Page 6 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” I tease back. Then I draw the spring evening into my lungs and remind myself how fortunate I am. An entire day of wallowing is more than enough.

It turns out the ride is a brief one straight through Central Park. It ends less than fifteen minutes later in front of The Surrey hotel, where Spencer is waiting to help me out of the car and sweep me into his arms. “Happy birthday!” He looks delighted to see me and his voice is almost a purr when he presses a kiss to my neck and adds, “Ummm, you smell and look divine.”

So does he, of course. He’s even taller than I am, with a lean runner’s body, dark hair, and features that are somewhat ordinary on their own but somehow manage to pull together into something quite arresting. I couldn’t tell you exactly what he’s wearing. I only know it’s disconcerting to date someone whose style actually is effortless when you require professionals. But then Spencer grew up here on the Upper East Side while I grew up in a place where the wind off the Atlantic wreaks havoc with hair, shoes are often optional, and evening wear is likely to be a sweatshirt over your bathing suit.

“I know it’s kind of cheesy, but I thought we’d come back and relive our first date at Café Boulud,” he says as he walks me to the restaurant entrance.

“It’s perfect,” I say, meaning it. A nice, quiet dinner suits me just fine. Who needs fanfare at forty?

Spencer’s latest Broadway musical,The Music in Me, has been running for two years now and he and Daniel Boulud are friends, so we’re shown to a discreet yet prime table that we’ve come to think of as “ours.”

Champagne arrives the moment we’re seated and we raiseour glasses and stare into each other’s eyes. His are a beautiful green and are framed by long dark lashes. They’re filled with intelligence that’s almost always accompanied by a glint of humor. His mouth is wide and mobile, his hands long and beautiful. Whenever I look at them I think he should have been a concert pianist or sculptor. Or maybe even a surgeon.

“Happy birthday.” He smiles over his champagne flute, flashing the dimple that creases one cheek. “May we always have such happy occasions to toast together.”

I smile my thanks and clink my glass to his. The champagne is light and bubbly on my tongue, and I remind myself to enjoy the evening and not dwell on the reason for it. I’m hardly the first woman to turn forty and I won’t be the last. As they say, one must consider the alternative.

Moments later warm bread arrives. Menus don’t.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and ordered the same meal we had the first time we came here.”

“How lovely,” I say, but I can’t help wondering how he could possibly remember what we ate a year ago. We’ve consumed countless meals together since then, many of them memorable. Meals are to Spencer what game plays are to sports fanatics, but still. One meal a year ago?

“I see the doubt,” he says easily. “But I’ve never forgotten that evening. I knew then just how remarkable you are. Even if we’d never seen each other again I would have remembered every bite and every detail of your face.”

I’m afraid he’s going to tell me what I wore that night and in fact he does. Which speaks to Barry’s styling abilities. I would go everywhere in stretch pants or sweats, which is what I work in, if I could get away with it. And frankly I don’t pay that much attention to food. Most of the time I couldn’t tell you what I ate on any given day or what color sweatpants I was wearing when I ate it.

Our appetizers of Escargot en Vol-au-Vent and a Chestnut Veloute arrive and are happily consumed. They are followed inperfectly timed succession by an endive salad and entrées of Striped Bass “en Prupetti” and Duck Breast in Magnolia Leaf, which don’t look remotely familiar. They’re paired with what I’m sure are the perfect wines.

“Wow. Did we really eat this much on our first date?” I feel a rosy glow from the alcohol and the spectacular food and the way Spencer is looking at me.

“Well, I think we may have drunk more than we ate that first time. But I was so entranced with you that the meal is indelibly stamped in my brain.”

It’s beautifully said but I catch myself wondering if he keeps some kind of food diary like some men keep a little black book. Or maybe he simply knows that I’m never going to call him on his food recall. Ever. I can recite a bad review back to you word for word years after it’s been written, but a meal? It’s never going to happen.

“I remember the meal because I shared it with you,” he says softly, staring into my eyes. And I catch myself thinking how much Bree would appreciate this scene. I mean, I would never write a line of dialogue like that. She was always the one wanting to turn everyone into a hero—on the page and in real life. She inhaled romance novels like an alcoholic consumes booze and insisted on believing in happily ever afters.

“You are a flatterer, sir,” I reply, as if I’m a heroine in a historical romance.

“No. I’m a man in love.” His wink takes some of the schmaltz out of our exchange. He leans across the table to kiss me.

Before I can wonder at this display of affection in such a public place our dessert arrives, a Molten Chocolate Cake with vanilla ice cream and a single candle on top. Forty candles would turn it and our table into flambé.

“Happy birthday, darling.” He takes both of my hands in his. His smile grows larger and his eyes gleam with what I recognize as anticipation. Out of the corner of one eye I sensemovement. A small group of people materialize beside the table. Before I can turn, the group begins to sing “Happy Birthday.” These are not a ragtag group of friends belting out the song. These are professionals. As I turn I see part of the cast fromThe Music in Me. They’re wearing their costumes and beaming at me.

The rest of the room falls silent. Just as the song ends the cast members step back, lock arms around one another’s backs, and begin to sway and do some kind of doo-wop background thing. Still holding on to one of my hands, Spencer stands and moves around the table, where he drops to one knee. At first I think something’s happened to him. That one of his legs has given out. But then Merry, Kai, Jen, and Robert break into these big grins. Their doo-wop volume gets softer.

Spencer looks up at me expectantly. Suddenly there’s a velvet ring box in his hand.

I’m having a hard time taking it all in. My first thought isThis is so sudden, but it isn’t exactly. He told me he loved me a month to the day after our first meal here. A month after that I said the same. But saying you love someone doesn’t mean you intend to marry them, does it?

As Spencer tells me all the reasons he loves me my heart is pounding so hard that I can hardly hear or think. My life flashes before my eyes like they say it does when you’re about to die, which seems like a bad sign.

Then he flips open the box and the diamond sparkles in the light. It’s huge and pear shaped with baguettes of diamonds on either side. Without meaning to I compare it to the ring Clay gave Bree, which might have come out of a Cracker Jack box. This pretty much screams Tiffany.

“I love you,” Spencer concludes emphatically. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I swallow as I try to corral my random thoughts. I love him. But everyone’s staring. I feel a flash of anger that he’s done this so publicly and without warning. I’m happy with things the waythey are. I thought we both were. But how can I say no in front of all these people? And if I do what are the chances we’re going to simply go back to how things were? No. He’ll be humiliated and I’ll never see him again. I’ll be forty and alone with a declining career and... No, those are not the reasons to get married. I shove them out of my head and try to think logically. But I can’t seem to think at all.

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