Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  I ring the doorbell, hoping to hell that my parents have had a good afternoon with Luke and aren’t frustrated with me.

  ‘Hello, lovey,’ says Mum, her tone easing my fraught nerves immediately. ‘We’re hoping you’ve had a good time with your friends.’

  I want to come clean. I want to be honest. But, given all the talking I’ve done in the last few hours, I don’t really want to go into the whole thing.

  ‘Thanks, Mum, we did. I’m so sorry, I don’t know where the time went and . . . hello, my little man, have you had a good afternoon?’

  ‘I fed the billy-birds,’ announces Luke, as he scuttles along the hallway to greet me. I open my arms and crouch down to meet his hug.

  ‘Chased them more like,’ corrects my dad from his armchair beside their coal fire, as I enter the lounge. ‘Though he sat still when I played his elephant DVD.’

  ‘Did you?’ I say, tweaking his button nose.

  ‘Tea?’ asks Mum.

  ‘Please, I’d love one.’ I remove my coat and so begins the routine at my parents. Mum makes tea, Dad stares at the TV and Luke runs back and forth as if he owns the place, touching everything in sight that I was never allowed to touch as a child, because now, in this house, grandchildren have special rights.

  ‘Mummy, look,’ says Luke, climbing on to my lap and thrusting a plastic car under my nostrils.

  ‘Lovely, where did you find that?’ I ask, unsure whether I’ve seen it before or it’s a new purchase from the newsagents when Dad collected his Saturday lottery ticket.

  ‘Rucksack,’ says Luke, pointing towards the bottom end of the lounge where his bag has been placed. Luke darts from my lap, I assume to retrieve it.

  Dad and I exchange a glance and a shake of our heads, both constantly surprised at what he finds in the bottom of that bag.

  ‘I really must clean it out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, it contains everything he needs,’ mutters Dad.

  ‘Look,’ repeats Luke, waving a piece of crumpled cardboard at me, as he climbs on to my lap for a second time.

  I turn it over and smooth it out on the arm of the sofa. A huge red heart beams up at me; out of the corner of my eye I can see Luke’s smiling face watching me.

  ‘Yours,’ he says prodding me in the shoulder.

  I take in the crayoned image: a big red heart, lots of kisses and a scribbled word beginning with a ‘V’.

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Dad, leaning forward in his armchair.

  I can’t speak. A knot of emotion lifts to my throat and tears spring to my eyes.

  Dad half stands and takes a couple of steps nearer to peer at the crumpled card.

  ‘It looks like a Valentine’s card to me,’ he mutters before sitting back down.

  I want to cry with joy. My baby drew me a Valentine’s card and it’s been stuffed in the bottom of his rucksack for a week and a day.

  ‘Good boy, Luke, well remembered.’ I lower my chin, resting it on the top of his head, as he bobs about with excitement, and inhale the smell of my son.

  My one true love.

  Carmen

  The Cross Keys is jampacked on a Saturday night. We sit as a cramped party in an upholstered seating booth constructed for eight adults and not the actual ten we are. Our thighs and bottoms are somewhat squashed together in the horseshoe-shaped built-in bench around a wooden table sporting an array of drinks and half-filled bottles. Behind my head, which I keep inadvertently banging, is a stained-glass panel decorating the dark wooden partition; designed in a previous era to offer privacy, it nowadays provides a viewing rail over which those without a seat enviously peer to check if our group is moving anytime soon. Hasty looks of ‘sorry’ answer impatient stares each time we catch their eye, making me feel irrationally guilty that we arrived early enough to hog the only desirable space for any large group, forcing them to stand and keep vigil. I fear our departure will cause a pub riot as all those standing with tired legs try to seize the chance of being seated.

