Page 70 of The Last Train Home
‘I guess so.’ What do we want? What do I want? What does Sean want? I ask him this.
‘Nice life. Nice house. Nice car. Nice kids. Excellent job. What about you, what do you want?’ he asks.
‘I suppose what you’ve said sounds good – it’s hard to argue against having a nice life.’ To want the opposite of that seems counterproductive.
‘That’s what I thought,’ he says. ‘Good. Just checking.’
I smile, look out at the sun shimmering on the pool water. No one’s swimming; everyone’s posing. ‘I might do some laps,’ I say.
‘Don’t wear yourself out again,’ Sean warns. ‘We’re going out tonight, remember.’
I’d only seen the sail-shaped Burj Al Arab building on TV and once in real life before, when we drove past on our way to a champagne brunch. But now we’re in a taxi pulling up to it.
‘Sean, is this where we’re having dinner?’
He grins. ‘Yup.’
‘Wow,’ I say, because I can’t think of anything else. It’s one of the most magnificent buildings I’ve ever seen. Inside, a floor-to-ceiling fish tank lines either side of the reception walls and spans up to about the size of a house, or so it looks. We head to the escalators, agreeing that we need to go up and then down, then up again, so we can really take in the immense display. We ride up and down, giggling like children, a few times before agreeing that people are starting to look at us.
Then we’re in the lift to the twenty-seventh floor and Sean looks at me in the mirror. He pulls me towards him, spins me round so that I can see myself – us. ‘We look good,’ he says. ‘Don’t we?’
I’m wearing a red dress, tight but not too tight, above the knee but not too high. Sean’s in his dark-grey suit, his shirt open at the neck. We’re groomed, tanned, smiling.
I lean towards him, rest my head on his chest. ‘We do.’
‘We’re a good couple,’ he says.
I smile. I want to touch him. I laugh, thinking of Natasha telling me how she can’t help touching Will inappropriately in lifts. It turns out I want to touch Sean inappropriately in lifts too. That’s a good sign.
‘I’m really happy,’ I tell him instead. Because if there’s a security camera in here and I touch Sean somewhere inappropriate, we are both probably getting arrested.
‘Me too,’ he says.
The lift doors open and we walk towards the restaurant, where we’re greeted and shown to our table next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything in Dubai appears to be floor-to-ceiling. We look out over Jumeirah Beach and the view of the city beyond. Our white-tableclothed table is small, just for two, and we both sit on little chairs with a cushion propped behind us. It’s formal, but relaxed. Sean looks relaxed. I’m relaxed. It’s perfect.
He takes my hand as he orders us a bottle of champagne, and we talk all the way through dinner about life and where we want to be, the kinds of people we want to grow into. The restaurant is full, there are so many other people eating and drinking, but it’s almost as if there’s no one else here. We agree to be together through everything life can throw at us, and that nothing will ever rip us apart.
This dinner has refocused me. I’m falling in love with Sean all over again, and because we’ve entered a conversational world where I feel I can say this to him, I do.
He looks a bit taken aback and then says he thinks he knows what I mean. ‘I’ve been so busy at work. I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve ignored you a bit.’
‘You haven’t. You come home to me every night,’ I say.
‘Where else am I going to go?’ he says and takes my hand in his as the waiter clears our dinner plates, rakes the crumbs from the table into a little dish and the sommelier returns to top up our champagne.
‘Good point,’ I say.
‘I’ll always come home to you,’ he says.
We order pudding, even though I am stuffed. But I don’t want to go yet, don’t want to get the bill and leave the heavenly confines of this dinner, where Sean and I have refocusedour energies on each other. Tonight is perfect. Tonight could not be more perfect.
And then my pudding arrives, presented without show or fanfare, just placed delicately in front of me with a small display of edible flowers and some swirly chocolate garnish etched onto the plate.
I read the swirly chocolate words and then, because I think I’m hallucinating, I read them again. Sean’s smiling, looking a mix of nervous and proud of himself for having pulled this off without a hitch. I look back at the chocolate writing on the plate one more time, to be completely sure I’m not going mad.
Marry me.
Sean moves slowly from his chair, opens a small black box and drops to one knee.
