much every second of that time together and it hasn’t just made me realise that you are impossible to grow bored of, but also that I can’t bear the thought of spending a single second without you.’
I stare at him, blankly. Unable to do anything but blink.
‘More?’ he asks with a laugh. ‘OK. Before we met, sure, I was happy, but I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I was missing. And this place just didn’t feel like a home until you moved in – and not just because you keep the fridge fully stocked,’ he jokes.
‘Tell me about it,’ I reply. ‘I remember when I used to stay over here, and I was having to have banana-flavoured milk on my Frosties because that was all you bought – and I was having to eat Frosties for three meals a day because all you had in your cupboards was cereal.’
‘Well, that’s because we stopped going out; we just stayed in and had sex all the time.’
‘Unlike now?’ I ask as a cheeky smile creeps across my face.
‘Well, now we just do both – sometimes at the same time,’ he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
The first time I slept with Mark, it was so good, I thought I’d died and gone to sex heaven. Seriously. We went out a lot when we first started dating, but as soon as we realised how explosive things were in the bedroom for us (not that we’ve ever thought it necessary to limit ourselves to that one room), that was it; we would just stay in and have sex all the time, breaking only to go to work (give or take a few ‘sick days’) and eat Frosties (and one time, we didn’t even bother taking a break from having sex to eat cereal – we’re still finding Frosties in our bedroom to this day).
‘Roxie,’ he continues, as his hand finally emerges from his pocket with a small black box in it. ‘Will you marry me?’
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wondered about how my future husband would pop the question to me. I’ve thought about the location, the words he would use, what the ring would be like. What I never gave much consideration to was how I would react – but what’s important is for me to be cool, calm and ladylike, right?
‘Fuck off,’ I blurt out, my London accent having never sounded stronger.
Mark laughs.
‘I’m going to assume you’re saying that in disbelief and not as a firm “no”,’ he says with a nervous laugh.
I don’t know why, but I crouch down on the floor in front of him, so we’re at eye level again.
‘Of course it’s not a “no”, it’s a “yes” – it’s a “fuck yes”,’ I babble.
‘You haven’t even looked at your ring,’ he tells me.
I take the box from him and place it to one side.
‘Whatever it is will be perfect, I’m sure. But all I want is you,’ I tell him sincerely. Sure, it would be nice to have a pretty rock on my finger, but if there’s one thing I am always telling people, it’s that Mark is way too good for me, and I don’t mean that because I don’t think much of myself. I just cannot believe my luck. How did I wind up with a man this perfect?
‘The plan was to wait until Christmas Day and ask you then, but I’ve been carrying this ring around for two days and the thought of waiting a few more weeks seemed liked torture. I did have this big romantic thing planned out, but… sorry,’ he laughs awkwardly.
Tears of happiness fall from my eyes, ruining the perfectly applied make-up I spent a chunk of the morning on.
‘No, don’t cry, how will you take a selfie?’ he teases.
I wipe my eyes with my hands.
‘We’ll just have to take one later and pretend we took it now,’ I half joke.
Mark jumps to his feet and offers me a hand.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more gorgeous,’ he tells me, despite the sniffling noises I’m making. ‘Now, sorry to ruin the moment, but sex was briefly mentioned about five minutes ago and I’ve been desperate to get my hands on you since.’
I laugh as Mark lifts me up from the floor before pinning me down on the sofa.
‘Ooh,’ I squeak. ‘Something is going in my butt.’
‘Well, if you insist,’ Mark replies as he kisses his way down from my neck to my stomach, tugging at my dress with urgency until I’m down to my underwear.
‘That wasn’t a demand,’ I laugh. ‘There’s something under me on the sofa.’
An explosion booms through the surround sound, causing us both to jump in fright.
‘Oh, shit, you must be on the controller. You’ve started a new game,’ he laughs.
‘Oops,’ I giggle. ‘Quick, turn it off, you’ve still got your headset on.’
Mark grabs me by the thighs and pulls my body closer to his, laying me flat on my back.
‘Let the nerds listen.’
I gasp as he presses down on top of me.
‘You are a bad boy,’ I whisper into his ear.
‘I’m just trying to change your opinion of Sundays,’ he tells me. ‘And while I’m around, I promise you, all of your Sundays are going to be this amazing.’
Another explosion booms through the living-room speakers.
I close my eyes and bite my lip in sheer pleasure.
‘Don’t you want to pause your game?’ I ask him.
‘Why?’
I glance at the screen.
‘Someone keeps blowing you up,’ I half say, half moan.
‘Roxie, I could be on fire in real life and I wouldn’t stop having sex with you,’ he laughs. ‘We’ll just have to drown out their explosions with a few of our own.’
‘My kind of video game,’ I reply breathlessly.
‘There’s only one thing left to do now,’ he begins, struggling to form sentences as he gets ready to focus on the mission at hand. ‘You need to finally meet my parents.’
Being in a relationship with a lifestyle writer must be absolute hell, because everything we do is for an article – and even if it isn’t, we’ll most often realise we can get an article out of it anyway.
I am as guilty of this as the next writer, plagiarising my real life for my work. From the very first time I picked up a pen (or a Macbook, as I started taking my career more seriously), I was dipping into my real life for my work, and I found that’s when I wrote my best material. If you’ve ever tried to do
