by Erin Green
‘Let me see, let me see,’ cries Trish, abandoning her task and grabbing for the tiny box.
She snaps the lid back and gasps.
‘Is this for you?’ she asks sternly.
I nod.
‘Oooh, you are naughty! Please tell me you’ve bought Elliot a decent ring too.’
‘No fear, he has a classic gold wedding band with small detailing to remove the plainness. But I thought I deserved one too.’
Trish peers at the solitaire diamond, her grin growing as she admires it.
‘So you’re serious about this?’
‘Yep, I’m going for it. It goes against my lifelong dream but why not? We women have fought for and achieved equality in so many areas of our lives, so why not in proposing?’
‘Good for you, Carmen. I hope you’ll be very happy,’ says Trish, returning the box to my palm. ‘Are you asking his family beforehand?’
My mouth falls open.
‘Haven’t you thought about that one?’
‘Trish, we’re both nearly forty years old. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I need to visit his parents and ask their permission?’
‘Terry asked my parents before asking me, and I was heading towards forty.’
‘I’m not . . . I hadn’t thought about it . . . I have so much to do already and that’s another task. I doubt Elliot would have given my parents such consideration if he’d been planning to propose.’
Trish raises her eyebrows and returns to making coffee.
‘Oh Trish, are you saying I should or I must?’
‘I’m not saying anything. You’ll do as you please, but I thought it was touching when Terry spoke to my parents first. If nothing else, it included them in the excitement of the occasion.’
‘Oh no, don’t say I have something else to plan for.’
‘Not if you’re not doing it, you haven’t. Here,’ says Trish, offering me a steaming mug of coffee.
‘I’ll think about it, but don’t keep on about it if I decide not to.’
Trish holds her hands aloft.
‘It’s not my decision, sweetheart – it’s yours.’
Dana
‘How are we feeling?’ calls Jez, as Tamzin leads me from the hotel bedroom where I’ve had my hair and make-up crafted for the last ninety minutes. I still recognise myself through the fug of hairspray and the glitzy eyeshadow, but only just. Jez performs a little jog and a trot to catch us up as we descend the main stairwell.
‘Very nervous but looking forward to the experience,’ I lie. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. From Tamzin’s outline of the afternoon, I will be meeting Male A, as they keep referring to him, in a short while and will spend the next few hours getting to know him while two mobile cameramen plus accompanying team move about us taking footage.
How could I have forgotten just how bad I am at first dates?
I’m hoping that Male A is chatty, funny and open to discussion, otherwise this will be the disaster of all disasters – I am not the world’s best at making small talk.
‘You’ll be fine, let us worry about the logistics of the date and you enjoy yourself . . . forget we’re even present.’
I stop short.
‘That can’t happen surely . . .’
‘You’ll be amazed,’ adds Tamzin. ‘The cameras will seem like the norm in no time, and you’ll be chatting away for England.’
‘I’d best watch what I say then,’ I quip.
‘Oh no, don’t. Just relax and go with the flow. The best conversations are spontaneous even if one of you – and I hope this doesn’t happen – we’ve got the legal team on hand if it does – says something which could be libellous,’ explains Jez. ‘I’m excited about this! Oh, I believe the dating and lifestyle guru wants a word beforehand.’
‘Is she a guru?’ asks Tamzin, her orange and yellow spiral curls bouncing with each step.
Jez shrugs.
‘I haven’t a clue. I just know that they are costing us a small fortune so they had better not mess up. Their careers may depend upon it,’ he says, peeling off as we reach the bottom of the grand staircase. ‘I’ll catch you later, Dana – just enjoy!’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, my stomach rolling more than ever as we near the hour.
‘So here’s how it’ll work: you’ll be driven to the restaurant where male A is awaiting your arrival, you’ll order and chat and get to know each other a bit. Anything that you want, please just ask. Jez’ll cut those sections out in the edits to make it seem seamless.’
