One in a Million: The no 1 bestseller and the perfect romance for autumn 2018. Lindsey Kelk
On screen, the national anthem ended but instead of the clapping and jogging shenanigans that usually followed, the camera panned around the stands. An entire section of the stadium had taken off their England shirts to reveal bright pink T-shirts and when the camera pulled out, they formed a massive heart in the middle of the all-white-wearing crowd. All at once, the same section held up their phones until they joined together in one enormous high-tech jigsaw that read MARRY ME KARINE.
‘Oh god, it’s a flashmob,’ I heard Miranda mutter at the side of me. ‘I’d murder someone if they did this to me.’
‘Point taken,’ Martin whispered back.
But I was too busy staring at the screen to comment.
The words were replaced with an image of a couple on the big screen pitchside. He had dark hair and olive skin and she was tiny and blonde and beautiful. She was so delicately pretty, it looked as though her features had been carved out by unicorns. So that’s what their horns were for. Eventually, the cameraman found the couple themselves and zoomed in on their corporate box. They needn’t have zoomed in quite so close, you could have seen the ring from space, it was enormous. And of course, Karine said yes.
Suddenly, I seemed not to be breathing and my hands were clamped over my mouth. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, completely mute.
‘Mortifying,’ Martin scoffed. ‘Who proposes at a World Cup game?’
‘Someone romantic?’ suggested a random voice behind me.
‘Someone with a massive pair,’ Charlie commented.
I exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. I happened to know first-hand that they were both wrong because it was Matthew, my ex-boyfriend.
Like I said, every once in a while, everything comes together and for a single day, your life is amazing.
Unfortunately, this was not going to be one of those days.
‘Did she see it? Did she see it?’ Brian sprinted across the roof, knocking several people out of the way as he lunged in front of the big screen. ‘Annie, close your eyes. Take out your contact lenses. No, you don’t wear lenses, poke out your eyes.’
I opened my mouth to say it was fine but nothing came out.
‘Are you all right?’ Miranda asked while Brian began unfastening his button-down shirt in order to cover the screen where the happy couple were busily waving to their thousands of new friends. ‘Annie, talk to me.’
‘I’m missing something here,’ Charlie said, shielding his eyes from Brian’s pasty torso.
‘And I’m missing the game,’ Martin shouted. ‘Get out the way, dickhead.’
‘This is bigger than twenty millionaires kicking a ball around,’ he shouted back. ‘That’s Annie’s ex. Show some respect, man.’
‘Twenty-two!’ Martin gasped in horror at the idea of someone not knowing how many players made up a football team. Charlie, Miranda and Brian all stared, waiting for me to say something.
‘I’m fine,’ I insisted. ‘Really.’
There were at least three dozen people on the roof terrace, some I knew, most I didn’t, but every single one of them was looking at me. If you took off my clothes, threw in a couple of murderous clowns and a box full of spiders, it was my worst nightmare come true.
‘Yes, Matthew’s my ex-boyfriend,’ I confirmed to Charlie with a breezy smile. ‘But very ex. Long time ago. Not a big deal.’
‘Well, it’s not quite been a year, has it?’ Miranda corrected helpfully.
‘Feels like much longer,’ I said, pinching her thigh tightly as I stood. ‘You know, I’m not really in the mood for football. I think I might head home after all.’
‘We’re coming with you,’ Brian declared, shirt still open and streaming out behind him like a factory seconds Backstreet Boy. ‘Come on, Miranda.’
Mir paused for a split second, glancing at her work boyfriend who kept his eyes on the football.
‘Come on, Miranda,’ Brian barked.
‘I don’t mind if you want to stay,’ I told her, lying through my teeth. ‘Honest.’
I would literally never forgive her.
‘I’m coming,’ she replied, leaping to her feet and wrapping an arm around my shoulders. ‘We’re out of champagne anyway.’
I noticed Martin watching out of the corner of his eye but he didn’t say anything to try to stop her.
‘I really am OK,’ I said, sending a silent prayer up to the patron saint of friends for my bests. ‘It’s just the surprise. It’s been ages since we broke up, sorry, since I broke up with him.’
‘Really?’ Brian scrunched up uncertain features as he hustled us across the rooftop, down the staircase to the fourth floor and buzzed for the lift. ‘I thought you were the dumpee.’
I pursed my lips tightly.
‘No, I wasn’t. I ended it.’
Brian looked to Miranda for confirmation.
‘Technically, yes,’ Mir said, rubbing little circles in the middle of my back. ‘She broke up with him.’
He still didn’t look convinced.
‘But wasn’t he already—’
‘Shut up, Brian.’
‘And didn’t you walk in on them—’
‘Shut up, Brian.’
‘The official record shows I did the dumping,’ I insisted as the lift pinged open. ‘And that’s what matters.’
Out of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the fourth floor, I could see a glorious sunset breaking across the sky. It was such a beautiful evening and I didn’t want to ruin it for them.
‘You two should stay,’ I said, slipping one foot between the lift door and the wall. ‘I’m going to go for a walk.’
‘No way,’ Brian said. ‘We’re not leaving you alone.’
‘I don’t need a babysitter,’ I insisted, putting on my resolved face. ‘That was admittedly very weird, but I’m fine, I promise. Just not in the mood to go over it all night long.’
Did anyone really like rehashing their break-ups? It felt like a lifetime since Matthew and I had ended things, but seeing him on the big screen had been a shock. I’d done such a good job of wiping him out of my life, such a dramatic re-entry felt like a punch to the gut.
‘As if I’m going to let you go home on your own and be upset over that tosser,’ Miranda said as my resolved face faltered. ‘Matthew was a wanksock, you are the best. It’s like you, then Chrissy Teigen and then Beyoncé.’
‘No way am I better than Chrissy Teigen,’ I argued. ‘Maybe Beyoncé on a good day, but never Saint Chrissy.’
She stared at me with a thoughtful pout and I offered her a genuine, if watery smile in return.
‘Fine, you can go,’ she said, finally. ‘But you have to promise me you’re not going to spend all night stalking their Instagram accounts.’
‘I’m not a sadist,’ I replied, stepping into the lift. ‘I’m going to watch the proposal once or twice, find something he bought me and burn it, have a cry in the bath and then watch QVC Beauty until I pass out in front of the TV.’
‘We can’t argue