Page 125 of The Wedding Forecast

‘Sorry. You first,’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

His nerves are making me feel less nervous somehow.

We walk to his car and I look at him, then cross my arms.

‘Okay, if you want me to get in, you need to tell me where we’re going. It’s against my self-preservation rules otherwise.’

‘Oh. Sorry. You’re right,’ he says. ‘We’re going to the Botanical Gardens. They have a light show. They call it a light-scape, with all these lights set up through the gardens and you can sit on the hill and have a picnic. I bought tickets. You haven’t been already, have you?’ He pulls out the tickets to show me, as if I need proof, and I want to hug him, because he looks so anxiously hopeful.

‘No, I haven’t been. And that sounds lovely,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ Patrick has packed a picnic basket, and he has a picnic blanket, and a spare puffer jacket for me to wear, and another blanket as well. We walk along the trail in the gardens, and admire the beautiful lights, and it is lovely but a little bit awkward because Patrick has insisted on carrying everything. He has a rug slung over each shoulder and the basket in his arms, and one of the rugs keeps slipping off onto the ground.

‘Please let me carry something,’ I say, as he stops to adjust the basket, grunting a little. I’m wearing the spare puffer jacket. It’s huge on me and I’m cosy and warm, and, as a bonus, the ugly cardigan is hidden from view.

‘Absolutely not,’ he says. ‘You are allowed to admire the lights and that’s it.’

‘I’ll just carry this blanket. It’s light. What is it for anyway?’

‘In case you get cold, I wanted to have a spare blanket to put over your shoulders.’

‘Well, that’s very thoughtful.’

We set up the picnic on a grassy rise where other couples and families are sitting, and we have a view of the night sky. The sound of flying foxes chattering in the trees around us is a little disconcerting, but I am determined to appreciate the effort and romance of this date. This is how a first date should be. He bought tickets, he packed dinner, he brought me a spare coat and a spare blanket. The mums will practically faint when I tell them.

Patrick pulls out an assortment of containers, with pasta salad and cheese and crusty bread and fruit and a quiche and a bottle of wine. He has plates and cutlery and little cups for the wine. No wonder he was struggling with the basket, he was basically carrying half a kitchen.

‘I can’t believe this,’ I keep saying.

‘Too much?’ he says. ‘I have a tendency to go overboard.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘It’s fun to have someone go overboard on you.’ And it is, I realise. He did all this planning and organising and preparing for me.

I notice he’s not eating the cheese, or the pasta salad, and I offer both to him.

‘No thanks, I’m dairy free and gluten free.’

‘Why didn’t you use gluten-free pasta?’

‘It’s not as nice. I wanted you to enjoy it.’ That is incredibly sweet and leaves me feeling immense pressure to eat it all. Luckily, it’s delicious.

After we’ve finished eating, we lie back on the rug and look at the stars.

‘I’m sorry about the fruit bats,’ he says, as another one screeches overhead.

‘They’re cute,’ I say.

This is a lie, I find fruit bats almost as terrifying as magpies—I keep imagining one is about to fall on me, its wing touching my face, but I’m not going to complain. ‘They add to the atmosphere,’ I say.

We chat, and he peppers me with questions. Where did I grow up? What did I study? What are my parents like? Where have I travelled? What is my favourite food?

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Too many questions?’

‘I like questions.’

‘When I get nervous, I just keep asking questions. And now I’m just saying whatever thought is in my mind,’ he says, smiling but looking slightly appalled at himself.

I laugh.