Page 1 of Fake It 'til You Make It

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ABBEY

It’s my first day back in New York after spending six weeks in Texas auditing one of my firm’s largest clients.

I hate working away. I’m a huge home bird. I much prefer going home to the one-bedroom apartment my boyfriend Andrew and I share than a hotel, making whatever meal is designated to that particular night of the week, putting on my loungewear and watching one of our favorite shows.

We’re habitual but whoever made that sound like a bad thing was wrong. Andrew and I love routine and he absolutely hates surprises. Which is whyIwas surprised to receive his message at work this morning, telling me:

I’ve made us a reservation at Tia’s. 8.30p.m. We need to catch up.

I love Tia’s. It’s a Mexican restaurant near where we live in Brooklyn. Not at all fancy and relatively inexpensive but it was the first place Andrew took me when I arrived in New York four years ago from a small town in Alberta, Canada, where we both grew up.

These days, we go to Tia’s at 8.30p.m. every time we have something to celebrate, be it a birthday or an anniversary.

But tonight isn’t either of those things.

We need to catch up, though. He said as much in his message. And it sort of is a special occasion – he’s welcoming me home from Texas after six weeks of no IRL contact and playing back and forth with missed FaceTime calls. The dominant, rational side of my brain is trying to remember this.

The thing is, when I dragged my best friend, Shernette, to the water coolers earlier and told her about the impromptu date night, she squealed and yelled for half the office to hear, ‘OMG. That’s it! Tonight is the night! He’s going to pop the question. Put a ring on it. Get down on one knee. Andrew’s going to propose!’

There’s been zero sign that he will. If anything, we’ve spoken less in the last six weeks than we have in our entire relationship. I really think tonight is just about us getting back on track. But I can’t deny that since Shernette’s outburst, there’s been a giddy sensation, like bouncing space hoppers in my tummy.

Still, it doesn’t fit. Andrew is the least spontaneous person I know, and given I have not one spontaneous bone in my body, I should recognize such a person.

Yet, something in my head is screaming,Oh. My. Gosh. Tia’s at 8.30p.m. He’s going to propose!

I’m going to be engaged to Andrew. Paper perfect partner, tick. Career with a stable income and prospects, tick. Married by the time I’m thirty, tick. Hopefully, maybe, a baby by the time I’m thirty-two, tick.

Uncharacteristically, but more than reasonable in the circumstances, I left the office by six. Now, it’s seven forty-five and I’m making my way to the restaurant wearing one of my smarter skater girl dresses – navy with a tied neck – and flats.

The restaurant is small, only twelve tables. The walls aredecorated with traditional Mexican items, like a sombrero and cactus plants. On one wall, there’s a large mural of a matador waving his red cape at a bull.

Despite being early, I’m seated at a table for two. There’s a small LED candle in the middle of the table, next to a tiny cactus in a pot. I know from experience that prickly little sucker is real.

A waiter comes over and asks if I would like to order a drink or wait for my date.Date. It sounds so basic and out of kilter with the man I expect to soon become my husband.

I order a margarita and a glass of water, in a bid to calm my jumpy nerves, which I think are excitement more than anxiety, but right now, it’s hard to tell.

Why would I be feeling anxious?This is Andrew. Andrew and me. It’s so right, it couldn’t be wrong.

It must be excitement.

I also need to remember that this evening might just be a catch-up dinner. The proposal is nothing more than an idea dreamt up by Shernette. It won’t become a reality unless and until Andrew gets down on one knee.

I glance out of the window and up to an apartment block opposite. It isn’t the most fantastic apartment block in Brooklyn Heights, but it is suggestive of a solid career with a good income. The views from the upper levels across East River and to Lower Manhattan must be beautiful. I can only imagine.

Andrew and I have sat at this very window table on our special occasions and ruminated about who lives in there, what they must have achieved in life to afford it.

This is where we want to live, Andrew and I, when we have enough money in the bank. It won’t be long. Andrew is already making strides in his career, and whilst I’m a junior auditor, my trajectory at the firm is all mapped out for me.

I’m still gazing wistfully at the apartment block when Andrewwalks into my field of vision. He looks somber.Nervous?The thought makes my stomach flip.

I wave, holding up a hand and wiggling my fingertips. I don’t know if I manage to smile through my apprehension, but I do try. Andrew holds up one firm hand, then unbuttons the jacket of his black suit as he pushes open the door to the restaurant.

Andrew is a suit kind of guy. He’s tall and skinny and a suit makes him look intelligent with it. His hair is slicked to one side with a heavy application of wax. I prefer his hair in the mornings, when it’s ruffled from his pillow, but I understand why he likes the more put-together approach. The wax holds his hair in place for long days in the office and that’s important to him. He always looks the part of a man in finance.

I stand to greet him. In my excitement, I guess, I don’t know whether to hug him or kiss him, and it seems he’s uncertain too. The whole greeting ends up being an awkward, tense moment, which isn’t like us.

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