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By the time I get back from the kitchen, he’s asleep. I set the water on the bedside table next to him and carefully climb over him to my side of the bed. When I’m situated, he groans softly and rolls onto his side, turning away from me. My poor, poor love. In all this time together, I’ve never seen him sick?not even a head cold. It’s like he’s been impervious to illness?until now.
As I drift off to sleep, I realise with a start that I will need to take the day off tomorrow. I can’t leave him on his own in my flat, sick and miserable. He needs me. Besides, I may have limited culinary skills but I am a master at making toast and tea?the perfect elixir for the infirm.
I took today off claiming the food poisoning as my own, because I’m not sure where my (very posh) inner London school stands on taking sick leave to look after one’s French boyfriend because he ate a dodgy baguette from a train station.
Jean-Luc has been a stoic as ever, never once complaining as he’s spent the day shuffling back and forth between bed and the loo. He’s the total opposite to me, and everyone else in my family, who love to moan long and loudly if we have so much as a headache. I even managed to convince him to nibble on a slice of my perfectly made toast around lunchtime?dry, of course, as Mum would insist on?and sip some tea.
He’s now sort-of upright on the sofa and chuckling intermittently at FRIENDS. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, sitting next to him and tucking my feet under me. I reach over and smooth the hair from his forehead. He’s getting some colour back?or rather, normal colour now that he’s not chartreuse.
He turns towards me, his intense greens eyes creasing at the edges. ‘I am fine for now. Thank you for looking after me.’
‘Of course!’
‘And for lying for me.’
‘What sort of girlfriend am I if I can’t chuck a sickie to look after my sick boyfriend?’ I say, bunging on a broad Aussie accent.
‘You are adorable.’
‘Accurate.’ He smiles, but his expression suddenly turns serious. ‘What? Do you feel sick again?’ It’s been ages since I had food poisoning?the culprit, a kebab from a food truck in Camden on a particularly big night out with Mich, my bestie?so I’m not sure how long he’ll be unwell.
‘Non.’
There’s a small stab of doubt in my gut.
‘Jean-Luc?’
He expels a long sigh and the stabbing sensation intensifies. I really hope he’s not going to bring up me moving to Paris again. There are only so many ways to deflect a proposition like that before a man decides he wants out of a relationship. But I’m just not ready. I’m not sure I ever will be.
‘This is not what I had hoped for the weekend is all.’
‘Oh!’ I say, adding, Is that all? in my mind. ‘That’s all right. We’ll just have a quiet weekend in. It’s fine. And Jane’s going to some festival tomorrow?she’s staying overnight so we’ll have the place to ourselves. We can Netflix and chill,’ I add, although I’m positive Millennials abandoned that term ages ago.
‘That’s not …’ The stabbing sensation is back. ‘I had something special planned?a special restaurant for tonight … a surprise …’ Unlike my sister, I do like surprises and I feel a momentary twinge of disappointment?even though this isn’t his fault and I have no right to be disappointed about something I didn’t even know about two minutes ago.
I reach up and run my fingers down his stubbly jawline. He really seems upset about our ruined plans and I still feel a little uneasy. ‘We can go another time?next time you visit.’
He looks at me again. ‘Wait here.’ He heaves himself off the sofa and I watch him disappear down the hallway. Even not-quite-well and wearing baggy sweatpants and a creased T-shirt, he’s sexy. Though sexy thoughts are highly inappropriate at the moment and I give myself a mental slap. Instead, I stand and start tidying the remnants of our pop-up infirmary, taking dirty dishes to the kitchen.
‘Catherine,’ he says from the doorway. ‘Please, come and sit.’ He indicates the sofa and as I cross the room, I swallow the hard lump that’s lodged in my throat.
I sit.
He kneels in front of me and retrieves a small velvet box from the pocket of his sweatpants. His serious expression softens as he breaks into a sweet smile and looks into my eyes. I want to stare at that box, but there is something about his gaze that draws me in like a tractor beam.
‘I had wanted to do this in a beautiful restaurant after a perfect meal and with champagne but, alors, the fates conspire. And as I sit here today, I go backwards and forwards?wait for a better time or ask you now? But what better time? I needed you today. I needed you to look after me and you did?you were here for me.’
Oh, my god.
His eyes are brimming with tears now?so are mine, I realise.
‘Catherine, I have loved you since I was a boy, I love you more today than I ever have, and I will love you even more tomorrow. You are my most favourite, most special person, my love, my life. Will you, Catherine Louise Parsons, do me the incredible honour of marrying me?’
He opens the box and sitting inside is an elegant gold ring with a filigree band and a solitaire diamond. It’s beautiful.
‘It was my grand-mère’s, Grand-mère Ellie. She would have loved you. You would have loved her. If anything makes me sad maintenant it is that you didn’t meet.’ A tear spills, running down his cheek and he smiles.
I still haven’t uttered a word. What words are there? What words can possibly encapsulate how much I am in love with this wonderful man, how beautiful his heart is, and how his proposal has made me feel?
Before my mind catches up with my heart, before I can rationalise and fret about implications, about work visas and addresses or the fact that before he and I reconnected I’d been single?on purpose?for more than a decade, I finally am able to say the one word that does capture everything I’m feeling.
‘Yes.’
He grins now and I beam back at him and his hand shakes as he slides the ring onto my ring finger. It’s a perfect fit and I caress it gently?it’s so beautiful. When I look back at Jean-Luc, he takes my face gently between his hands, presses his lips to my forehead, then to each cheek, and finally against mine.
‘Je t’aime,’ he whispers in between kisses.
‘Je t’aime aussi,’ I whisper back, then pull him closer.
Oh, my god, I’m engaged!
