Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  ‘Coffee?’ calls Trish, from the kitchenette.

  ‘Yes, please.’ I break away from my daydreaming.

  Purely out of curiosity, I check how busy our appointment book is for next Monday. I’m pleased to see there’s a quiet afternoon. Impulsively, I pick up the pencil and draw several lines through the afternoon, just to be on the safe side. If I get next weekend’s proposal right, I’ll be needing all afternoon for my own appointment.

  Dana

  ‘Madam, the maître d’ will escort you to your table,’ says the hostess, smiling brightly whilst beckoning the nearest tailcoat. It feels strange having a dinner date booked for late afternoon and yet the restaurant is busy. I’m usually just arriving home from the school run at this time, but I suppose with TV editing, the candlelight and the other clientele in the foreground, it will make it appear like an evening date.

  ‘Madam, if you please.’

  I hot-foot after him, taking in none of the beauty of the high-ceilinged restaurant but just trying to breathe calmly, knowing that when this guy steps aside Male A, my date, will be seated, awaiting my arrival. I am conscious that the cameramen are three steps behind me, and I’m relieved that I allowed the stylist to choose my outfit: a classy jumpsuit and scarf combo in peacock blue with emerald detailing.

  ‘Madam.’

  The maître d’ steps aside and pulls out my chair. I stare at the man who immediately stands up from the opposing chair. Male A: incredibly slender and willowy with an olive complexion and a heavy brow from under which dark brown eyes stare intently.

  ‘Good evening, Dana . . . I’m Alex, nice to meet you,’ he says, shaking my hand. His voice has a sing-songy tone.

  ‘Hi, Alex, have you had far to travel?’ I say, as my chair is pushed beneath me and a linen napkin is draped across my lap.

  ‘Just a few miles. And you?’

  So begins our relaxed afternoon of wining and dining. I hardly notice the camera roving about our table, though I notice several other diners on the far side of the restaurant craning their necks to guess why we’ve got a table separate from any others, ensuring an empty backdrop free from staring faces. It was obvious we were getting first-class service from every waiter.

  Alex seems nice. I don’t correct him when he gets my name wrong, which is slightly annoying. I kick myself each time it happens. You can only correct someone for so long before giving up and answering to Donna, Diana or Deana purely to save their embarrassment.

  Our conversation is halted by the delivery of menus and a wine list. I leave Alex to choose; I know nothing about wine. I watch as he ponders the selection, drawing his index finger the length of the page and mmmming a lot. If it were me, I’d go for the house red – but, as I said, what do I know about wine?

  Despite the unusual circumstances and the hovering production team, I feel quite relaxed. I’m hoping that my parents are having an easy time with Luke; I’d left permission with the school for my dad to collect him. I know Mum bought chicken nuggets and mint ice cream as a treat – though what my dad will think about his ‘treat’ dinner won’t be worth repeating.

  ‘Do you have any children?’ asks Alex, staring at me intently from the other side of the lighted candlesticks.

  ‘Yes, one little boy, Luke – he’s five years old, nearly six, in fact.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I’m half expecting another question, but there’s nothing, so I’ll be polite.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Nope. Not that I wouldn’t want any, it’s just that I’ve never had a relationship veer towards serious . . . So, no, no children.’

  ‘I haven’t either, but still . . .’

  Alex’s eyebrows lift slightly.

  I suddenly feel scrutinised. That was supposed to sound lighthearted and yet his eyebrow move made it feel heavier.

  ‘I mean . . . What I mean is . . . we were in a committed relationship – it simply didn’t last, so I’m raising my son on my own.’

  Alex gives a bouncy head nod, his gaze fixed on mine. I can see the cogs of his brain working furiously, trying to assess the situation.

  Was that right? Is that what happened? Or had I found myself abandoned by a reckless man who chose not to be a father following a test result? Why am I bringing Luke’s father into the conversation?

  I don’t wish to introduce Luke’s condition into our conversation, not at this stage, so I keep it simple.