‘What happens if we have nothing in common?’ I ask, fearing the worst.
‘That won’t happen, Dana – they’ve matched you up with three nice guys. If nothing else, you’ll have three enjoyable dates, trust me.’
I’m about to ask more questions when we arrive at the hotel’s entrance, where a crowd of the production team are gathered, cameras and mics at the ready.
One guy advances, holding a small microphone towards my lapel. I stand rigidly as he secures it without touching my body.
‘Could you say something, please?’ he asks, looking up at another guy wearing headphones.
‘Such as?’
‘Anything.’
I can’t think of a single thing to say so I recite the nursery rhyme ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’. I see a plethora of lifted eyebrows and failed attempts not to smirk.
‘Sorry, my little boy was singing that non-stop at breakfast,’ I apologise.
Tamzin nods absentmindedly.
The sound guy gives a thumbs-up and I take it I’m ready.
‘Remember to remove that should you nip to the ladies partway through the meal,’ says Tamzin, pointing to the mic.
‘Of course,’ I say. Does she think I’m totally lacking in common sense?
‘Are we good to go?’ ask Tamzin.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Not you, them!’ She points to the production crowd.
‘The car is outside. Just waiting for Jez,’ calls a crew member, circling with a mighty camera.
Why am I doing this? Could I have not searched the dating sites like the chummy-mummies and found a suitable man?
I only have one vow: to introduce my son only when I feel comfortable and I’m sure the requirements of his condition will be respected. The last thing I want to do is to tell a sob story to gain sympathy, which I don’t want. I have more respect for my son and myself than allow that to happen.
Polly
‘They’re nice,’ says Stacey, picking up a blue party invite from my desk as I swiftly write another between customers.
‘For our Cody’s birthday party. You don’t think they look a bit babyish?’
‘No, not at all. They’re quite smart with the foil lettering.’
‘They were the only decent ones in the card shop. Actually, we’ve left it a bit late for a decent turnout but Cody didn’t decide he wanted a party until last Friday. These should have been posted days ago but you know what it’s like. It was a busy weekend what with trying to book everything last minute.’
‘Not enough hours in the day, are there?’ says Stacey. ‘Our lads have never gone for the party stuff, which is a shame because we rarely get our family together nowadays, apart from funerals.’
‘It’s the same with ours, we always plan to bring together both sides of the family but it never happens. Our Cody was giving me lip last night about old people needing a minimum of three weeks’ notice to say yes to a social drink, and he’s not wrong.’
‘He’s not. Here, do you want me to give you a hand?’
‘Would you?’ I say, adding, ‘If you and Clive are free on Saturday night, you’d be more than welcome to pop along.’
‘Nah, we’re at a swimming gala all day, but thanks.’
I divide my pile of invites and Stacey set
tles at the edge of my desk. I’ve worked alongside her for a couple of years but we remain on the polite acquaintance spectrum; we’re like ships in the night most days, with us both being on part-time hours.
‘Jill and Tony,’ I say, as she sits pen poised above the dotted invitee line. ‘The other details are there,’ I add, pointing towards a completed invite. Gone are the days when I felt I had a moral motherly duty to do everything relating to my son myself. I would never allow anyone to wrap his presents, not even my mother or sister – not that Helen would ever offer. I refused offers to bake him a birthday cake, or return his unwanted tracksuits in exchange for gift vouchers. I was Cody’s mum, I would and could do it all and, if the results of my labours weren’t appreciated by anyone else, even my son, I took satisfaction in knowing that I’d done it all. Yeah, that kind of martyrdom has faded in recent years. So Stacey is welcome to write as many as she likes, saving me from getting hand ache.
‘Is that young woman wanting your attention?’ asks Stacey, nodding towards the window.
Standing outside, browsing our display boards, is Lola. She appears to be busy reading the details of the Paris trip but I doubt she’s truly interested.
