fabulous,’ I say.
The waiter places a jug of hot chocolate sauce on the table between us.
‘Sir, if you would like to do the honours,’ he says, raising his eyebrows at Patrick and then making a strange half bow before moving away. Patrick picks up the jug and pours the steaming hot chocolate over my dome, which melts into a chocolate puddle.
‘What’s that?’ I ask. There is something glinting in the chocolate.
Patrick pushes his chair back and walks two steps so that he is next to me. Then to my utter bemusement he gets down on one knee.
‘Lydia, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
My jaw drops open. All the other diners have fallen silent, and everyone is staring at us. Even the violinist has stopped playing. And then, as if he realises that he is missing his moment, he launches into the theme from Love Story.
‘So?’ he asks, reaching for my hands.
‘Yes. Yes, of course!’ I say.
And he leans over, grabbing my face between his hands and kissing me passionately. Despite the quiet elegance of the restaurant and its clientele, everyone erupts with applause and shouts of congratulations. The waiter pours us another glass of champagne and Patrick returns to his seat.
‘The ring is inside the chocolate.’
‘I gathered,’ I say, laughing as I try to extract it from the chocolatey goo without making too much of a mess.
‘Let me clean it,’ he says. He dips the ring in his water glass and then wipes it dry with his napkin. ‘Hold out your hand.’
He slips the ring onto my finger, the finger that still has a white mark from the engagement and wedding rings I wore for the last sixteen years. ‘You have just made me the happiest man on earth,’ Patrick says.
I gaze at the ring. It is huge and utterly beautiful; a large emerald-cut solitaire diamond; I hate to think how much it cost. It makes my ring from Adam pale into insignificance. No wonder Patrick couldn’t afford his sister’s treatment if he was spending money on a whopper like this.
As we wander back to the hotel, walking this time, arms around each other, I can’t help thinking whether I’m being impetuous. I recall my promise to the kids that I wouldn’t be giving them a new father. I wonder what friends and family will think, engaged to a new man so quickly after the death of my first husband. Patrick squeezes me as if he can sense my doubts.
‘I am so happy,’ he whispers into my hair.
‘Me too,’ I say.
Much later, when we are lying in each other’s arms in the sumptuous bed with the softest mattress and most silken sheets I have ever lain in, Patrick asks, ‘Can we get married soon? Perhaps in a month?’
‘Why the hurry?’
I can feel his heart beating faster and it makes me love him even more.
‘We’re not exactly in the first flush of youth. I don’t want to miss any more years with you. It just feels so right.’
‘Let me think about it,’ I say, wondering how I will break the news to Mia and Oliver. ‘It’s just quite soon since Adam died and–’
‘I know, but I want to grasp happiness, and I want you to be Mrs Grant. I’m an old- fashioned man and don’t believe in living together before marriage.’
That surprises me, but I don’t say anything. I think then of how unhappy I have been during the past few years; the times when Adam was clearly cheating on me, but I let him get away with it for the sake of our family. Those nights I lay in bed with him snoring gently next to me, but feeling lonelier than I might have done if I had been living alone. I had no idea it was possible to feel so forlorn living with someone else.
But Patrick is a different man. He understands my issues with trust, and perhaps he has them too. And the money concerns, well, they have proven to be unfounded so far. I deserve this happiness. So long as I provide security and love to Mia and Oliver, I am sure all will be fine. It will, won’t it?
15
The gym has become my refuge of late. It’s ironic, really, because I was terrible at sport at school. Always the last to be chosen for teams, I experienced humiliation and bullying because of my ineptitude to catch or hit a ball. And I never learned to swim properly. How ironic that is; perhaps