  ‘My son is with my parents this afternoon,’ I add, filling the growing silence.

  I feel Alex has switched off after just a few minutes. He’s still participating in the conversation but he’s sitting back in his seat, not as interested or engaged as he was. Is that because I have a son? Or because I wasn’t in a committed relationship whilst pregnant? I need to say something . . . anything . . . to get the flow back.

  ‘How do you spend your free time, Alex?’ I ask, as our starters and the wine are delivered.

  I’m waiting for an answer but Alex is busy testing the proffered wine. Alex gives a sharp nod to the maître d, having smelt it, sipped it and slushed it around his mouth before swallowing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as the waiter pours me a generous glass. I quickly take a sip: it does taste mellow and fruity, unlike the cheap shudder wine I sometimes pick up at the supermarket.

  ‘I’m quite fussy about my wine, as you can see.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ I reply, hoping that a compliment may reignite the conversation.

  I’m suddenly aware that the camera is directly behind Alex and obviously pointing straight at me. I’d lost it from my peripheral vision for quite a while, but what are they honing in on now? Have I dribbled my wine down my chin? Has my make-up run, giving me giant panda eyes? I try to focus on Alex and wonder if they’d shot some footage of him over my shoulder, especially when he was testing the wine.

  ‘I also enjoy cycling, some field sports and cookery,’ he says, adding, ‘And you?’

  ‘Apart from my son, who takes up most of my time, I’m a self-employed florist so I tend to link my free time to my work. We have a tiny garden at home, but still I manage to get planting and sowing when the weather allows. Though, to be fair, my garden takes a bit of a bashing given that Luke loves to kick a football about but has very little control. Maybe I’ll have a nicer garden when he’s older.’

  ‘Which team does he support?’

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t support a team. We just play in the back garden – he has a tiny plastic goal at one end. I appear to be the world’s worst goalkeeper – much to his delight!’ I giggle. Alex nods but remains straight-faced.

  Our date continues pleasantly for a couple of hours. I’m unsure how the experts have come to match us up, but while there’s nothing earth-shattering about Alex, he’s a nice guy, has decent manners and can hold a conversation whilst eating his meal. Whereas I feel like I’m failing to adapt to being a grown-up for the dinner date. My stomach is still swirling, I can’t talk and think at the same time and I’ve nearly knocked my wine glass over when reaching for it twice. I’ve come to the conclusion that a dinner date is not really my thing, despite stating to the production team that I love them. I’m really not sophisticated enough to pull them off, like the adults seated at the neighbouring tables. I suppose I’m more comfortable at play dates, surrounded by wipeable surfaces, a ball pit filled with giggling children and some giant foam shapes on which to perch and observe Luke attempting to climb a rope ladder.

  By the dessert course, my mind is drifting. I wonder if Luke is missing me.

  ‘Dana, thank you for the delightful conversation, good company and, hopefully, I’ll be seeing you very soon.’

  I smile politely.

  Does Alex think tonight went well?

  ‘Yes, yes . . .’ I smile and wait, unsure whether I’m meant to leave the restaurant first or not. I see Tamzin pointing towa
rds the exit, so I give Alex a quick peck on the cheek and swiftly follow her out.

  As I walk through the restaurant, other diners look up, inquisitive about who they’ve had the pleasure of being ignored for. A look of disappointment quickly follows as they can’t recognise me or name my co-star. I wish I had the guts to stop and introduce myself.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dana . . . a mum, a florist and no one very special, so please don’t waste your evening thinking about me – enjoy your partner’s company.’ But I don’t, I can’t . . . I wouldn’t have the nerve.

  I thank the passing waiters as I walk. I’m dying for the loo but right now my focus is on making it out of the restaurant without a fellow dinner demanding, ‘Who the hell are you, love?’

  I spot the sign for the ladies.

  I’m through the outer doors and into the swish décor with mirrors and fresh flowers before Tamzin can turn about and reach me.

  I go into cubicle one, lock the door and sigh with relief.

