The Proposal: James Spills All the Secrets

I should start by saying that I am, by nature, a planner. I am the person who makes restaurant reservations three weeks in advance, who packs for trips five days early, who keeps a running notes document of things I want to say to people and never actually says them. So the fact that I had been carrying Amelie's engagement ring in my coat pocket for eleven weeks before I actually proposed tells you something about how completely she undoes me.

The Ring

I found the ring at an estate jeweller on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in November. The owner, a man named Édouard who had clearly heard every nervous speech a person had ever given to a jeweller, listened to my description of Amelie with what I can only describe as professional patience. He showed me six rings. I looked at the third one for about four seconds and said 'that one.' It was an Edwardian piece — delicate, architectural, slightly unusual. Exactly her.

Eleven Weeks of Carrying It Around

I had the ring before I had the moment. I knew I wanted it to be somewhere meaningful, somewhere outdoors, somewhere that would look beautiful in the photographs that I was fairly certain Amélie would want. She is, after all, an architect. Aesthetics matter.

I had a speech. Several speeches. I have them saved in my notes app — I counted this morning and there are seven different versions, each one slightly shorter than the last as I edited out the parts that made me sound like I was delivering a TED talk rather than proposing to the woman I love.

All the rehearsing in the world will not prepare you for the moment you actually look at the person you are about to ask. I forgot every word. Turns out, that was fine.

The Morning in Parc de Sceaux

I chose Parc de Sceaux for the cherry blossoms. Every spring they bloom in the alley of chestnuts near the grand canal — an absurd, perfect, movie-set explosion of pink that lasts for approximately ten days and then vanishes. I had been checking the weather forecast obsessively for two weeks. The third Sunday in March looked perfect: cool, bright, still.

We drove out in the morning. Amelie thought we were going for a walk and a picnic. She was wearing her old blue coat and carrying a canvas bag with bread and cheese and a thermos of coffee. She looked, I thought, exactly like herself — which is to say she looked like everything.

We walked into the cherry alley and I stopped. The blossoms were out. Pink and white and ridiculous and perfect. Amelie turned to take a photograph. I reached into my pocket. And all seven versions of the speech disappeared.

What I Actually Said

Something true and short. Something about the gallery in Montmartre and the wine glass and the three hours talking and all the ordinary Sunday mornings that had followed. Something about how the best decision of my adult life was apologising to a stranger about her Burgundy. I got down on one knee. She started saying yes before I had finished the question. She finished my sentence for me. That felt right.