by Erin Green
The chamomile tea hasn’t worked. I am neither relaxed nor in peaceful slumber, so I search the kitchen cupboard for a tot of something a little stronger. I don’t usually do whisky, but needs must tonight if I’m to cease this incessant questioning, set free by Jim’s direct query.
I accidently find a half-empty bottle of Elliot’s favourite tipple, Jameson Bow Street, his poison of choice to end any celebration or birthday, under the sink unit.
‘Let’s see,’ I whisper, uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous helping. A helping larger than any I’ve seen Elliot ever pour for a third party, even when aiming to be sociable. Elliot is rarely heavy-handed with his Jameson Bow Street.
I lean against the countertop and cautiously sip the amber liquid.
I’ve seen Elliot do likewise on so many occasions and yet I’d refused to taste it, for fear of waste – I’m not keen on shorts.
The amber liquid is smooth, rich in sherry spice and oak, laced with sweet toffee – the warmth glides down my throat and a wave of guilt lifts from my innards. I inspect the glass tumbler before taking a second sip and enjoy the slow expectation of a soothing sensation.
Nice. Elliot will be pleased.
He offered enough times, in the early years. I recall numerous occasions when we’d arrive home from a wedding or christening and he’d sink into the armchair for a final drink to end the day. He’d lazily hold his tumbler aloft and offer, ‘A sip?’ and I always refused. He’d smile, eyes heavy and sleepy, and shake his glass, a second silent offer before my repeated refusal. His mellow gaze would linger on mine, then the tumbler would return to being his, rather than ours, shared.
Why had I never taken a sip before?
Scared of not liking it?
Simply because it was his?
Instantly I see my error.
Eight years in and finally I’m trying something which Elliot loves.
Has he ever refused to try anything I’ve offered him, be it smelly cheeses, extra dry wines or a foot spa?
Nope. Never. ‘I’ll try anything once!’ is his immediate reply.
How many other things, experiences, interests or places has he tried to introduce me to – and I’ve refused?
My chest suddenly feels heavy with regret. Have I sailed through eight years without grasping opportunities to connect with Elliot along the way? A montage of memories rush much like endorphins – this weekend in Paris has to be the very best weekend we have ever experienced together. No refusals to his suggestions. From Friday night onwards, I need to prove to Elliot that I am the right woman for him. I won’t ignore any attempt to share the life he loves with me.
I down the remainder of the Jameson’s in one gulp and gasp as the spices give an extra kick to the back of my throat.
Dana
I’m as nervous as hell as I sit upon the large red studio couch and stare directly into the eye of the camera. Jez keeps indicating for me to look away but I’m fascinated by what’s happening behind the cameraman and just at the number of people involved. If the truth be told, I’m also slightly frightened by the presenter sitting opposite.
I feel like a million dollars, having once again had my hair and make-up crafted by professionals, though the straight-legged slacks and blouse are from my own wardrobe.
Presenter Cain Marsh sits before me, though, his whiter-than-white teeth and perfectly tanned skin are making me feel slightly inferior. He’s definitely a metrosexual who’s groomed to within an inch of his life. His left eyebrow has more definition and shape than my entire body. According to Tamzin, he’s very nice but, so far, Cain seems more bothered about his profile shot than talking to me. Which is one reason I keep looking towards Jez for some guidance.
‘Dana, so tell me, what are your initial thoughts on Alex, date number one?’
I don’t know whether to be honest, polite or lie. I remember that I have nice manners and I can’t let my parents down.
‘Cain, I think he was very polite, easy to talk to and paid attention to what I had to say . . .’
‘But would you? Seriously, if the urge took you?’
I’m not quite sure what he means, as he doesn’t appear to be talking in full sentences. ‘But would I?’ – what’s that supposed to mean?
Oh!
I blush.
‘Oh, ladies and gentleman, it appears my question has caught Dana on the hop . . . well, we’ve news for you, Dana. We’ve already spoken to Alex and he’s more than happy to join you on another dinner date, spend an afternoon enjoying the sun together or something a little raunchier, if you get my drift!’ Cain turns to camera and begins winking in an unsavoury manner.