  Relief that date one is over. Relief that my stomach can relax now I’ve undone my wide buckled belt. Relief that I can pause for a moment without seeming to be rude.

  Sheer relief.

  I sit and ponder for a second.

  He’s nice, polite and charming . . . though there was nothing which clicked or drew me to him. I didn’t like his eyebrow raise when I first mentioned my situation but he settled into the conversation and was kind enough to ask about Luke’s love of football.

  I finish, flush and wash my hands.

  I fix my mascara, which has smudged a little but nothing to worry about.

  I leave the ladies toilet, expecting the sea of faces awaiting me in the foyer but not their look of horror.

  ‘Microphone!’ shouts Tamzin, as Jez stands by shaking his head, while the others struggle to keep from smirking.

  Carmen

  I sit on the edge of their three-piece suite, surrounded by Coalport figurines of ladies wearing wide-brimmed hats in various elegant poses, and fiddle with my china cup and saucer. Elliot’s parents, Jim and Sally, sit and stare at me.

  I’m not sure if I should remain silent to allow my words to sink in or break the silence and explain myself. Whichever I chose, there’ll be no going back. So I choose to remain silent.

  I sip my cooling tea. And wait a little longer.

  I wish now that I’d waited to eat the single ginger nut which had been resting in my china saucer. Sadly, I was greedy. I would like to ask for a second, but I don’t.

  ‘Sorry . . . say that again,’ asks Jim, leaning forward in his fireside armchair.

  ‘I said, I’ve come to ask for your consent to ask your son to marry me.’

  ‘Why are you asking him?’ asks Sally, fidgeting with her own china teacup.

  ‘Now there’s a question, Sally. I’m really not sure, if I’m honest . . . we’ve been together for eight years, we’ve bought a house, we’ve created a joint life and yet he has never asked me, and so I’m going to use the tradition of a leap year to ask him instead.’

  Sally draws her chin in, and blinks uncontrollably. I can see her confusion. I know she’s wondering what the world has come to and is probably grateful that she received a proposal from her man over four decades ago.

  I sense her disappointment, and I completely share it. But what am I supposed to do?

  ‘Are your own parents aware of this plan?’ asks Jim.

  I shake my head. Given I am the only daughter amongst their five offspring, they’ve no doubt been dreaming of a moment such as this when Elliot might arrive, alone, nervous and unannounced, on their doorstep. Sadly he has kept them waiting too.

  ‘Oh,’ says she.

  ‘Oh,’ repeats he.

  ‘I know the modern world is confusing, my parents say that all the time, but I do truly love Elliot. I don’t believe I’m wrong in wanting what I want. I feel I’ve waited patiently but now, needs must. I want a legal commitment so we can begin the next chapter as man and wife,’ I explain, adding, ‘None of us are getting any younger, are we?’ As the words leave my lips, I want to kick my own arse for using Haughty Hannah’s bloody line.

  They both stare at me; the silence is deafening.

  There is a definite lack of enthusiasm flowing and I wholeheartedly wish Elliot had got his act together before now and had endured such an occasion with my parents. Though, to be fair, I can imagine his attempt at gaining parental consent would have gone a whole lot smoother than this. In fact, I could guarantee it, knowing how desperate my parents are to see me, their only daughter, settled. My mum would have subtly disappeared into the kitchen, only to listen intently to the men’s conversation through the crack in the serving hatch. My dad would have done his silence-is-golden bit whilst Elliot outlined his request, but inside he would have been thrilled to bits, jumping at the chance to congratulate Elliot before calling in my mother, who would have done the entire ‘I know nothing as I was absent, please inform me’ routine, which she never quite pulls off given that her eyes sparkle uncontrollably when she’s excited. There would have been backslapping from my dad and embraces from my tearful mum, who’d produce a round of tea and a plate of sliced malt loaf, thickly buttered. There would be excitement, warm welcomes to the family, despite our eight-year relationship, and this would have been enhanced further if any of my four married brothers had happened to be there during Elliot’s visit. I can’t imagine that any one of my relatives would not have encouraged Elliot in his quest. But me, here and now . . . wow! I’ve dropped a bloody big clanger on this one!