‘Maybe. She and our Cody had a thing a while back and now she’s suddenly popped up again out of the blue. She already invited herself in for a chat last Friday and I don’t really want another, so I’m not falling for a sob story if she does venture inside, OK? Or, give her your spiel on this week’s star holiday package if you like.’
‘I’m dreading my kids reaching that stage in life. I fear for my own sanity with the amount of worry I’ll cause myself.’
‘I know what you mean. You can’t wait for them to be independent, make their own mistakes and yet . . .’
The shop door swings wide and Lola enters.
My heart sinks.
Really? Is this going to be a weekly routine?
‘Polly, could I have a word, please?’
‘Sure.’ I muster a cheerful tone and a smile, looking up from my half-written invite.
‘Next?’ says Stacey, putting aside her completed invite.
‘Sally and Neil,’ I say, waiting for Lola to continue.
‘Polly, I wondered if Cody might be wanting a new watch?’
I’m dumbstruck, staring into her wide blue eyes, rimmed with dark kohl – such pale features framed by such heavy make-up.
‘Lola, I couldn’t say . . . but I don’t think you should be spending your money on Cody given the circumstances, do you?’
‘I want him to have something nice.’
I sigh.
Can’t she read between the lines? I’m trying to be polite, trying to save her wasting her cash and feel dejected afterwards. Why can’t she hear what I’m saying?
‘Lola, how long has it been since you and Cody were . . . dating?’ I stumble over the phrase, not wishing to belittle the relationship but, as I saw it, ‘hanging out romantically prior to a drama occurring’ would have been a more fitting description.
‘Eight months,’ she says. ‘But Polly, I’ve grown up since then.’
‘That might be the case, Lola, but unless Cody chooses to be with you, you can’t keep forcing the issue, can you?’ There’re so many clichés I want to quote: ‘Wake up and smell the coffee’, ‘There’s plenty of more fish in the sea, go fishing’, ‘Please, I beg you, leave my son alone.’
I fall silent and wait.
‘Next?’ asks Stacey.
‘Ann-Marie and Trevor.’
‘Are those for Cody’s party?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ I lower my head, unsure if I want to proceed. I’m finding this so difficult. I almost wish there was a series of classes to attend, much like pre and post-natal sessions, to guide me through the process of being the mother of an attractive young man. I would happily study any textbook recommended, consume any offered leaflet and, if suggested by the professionals, make a detailed plan of action detailing my many options. I wanted something like the colour-coded birthing plan I’d swiftly ignored twenty years ago when the pain got too much and I demanded everything I’d previously refused.
‘Is the usual crowd going?’ she asks, picking up the nearest card. I want her to put it down, to leave but to say so would be rude. I was rude last time and felt awful afterwards for becoming a ‘mean older woman’.
‘I don’t suppose there’s a chance . . . ?’
Enough!
‘Look, Lola, I don’t know what you expect me to say. I’m his mother. I saw what you put him through, he was as miserable as sin and, no, I don’t relish the idea of that happening again, with you or any other young woman. Reality tells me there may be many more occasions when I have to watch my son go through the wringer until he finally settles down in life, but this . . . this can’t continue. I have work to do, you should be at work or college or something . . . not here asking me questions about my son.’
Lola’s eyes flash with annoyance.
‘Fine. Be like that then! You and your family can go screw themselves. I was only asking if you thought he’d like a watch but if it’s too much trouble to answer me then I’ll speak to Cody myself.’
‘But it’s simply a smokescreen, a pretence, Lola – you aren’t interested in whether Cody wants a watch! Your interest is in getting back into his good books and then you’ll begin squeezing yourself back into his daily life. My son might accept that, that’s his choice, but I know he deserves better than being treated as you treated him. If that sounds like an overprotective mum, then I’m sorry, but one day, many years from now, you might actually get first-hand experience when another Lola does this to your son. Now, I’m sorry to sound so rude, but I have work to do.’
I fall silent.
