relationships take work but, see, this is what happens when hard work pays off. You reinforce your commitment. You strengthen. You pour more love in and then more on top of that to lock in the love. Air-tight.

Jackson leaps up to embrace me and I fall into his chest. He kisses me on the lips, quite greatly. It’s so romantic, tipping me back like this; where did that come from? People whoop, the champagne cork pops, shooting bubbles and glory into glasses – ohmygodohmygod – this is a big deal! Jackson slides the ring onto my finger. It twinkles under the lights, looking foolishly out of place with my chipped green nails and junkyard rings but I am walking on air.

And just like that life resumes; people order more drinks, starters, request the bill. The moment for them, already a memory, but for us, everything has changed.

We’re getting married.

‘I’ll be back to take your order – enjoy and congratulations,’ the waiter says.

‘THANKS!’ I gurgle, still not managing to find my voice, and both us and the waiter laugh at my giddiness.

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