  This isn’t how I’d planned to spend our Saturday night. After a long day on my feet, I’d hoped for a quiet night in, a calorie-rich takeaway and a film on TV; instead we are with Elliot’s crowd of mates and their wives, drawn together at the last minute for one final pub night before Monty and Michelle’s wedding in two weeks’ time. They’re a happy crew; despite one or two of Elliot’s mates being blessed with uncouth manners or a snooty wife, the majority are a good laugh. This is the group that, when we first began dating, I wanted to impress and fit in with the most. Those early days when you’re not yet an official couple but you know you’re being tested, watched, compared to previous girlfriends as to whether you’ll ‘fit in’ with his crowd or you’re giving off warnings that you’ll be putting a stop to the Sunday lunch quick half. Obviously I passed the initial test, but over the eight years we’ve been together I’ve seen his mates introduce numerous candidates who haven’t.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ I’d asked earlier, as Elliot vacated the bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist, so I could take a quick shower, having just arrived home.

  ‘Monty’s called everyone together as it’s been a while and, with the wedding in two weeks, he thought it would be nice to see us all together for one final time.’

  ‘I thought you guys met up just a few weeks ago for groomsmen’s suit fittings – which Monty turned into an all-day affair.’

  ‘We did but that didn’t include partners, did it?’

  ‘Aren’t you all going to the stag do?’ I say undressing and tying my hair up for speed, knowing full well that the three-day event in Cardiff is this coming Wednesday to Friday, taking up three days of Elliot’s annual leave.

  ‘Yeah, but again that doesn’t include partners either.’

  ‘So, without any prior notice, he’s chosen tonight?’

  ‘Carmen, when was the last time we all got together, eh?’

  ‘Bank Holiday Monday,’ I mumble, remembering the headache I had the next morning.

  ‘Exactly, and not the August Bank Holiday; it was way back in May,’ he says, disappearing into our bedroom.

  I run the shower and gather my towel.

  ‘Magoo wasn’t there that night nor at the fitting the other week . . .’

  ‘He wasn’t at his own brother’s suit fitting?’

  ‘No, something cropped up. So I haven’t caught up with him since . . .’

  ‘Before they had the baby,’ I shout over the noise of the shower, peeling off my spent clothes and throwing them into the laundry basket. Monty and Magoo are the brothers of the social group yet you wouldn’t know it, given their lack of interaction.

  ‘We have.’

  ‘No, we were meant to go round but Magoo cancelled at the last minute as Judy wasn’t up to visitors after seeing a lot of people earlier in the day. Our baby present is still sitting in the front bedroom despite me asking you to take it round next time you’re passing.’

  ‘Take it tonight.’

  ‘Elliot, a romper suit for a six month old isn’t going to fit a one year old now, is it?’

  There’s a pause from the bedroom.

  ‘They had a girl, yeah?’

  ‘No, a boy . . . Hugo.’

  There’s no hiding it, I’m his social PA. There was a time when a weekly night out with the crowd meant me reminding Elliot of the names of his mates’ partners, or current girlfriends as we were back then. It was a dodgy game of remembering names and faces in an attempt not to call Magoo’s new girlfriend – now his wife – Judy, rather than Marnie, who’d been his previous long-term girlfriend. A task of high importance to ensure a carefree and enjoyable night for us and not a week of the silent treatment for Magoo – because woe betide any error igniting Judy’s high level of jealousy. I was pretty skilled at it, having been around the longest, so I held a fairly central place amongst the f
emales. Though I’ll admit Haughty Hannah is now self-appointed leader of the female pack, given that they married first and got pregnant first – but still, she couldn’t keep up with the name-changing as well as I had. Nowadays, I catalogue and confirm the names of their babies as they arrive in the same meticulous manner.

  So we’re here in the Cross Keys, spending a night with the couples: Monty and Michelle (soon to be newlyweds), Magoo and Jealous Judy, plus baby Hugo, Andrew and Haughty Hannah and, finally, Steve and Nicole. Nicole is my safety net within the social group, the one with whom I have the most in common. It’s strange to think that we females only socialise because of the males we are partnered with; yet more concerning is the fact that we’re only a social group because of the deep connection the males shared when aged six over a love of skateboards and Transformers.

  ‘Hi, Elliot, hi, Carmen,’ giggles Judy, hitching the aforementioned Hugo up on her hip bone, freeing herself from the cramped party in the alcove to soothe the baby.

  ‘Hi, hasn’t he grown?’ I swoon, knowing full well that we’ve never seen the little chappy before but estimating that the gurgling bundle looks much heavier than the seven pounds mentioned in Magoo’s excited baby-arrival phone call.

