Millie met Alan through mutual friends and when, after six dates, he asks her to marry him, she tells him to bugger off. You don’t want to marry me, she says, swirling the wine in her glass. I’ve done this three times already. My batting average is not good. Or at least that’s what my daughter—who was partially raised in America—tells me. Oh, but I do want to do this, he says, reaching his hand across the table to grasp hers. He’s a lovely man, a little older than she is, just turned sixty-five this month. Her sixtieth is next year. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Mil. We can travel, we can sit by the fire, we can walk down the street arm in arm until we’re old and gray. That’s what I want. It’s the only thing I want. Please say yes.
She tells him she’ll think about it, and when she goes back to her flat that night, she wanders around, a cup of tea in hand, and wonders why the hell not. They have a nice time together. He’s good company. He’s loaded. He’s not dashing like Tommy. Or solid like George. And he’s not Reg. No one will be Reg. But now, at least, she knows that. He’s Alan. Why not? she says out loud to the walls. Why not? she asks the photo of Beatrix, a recent shot taken at a friend’s wedding, Beatrix laughing, her hair gorgeously pinned up. Why not? she asks Reg, living within the frame by her bed. He seems like a good find. I think we’ll be happy together. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that what we all want? She has never thought of herself as an optimist, but she’s grown to understand that she is one, at least when it comes to love.