  I look down at my cup and saucer: it’s a tiny china cup but I can see there is plenty more tea left to drink before I can escape with a goodbye and a peck on the cheek. The next fifteen minutes may be filled with polite conversation, but unknowingly they have given me their answer with their muted ‘ohs’.

  ‘Has Elliot ever discussed marriage with you?’ asks Jim.

  ‘Of course, we’ve been together for eight years, Jim,’ I lie, chuckling as I speak. ‘We’ve discussed everything but he just hasn’t asked me. All I’m doing is playing my part and speeding our commitment along.’

  ‘Not really – you are asking my son to get married . . . Have you not wondered why he’s never asked?’ asks Jim.

  I fall silent and stare hard at Jim. My heart rate is rapid. My palms are sweaty. Does Jim know something I don’t? Have Father Cole and devoted second son been having honest life talks without my knowledge in Jim’s potting shed whilst Sally washed the Sunday dishes and I dried? I’d never suspected their relationship to be so close, or open.

  I wait, anticipating a revelation.

  ‘Marriage might not be something he wants in life,’ says Jim, his voice lowering as he reaches the end of the sentence.

  ‘Has he told you that?’ I prompt, vowing never to be sidelined with a tea towel during future Sunday visits.

  ‘No, but when a man decides what he wants in life, he doesn’t drag his feet, Carmen.’

  I’m taken aback by his honesty. Eight years of knowing Elliot’s father and this is the moment he chooses to be frank. Cheers, Jim! The last time was when I’d proudly showed off my homemade hanging baskets, which I’d planted and nurtured myself rather than buy them; his only remark of ‘trailing lobelia would have enhanced the overall shape’ was not what I was wanting to hear. Especially as my cascading geraniums overflowed with vibrant colour and I had remembered to water each basket every day and not just the first three days, unlike every other summer basket I’d ever had.

  I sip my tea to gain vital thinking space after such a remark.

  ‘Carmen, dear . . . I’m sure he has his reasons,’ soothes Sally. ‘I’d suggest waiting a little longer.’

  Deep inside, I feel a switch flick. This was a bad suggestion by Trish; I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have entertained the idea of involving his parents, just to be p
olite or respectful; I certainly shouldn’t have been the least bit confiding.

  ‘Well, I wanted to ask you, but I now realise that you have your own expectations for our future. All I ask is that we might keep this conversation to ourselves. I would like my proposal to be a surprise for Elliot. I feel that, in time, you may come to respect my decision.’

  Within five minutes, I have politely kissed them each goodbye and said my farewells.

  As I unlock my car, I notice that their front door is firmly closed. Their habit is usually to wave from the doorstep until we’ve driven partway along the road. But not today. Or rather, not for me.

  Dana

  ‘Honestly, Dad, I can’t stay,’ I protest, as my parents settle to watch TV for the remainder of their evening. ‘I’ve been on the go all day, I’m fit to drop.’

  A bathed and pyjama-clad Luke is affectionately plastering my face with sleepy wet kisses, his two-handed hug around my neck is unrelenting. If I were to stand up straight, I predict his Paddington Bear slippers would lift from the carpet – that’s how much he has missed me.

  ‘There’s a new programme starting, they’ve been advertising it all week. I saw the producer chatting with Eamonn and Ruth this morning, he was explaining it’s a social experiment . . . one of those documentary type things about dating. He seemed most excited to see if social science and the experts can predict true love between strangers. Dana, you’ll love it,’ enthuses my mum, though what she’ll be thinking in less than ten minutes is anyone’s business.

  I can’t bring myself to explain, or confess. I’m dumbstruck it’s going to be aired at a prime time. This is my cue to deliver a round of kisses, thank them for looking after Luke without query or complaint and leave, before the credits for Taking a Chance on Love begin to roll.