  ‘He’s such a gutsy boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are . . . you are a gutsy boy!’ coos Judy at a dribbling Hugo.

  Elliot wears a rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression as we sit and listen to Judy continue to talk in a silly voice to her son. I want to interrupt her, I want to ask her to stop, because I know that her display of motherhood is frightening Elliot senseless as he imagines me doing the exact same thing with our baby in years to come. I know, deep down, that mummy-talking Judy is scaring Elliot’s sperm and, therefore, further ruining my chances of starting a family. By the time Judy ceases her ninth rendition of ‘yes, you are a gutsy, wutsy, chubby, wubby, Mummy’s little munchkin’, I know she’s probably set my course to motherhood back by about a decade. Cheers, Judy, I owe you one.

  ‘Why has she brought the baby to the pub?’ asks Elliot the second Judy moves away to be seated by Magoo, who had flashed us both a knowing smile which we accept as an apology.

  ‘Couldn’t find a babysitter, perhaps?’ I answer, seeing I need to tread carefully given his current state of mind.

  ‘It’s Saturday night! I thought that important role was assigned to grandparents,’ mutters Elliot.

  ‘It is usually but not always.’ I want to continue my sentence but know I can’t admit that some women simply can’t leave baby with anyone, even their own parents for a child-free night with their husband.

  ‘Great, well, the gang’s never done that before,’ says Elliot, snatching up his pint and taking a sip. ‘I remember when Monty walked in and put his first packet of legal fags on the table next to his pint. Now, that was a milestone in growing up. But this . . . this is . . . are babies even allowed in pubs at this time of night?’

  ‘Elliot, please forget it,’ I whisper.

  ‘Magoo, how the devil are you, my man? We haven’t seen you in ages!’ he says calling to his mate.

  I give a sigh of relief as Elliot’s dear friend moves others to settle beside us and begins a hearty chat about his accountancy work, the regretful sale of his beloved motorbike and the reorganising of his loft complete with additional insulation.

  ‘How are you, Carmen? Busy at work?’ asks Nicole, who leans across the table, saving me from the boredom of loft insulation.

  ‘It’s just picking up after the winter slump, to be honest, Nicole. After Christmas engagements, many brides-to-be like to get started on picking their gowns, even if they are unsure of the exact wedding date.’

  ‘I can imagine, especially given the price of some,’ she responds.

  ‘Exactly, it gives them more leeway for saving and budgeting, even if the wedding is a couple of years away.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to plan ours all over again! It was such a special time, though Steve’s sister acted like an utter brat, refusing to wear certain colours and styles; eventually, she gave me no other choice but to cull her from the wedding party.’

  ‘I don’t remember that!’

  ‘Oh yes, his mother went berserk at me but what do people expect when somebody causes so much drama? She’s forgiven me now, but only since we’ve given her two adorable nieces to obsess about. For a while, though, she was a nightmare about letting her brother fly the nest.’

  I listen and nod. I’ve witnessed many a stressful situation during a gown appointment, bitchy sniping between females or bitter resentment rallied back and forth along our chaise longue. Once, Trish and I thought we’d be seeing fisticuffs between two agitated matriarchs, but at least we’ve never had to physically separate any adversaries or call the police. I suppose most families try to keep the in-house bickering to a minimum – it’s not really a spectator sport.

  Polly

  Fraser unwinds the second he arrives in his mother’s immaculate lounge.

  ‘Fraser,’ I hiss, as he sinks into the armchair nearest the fire, slips off both his shoes and scrunches his stockinged feet into the thick hearth rug.

  We aren’t stopping; we’ll be heading back out of the door in a few minutes once Olive, his mother, has finished dressing and is ready to depart. Malcolm, his father, is busy locking the back doors and checking all windows are securely closed. It’s a ten-minute routine.

  ‘What?’ Fraser’s brow creases as I hover by the lounge door, not bothering to even sit.

  I can almost see the five-year-old child he once was in his expression. I bet that this was what he looked like if he was disturbed whilst watching cartoons, asked if he’d completed his homework and informed it was time for bed – all of which occurred in this house.