I cringe.
I look away from the interviewer, searching for Jez and the experts who are swarming around behind the circle of cameras. Tamzin is shaking her head, Jennifer the relationship guru has a hand clasped across her mouth and seems totally embarrassed, and even Jez looks slightly taken aback by Cain’s crude interview style.
‘I’m not so sure after one dinner date, Cain . . . I think Alex was lovely, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know him a little better, but if you’re asking me was there an “instant sexual connection” between us, then I would have to say I don’t think so.’ I’m hoping my beautiful manners are coming across well in correcting this fool.
‘Oooooh, honesty, ouch!’ croons Cain, licking his right index finger to gesture being burnt.
Polly
I replace the telephone handset and burst out crying in the middle of our lounge before I’ve even made breakfast.
Fraser quickly bundles me into his arms and hugs me tight whilst I sob into his clean work shirt.
I feel lost, helpless, confused about what to do in this situation. Do I collect my parents so that we can spend the day here comforting each other? Despite their rift, they would make an effort to be pleasant, given the situation. Or is it a case of keep calm and carry on?
‘I don’t understand!’ I wail, having held it together long enough to explain to both my elderly parents why their eldest daughter is in hospital. I’d waited until seven o’clock before rocking their world with such news. ‘Mum says she must have made a mistake, thought they were—’ I stop. It sounds fanciful to say ‘vitamins’, as my mother had suggested.
Helen has never taken vitamins in her life.
‘Shhhh, now. Until she’s well enough to explain, you can only be there and support her, Polly – don’t try and twist your head around this.’
Dad had taken the news much harder; he had understood straight away. No excuses. No fairy tale.
‘It’s because of Marc, isn’t it?’ I ask, drying my eyes and seeing Fraser’s concerned expression.
‘You don’t know that, just wait.’
‘I know it . . . he was late home. Where had he been? Why so late arriving back from work on a Monday evening? Did you pick up on anything on Sunday?’
‘Nope. They seemed exactly the same as every other time I’ve seen them, holding hands and being Helen and Marc.’
What had I missed? Had she tried to talk to me, make me understand the situation, but I’d selfishly been wrapped up in my own world of Fraser and Cody. Why hadn’t she confided in me? Tell me what was happening? Hadn’t they sat holding hands on Sunday, as they typically did? Had something happened since Sunday lunch?
Fraser slowly releases me and I stand on my own two slippered feet, raking my fingers through my hair and planning my next task. I need to act. Do what is necessary to ensure that Helen doesn’t have any worries or concerns regarding her girls, then she can focus on herself and getting back on her feet.
‘I’ll phone in sick, say it’s a family emergency. Stacey might be able to cover for me. I can do extra on another day.’
‘Polly, let’s see what’s arranged for Helen first. Marc will need to organise the two girls and decide what’
s happening.’
‘She’s my sister.’
‘She’s his wife.’
I stare at him, knowing he’s right, but surely Marc’s claim is lessened if this is all because of him.
‘Do you want me to phone and ask him what plans he’s made for the girls? His mum might—’ asks Fraser.
‘His mum?’
‘Yep, his mother might have stepped in to support her son.’
I reach for the phone’s handset, which Fraser deftly beats me to in order to phone his brother-in-law on my behalf.
I arrive at half ten, a whole hour later than I should start but understandable in the circumstances. I’d explained everything to my boss; I cried as soon as I mentioned Helen – I was totally fine until I had to outline the reason. Family emergency didn’t seem to cut the mustard, but as soon as I mentioned attempted suicide he stuttered and stammered towards an agreement. So the travel agents would open late and I was given an hour to check that all was well with my loved ones before heading in.
So I am here for another shift. My emotional armour is in place, my mind is set to ‘focused’ and hopefully the customers are few while the clock will be swift and kind.