‘Next?’ says Stacey, which makes me want to laugh at the comedy timing.
‘Esmé and Asa,’ I say.
Lola stands staring for a fraction of a second before turning on her heel and leaving the shop.
As the door closes, I sit back and sigh.
‘Bloody hell, has the girl no self-respect?’ mutters Stacey, looking up at me for the first time throughout the exchange.
‘I know this is just another phase of having kids but I’d be happy to bail on this one. Seriously – give me potty training again, it was so much easier than this!’
Carmen
‘I can’t imagine spending the whole day in the same wedding dress – what’s the point, Mum?’ says the bride-to-be in a figure-hugging ivory organza gown, complete with flowing veil and sparkling tiara.
Trish and I stand in silence as our mother and daughter appointment hits a sticky situation. I’ve witnessed numerous family arguments over the years but this particular one is a first.
‘But, Persephone, darling, think about the additional arrangements plus the dashing around changing and redoing your hair and make-up each time.’
‘Papa said . . .’
I watch the older woman sigh despondently; she’s obviously had those words thrown at her on numerous occasions. Her smile is readjusted and brightens before she addresses me calmly.
‘Could we see several other dresses, please?’
‘Certainly. Are you thinking of gowns that provide a contrast or are similar in style?’ I ask, looking from mother to daughter.
‘Similar,’ says the mother.
‘Contrast,’ says the bride-to-be.
Another renewed smile is pasted on the mother’s face, as she gives a tiny nod in my direction. I can see their silent argument occurring before our eyes. There is no way I am going to please both of these women in the same appointment, on the same day.
It takes a further ninety minutes, a second round of bubbles and half a tin of shortbread before this appointment is complete.
‘The total is . . .’ I punch the numbers for all three gowns into the calculator and ready myse
lf to take a breath as I press for the total. ‘Eleven thousand, six hundred and eighty-five pounds.’
‘Thank you,’ says the mother, handing over her credit card without a quibble.
Whereas I am quite shocked; I’ve never charged one family such a price for wedding gowns.
I hand over her receipt, book a date for their next appointment for fittings and bid them both a good day. As I walk the ladies towards the boutique door and Trish tidies the boutique, I try my hardest not to look at my co-worker.
I gently close the door behind them.
We both freeze like mannequins until the pair are a safe distance away from our large bay window.
And then . . .
‘Woohoo!’ shrieks Trish, clapping her hands to her mouth.
‘Boy, oh boy!’ I say. ‘If that’s how much they’ve paid for wedding gowns, can you imagine how much they’re paying for the whole wedding? It must run into tens, if not hundreds, of thousands based on this one appointment.’
‘Any chance you’ll be ordering three gowns on your return from Paris?’ asks Trish, retrieving her tray of used glasses.
‘Not a chance, which is ironic given that I own the business,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Though the day I book my appointment to choose, we’ll be celebrating with bottles of Lanson, that’s for sure!’ I call after her as she heads towards the kitchenette to fill the dishwasher.
‘We’ll hold you to that,’ shouts Trish over her shoulder.
A lump lifts to my throat. I feel quite emotional as I look around the boutique; in all the years that I have been the owner, assisting so many brides over fourteen years to choose their perfect gown, this is the nearest I have ever been to being in their situation.
I glance at the rails of cellophane-covered gowns. I have imagined myself, on many occasions, wearing every gown I have in stock. Obviously my choice has changed over the years. In my mid-twenties, I went through a phrase of loving a gown styled on a riding habit and topped with a small veiled hat. With the added confidence of my late twenties, I set my heart on a very slinky, sequinned gown which was often referred to as the negligee gown. Now I’ve matured, I’m sure my choice will be more classic with graceful lines and gorgeous fabrics. It goes without saying I’ve never tried any of them on; I never wanted to jinx myself or spoil what I hope will be the glorious day when I can officially make an appointment to try on a gown. I’ve never done a Miss Ingram.