  I’ve always felt like the guest in the Evans’ home, from the first moment of being introduced to his parents to the night we sat huddled on the sofa to confess that a baby was on the way, and ever after. His mother has never lost that look she wore on hearing our news. A silence had lingered for ages before any discussion occurred. No congratulations, no hugs and no kisses – just a stern telling-off by his mum. His father had sat in that very armchair staring into the fire, much like Fraser is now.

  Was that the last time we’d sat side by side in this lounge? Probably. Since that night, Fraser has chosen the spare armchair, and Cody, from baby to teenager, and I have occupied the sofa. Olive’s resistance softened slightly once there was a baby for her to hold and coo over but there have never been any hugs or kisses in my direction. I’m simply the silly girl who got pregnant and snared her son.

  I’m her Lola. The thought pulls me up sharp. I am Olive’s Lola!

  ‘Hello, darling,’ says Olive, bustling through the door, her outfit perfectly over the top for a charity quiz night at the Unicorn, heading straight to Fraser to pop a kiss on his forehead. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, Mum, and you?’

  ‘Hello, Polly. Oh, you know how it is, Fraser . . . your father’s fussing about an MOT needed for next week and I couldn’t book my usual girl at the chiropodist.’

  ‘Not good . . . can’t you go another time?’

  ‘Oh no, my feet need doing . . . badly.’

  I listen. I wait. I know the routine. She won’t ask, she never asks me. Fraser never asks either – he knows how busy I am – but I know he appreciates every time I offer; and I always do offer, given they haven’t any daughters of their own. Though, of course, their sons could easily drive to the chiropodist’s too, but they never have. They never will. I’ve always done the job, much like I do for my own parents, and it’s a result of my love and commitment to Fraser, not Olive.

  We have a similar unwritten rule regarding Mother’s Day cards. I always select a card befitting both mothers and buy two. I assume Fraser’s feelings for his mother match the same quiet sentiment that I feel for mine and so I duplicate the cards.
I address both but we each write our own; I’d take a stance if he decided not to – it’s the least a mother can expect. I’ll be hurt if Cody’s future partner ever writes my card.

  ‘Which day is it booked for?’ I ask, catching a thank you glance from Fraser.

  ‘Thursday afternoon, the usual time,’ answers Olive, checking her appearance in the mantelpiece mirror.

  ‘I can do that . . . if you need dropping off,’ I say; it’s my usual line.

  ‘Could you? Perfect.’

  Fraser gives a small smile. He gets her just as much as I do. She’s grateful, but she never lets it register on her face or in her level of warmth towards me.

  ‘Are we all ready?’ asks Malcolm as if we hadn’t arrived ready some ten minutes ago.

  No one answers, we simply drift towards the front door. Fraser puts his shoes back on and grabs his car keys from the bottom of the stairs.

  Tradition dictates that I will sit in the back next to Olive, Malcolm will take my place beside Fraser, as he dutifully drives us – them, more specifically – to the monthly quiz night at the Unicorn pub. An evening which both his parents enjoy immensely despite the stupid answers offered by me and routinely ignored without ridicule by them.

  ‘How’s work?’ asks Malcolm, his standard question to anyone, family or not.

  Olive and I listen as Fraser outlines his previous week, his focus being the difficulty on designing for a client unsure of what his own requirements are, a situation which Fraser never copes well with.

  The drive to the Unicorn only takes five minutes but it feels much longer, given the stunted conversation in the back. I don’t worry any more. I don’t panic because I know that once a large dry sherry hits her tastebuds Olive will begin to soften, especially if there’s a quiz round on baking, cooking or geography. I much prefer the questions on celebrity chefs or gardening. Other than that, for me, the evening is a chance to chill out and enjoy being with Fraser, alongside his parents. I know how much they like spending time with him but not in a casual Sunday-lunch-around-the-table, let’s-all-eat-together kind of way, which is what my family prefer. The thought of cooking a Sunday roast for Olive fills me with dread. I know I wouldn’t be able to prepare and serve mint sauce correctly, let alone impress her, even with my best roast tatties, fluffiest Yorkie puds and seasoned onion gravy.