Page 58 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Jackson!’ I tap his arm, sounding almost annoyed; it’s the shock, the adrenaline, recovering from the scene that is so out of character for him. ‘What on earth?’

‘Honestly, when I heard you caught the bouquet at Mia’s wedding, I was dying!’ He laughs. ‘How mad was that? I was texting Aoife like how am I gonna keep this a secret?’ Bitch. ‘All worked out though.’ He squeezes my thigh, goes on to tell me how much I’d love the shop he bought it from, how special the jeweller said the ring is.

‘Does it fit OK?’

‘Yeah, perfectly.’ It really is an amazing ring. I inspect it closer, wishing I had a magnifying glass to capture all its detail.

‘It’s antique, opal,’ he says. ‘You have to be careful getting chemicals on it, washing up and in the bath and stuff; they said it’s called a water stone?’

So why is my finger scalding hot? Tight and burning. I feel extra pressure to take care of it. My ring and its demands.

‘Well, cheers, to us,’ he says.

‘Cheers,’ I say, toasting, as Jackson pretends to fancy things off this unappetizing menu. I take a mouthful of champagne. It doesn’t taste good. I could have had a whole Nando’s for this. I’m hot, light-headed, dizzy. My heart is racing rapid. I’m trapped under my own skin. I fan myself with the menu, inhaling deep. Is this a panic attack? Oh no. Not here. Not in front of all these people.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

Probably because I look as washed out as a poorly made cold cup of tea. ‘I don’t want to be rude – I’m sorry, this all very lovely, Jackson, but shall we get out of here?’

Jackson doesn’t hesitate. ‘You read my mind.’

He holds up some cash. ‘My parents gave me this, to treat us.’ He smiles. Great, everyone knows. DOLLOP ON THE PRESSURE THEN WHY DON’T YOU? Jackson tries to be cool by leaving cash on the table to pay for the glasses of champagne so we can make a swift exit.

‘I don’t think that’s going to cover it … ’ I say.

He places down two more and we make a dash for it, apologizing to the maître d’ and front of house, who are baffled as to why we’d walk out, as they fumble nervously for our jackets like they’ve done something wrong.

We tumble out onto the street. I can breathe again. Alive with the possibility of a normal Friday night in Soho, I immediately feel better.

‘Alright?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ I say, my body in chills. ‘Sorry. I think I’m just in shock? I’m shivering.’

‘Aww, come here,’ he soothes, stroking my back. Kissing my head, taxis honking past. One screams as it rushes by:

I don’t want to marry you.

My head is playing tricks. I need to eat.

‘Let’s go to the pub,’ he suggests, which he never does, so obviously – now I’ve broken the seal – I’m at it like a rat up a drainpipe.

At The Ship, some sort of normality resumes: ordinary people in ordinary clothes, Pulp’s ‘Disco 2000’ – oh, the safe, cuddly past – not a million staff shoving menus in our faces. Jackson brings over two pints and a packet of scampi fries in his mouth, drops them off like he’s instigating a game of fetch. He’s got an unmistakable spring in his step.

I pick up my pint and drain half of it.

‘Woah, you alright there?’ Jackson laughs.

‘Sorry, so thirsty after … ’ ALL THAT! I wipe my mouth.

Jackson, pint untouched, tears the packet of scampi fries open onto the dark wood round table.

‘Yesssss, don’t worry, I got you your little Frazzles.’

He jokes, knowing I DESPISE scampi fries. I grin at him, taking the crisps, my hands still trembling. I need one of those foil blankets they wear at the end of marathons and films like Die Hard.

Jackson rubs my hand, admiring his taste in engagement rings. ‘Got a wedding to plan now!’

I slam the brakes on. ‘We’re broke! Should have bought the place AFTER the wedding like Mia did. That honeymoon money would have been useful!’

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