I did. Looking towards the table. There was no cake. Only the two candles now flickering within the unlit room.

I couldn’t see him at first. Then I could. He was next to the table. On the floor. Not collapsed. Worse. Kneeling.

He opened the …

He opened the tiny box that balanced within his cupped palms, like an oversized Oliver, asking for more. More of me.

‘Jesus, this is harder than I . . . Constance . . .’ He pulled out the ring. It was too dark to see properly and I prayed it was a Hula Hoop. That at any second, he’d point and say, ‘Argghhh, your face. Gotcha.’ Then I’d pretend it was a cruel thing to do to a woman. But as he held it between his fingers, I could see it glisten.

‘Constance, for the past week I thought I . . . Oh God . . .’ He placed the box on the floor and wiped his lip with his freed-up hand. ‘I know I don’t see my life without you . . . and . . . I want to look after you and make you feel safe . . . I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. For you to be Mrs Constance Cox.’

Constance Cox.

If only the ridiculous porn-star name was the sole reason I wanted to crumble into dust.

I don’t know how I reacted. I’m not sure I did or said anything, as he added, his voice and hands tremoring in equal measure, ‘I mean, you’ll probably want to keep your dad’s name too . . . so Constance Little-Cox.’

An eternity passed.

He returned the ring to the box. Stood and placed it on the table. ‘I’ve asked you to marry me and you haven’t said a thing.’

I remained in the doorway. Head down, a child about to be chastised. Gripped the DVD as if it was Blusha. ‘I know you have . . . I’m sorry.’

I felt him move closer. Waited for him to push past me, go to his room. But instead he flicked the light switch and brought all the embarrassment into brightness.

‘Well, I’ll take that as a no, then.’

He moved further into the kitchen. Placed his hands upon the worktop, bending forward, then stood upright again and collected up the dirty dishes.

I flinched at the noise of a pan dropping heavily into the sink, followed by the scraping of plates.

‘Dale . . . I didn’t say that . . . I . . .’

He turned with a bowl held between his fingers. ‘So you’re saying yes?’

‘I . . . No, but . . .’