How my dream woman said 'yes'

He's not just Fitzy and Wippa's newsreader or a panellist for The Morning Show, FOX Sports, and the ABC – Matt de Groot is also Be's newest columnist. He'll be taking us on a deep dive into the world of dating and relationships... from a guy's perspective.

She said yes!

Well, ‘she’ has since claimed ‘She is the cat’s mother,’ so Brontë said yes. And I have been on the highest of highs for the past seven days.

For those playing at home, this is where we left it last week - I am writing this article on Thursday. It gets published on Sunday. I am proposing to my girlfriend on Friday.

Which means that when you read this I will either be engaged, or single – I doubt there’ll be an in between.

I can confirm I am an engaged man, and can also confirm it was the greatest day of my life.

I am buzzing.

I’d known how I wanted to propose for a long time, but getting it all together took some planning.

My father has possibly the worst (or best) engagement story I’ve ever heard; he was at a set of traffic lights and told Mum that it’d make more financial sense if they were married – so what do you think?

Horrific. But it has made for a life of joyful ribbing.

I had no intention of providing my kids with such easy fodder.

Brontë was certain that I’d make the proposal a larger-than-life spectacle on Nova, TV, or during a sporting event; I would never do that, but as I sit here and write yet another article about her, I can probably
see why she’d fear it.

Instead, I’d planned to go the other way and do it in the privacy of our lounge room, but with a catch.

Until I’d placed myself in this position, I’d never fully appreciated why proposing was such a nervy moment, I mean, I was certain she would say yes, and so why are there nerves?

I can tell you, there are nerves.

They aren’t surrounding the answer, but around the gravity of the moment; statistically, you only ask this question 2 to 3 times in your life.

In the moments before I asked, Brontë was in another room getting a jacket as we planned on going out that night; I would do it before we left, and so was standing in the lounge room, on my own, waiting for her to walk out.

The ring was sitting on a chair beside me, and I was trying to find the balance between resting casually, and accepting that idly standing in middle of a lounge room is a weird thing to do.

Her quest for a jacket seemed to be the longest quest for a jacket ever undertaken, and I was beginning to wonder whether she was actually crafting it herself from raw materials.

It also gave me far too much time to consider what I was doing…

• Is this the way to end a relationship?

• When the SSM debate hits close to home

Should I be on my knee when she walks out? Maybe I should stand? Do I lean on a table? Does it matter if it’s the left or right knee? I’ll google it. Gargh, no time. Why didn’t I check that earlier? Should I be
holding the ring-box now? Ok, pick it up. Wait, no, put it down. Oh shut up, Matt.

Eventually after 45 minutes (7 seconds) she emerged clueless that I was about to ask her the biggest question of her life – “Bronte, Where do you want to go for dinner?”

No; “Brontë Elisabeth Mason Coy, will you marry me?”

It all happened very quickly.

One minute she was walking towards me, next second I was down on my (right) knee… and the next second time stood still.

At the realisation of what was happening a look came across her face that I will never forget; it was a combination of shock, astonishment, disbelief and amazement, I could see her world halt.

There were tears and smiles and mercifully it was a gigantic yes.

Correction, it was a gigantic hug, and then on specific clarification it was a ‘Yes.’

Enter my plan.

Brontë had made clear she wanted a low key proposal, but foolishly made no ruling about what would happen in the aftermath.

We got in a car and headed to the Opera House where I had said we were going to an event.

What she didn’t know was that I’d organised one of the most beautiful boats I have ever seen through a company called Sydney Harbour Exclusive, and on board were 35 of our closest family, friends, and colleagues.

They had all been pre-warned what was happening, and the champagne was ready to flow. (Had she said ‘No’ the boat would still have happened, just sans one young blonde, and in her place would have been a giant bottle of tequila).

We walked towards, then away from the Opera House and over to an adjoining pier where the ‘Prometheus’ boat was waiting.

A cheer went up, and following assurances that it wasn’t a drunken buck’s party, Brontë began to click that the boat was for us.

As we got on board, every face was beaming. It was honestly the most loving environment I have ever walked into.

For 4 hours we sailed around Sydney Harbour, drinking champagne, telling and retelling the story of how it happened, taking photos, eating, and repeating.

It was the fastest 4 hours of my life, with the most sensational vibe. It was spectacular.

We docked at Darling Harbour and walked into the nearby bar The Port, where even more of our friends were waiting and wave-three of the celebration commenced.
(I really would have been stuffed if it was a no)

We woke the next morning, and then the hangover commenced.

It didn’t matter, we had just had the greatest celebration of our lives to this point, and the reality of being engaged had only just started to sink in.

Seven days on, and I’m still getting used to saying ‘fiancee,’ but I’m certainly not tiring of it.

I’ve told the story 80 times, and I want to retell it another 80.

And best of all, I can’t wait to sit back and find out what she wants me to want to do for our wedding.

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