Part of me keeps wondering why I’m here. Yet, in reality, I know there’s nothing I can do right now. I’ve spoken to Marc, who’d phoned the hospital early and was told that Helen was staying in for further blood tests and close observation. He didn’t know if she’d be having a psychological review with a professional or not.
But surely she won’t be sent home without talking to someone?
I could barely speak to him. I wanted to question him. Fraser said I mustn’t. So I listened as Marc explained how he’d taken the day off from work and was taking the two girls to see their mummy, who’d got a ‘nasty tummy bug’, during afternoon visiting.
I’m not needed.
I feel sidelined. I felt useful in last night’s drama, and yet now I’m redundant.
‘And tonight?’ was my only comeback. ‘Can I help by having the girls overnight to free you up?’
‘That would be perfect, Polly – thank you,’ said Marc instantly. ‘If I pack them each an overnight case, will that be OK?’
I wanted to wail, yell and scream; only Fraser’s presence – he had handed over the phone to me after his initial enquiries – prevented me from demanding answers.
‘You all right, Polly? You seem a bit distracted,’ says Stacey, calling over from the next desk.
‘I’m not feeling it today. I wish I was elsewhere.’
‘Oh, what a thought – where would you choose?’ Stacey’s smile brightens and she scours the nearest shelf of travel brochures. ‘I’d pick somewhere in Dubai.’
This isn’t what I need. But I play along, purely to avoid an emotional discussion with my co-worker. She’s nice enough, always pleasant, but I want my business kept as mine.
I follow suit and my gaze drifts aimlessly along the shelf of colourful brochures: New York, the Maldives, Florida, Russia or Paris? I couldn’t care less. I don’t want to be visiting any right now. If I could snap my fingers and be at my sister’s bedside, I would be – minus her husband.
‘New York,’ I say, to satisfy Stacey’s interest, though I give no explanation.
‘What I wouldn’t give . . .’ coos Stacey, grabbing a brochure and flipping through.
The door chime sounds and the stylish lady from the wedding boutique next door enters, her handbag clutched in front of her as if she’s unsure of herself.
She heads straight for my desk, because Stacey has her nose in a glossy brochure, daydreaming.
‘Hi . . . I’m looking for some details about the all-inclusive trips to Paris advertised in the window.’
‘Hello, please take a seat.’ I automatically switch on my professional persona, smiling and attentive. She settles in the chair, drops her handbag to the floor and leans her elbows on my desk, trying to view my screen. She seems uptight, nervous, slightly overeager compared to our usual customers. ‘It’s Carmen, isn’t it?’
A brief nod and her smile confirms that my memory hasn’t let me down. I bring my computer screen to life.
‘A former colleague of ours bought her wedding dress from you a couple of years ago,’ I add, purely to provide context. ‘Beautiful dress . . . an unusual design.’
‘I remember . . . like a waterfall effect in tulle.’
‘Yes, the very one . . .’ I pause, knowing the impression of the dress has lasted far longer than the marriage did. I steer the conversation away with another question, to be on the safe side. ‘How’s business next door?’ I’m unsure whether February is a good month for bridal gowns or not, but still, it helps to build a rapport with my customers.
‘Very busy . . . I’ve nipped out between appointments. I wasn’t sure how long this might take.’
‘Well . . .’ I do my usual holiday-booking spiel. ‘It can take as long as you wish, depending on your needs and requirements. Do you know exactly what you’d like or are there add-ons to the package which you’d like to make to personalise it for yourself and . . . ?’
‘My boyfr– I mean fiancé,’ she says, blushing. ‘Hopefully fiancé, once I’ve proposed.’
I notice her flush disappears as quickly as it arrived. Her skin is perfect, a true peaches and cream complexion, and what I wouldn’t give for that hair, fire red and flowing like a mane.
‘OK, any specific dates you were thinking of?’
‘Friday.’
‘This Friday?’ I ask, a little surprised. Most customers, apart from our regular pensioners who jet off with very little notice, have little opportunity to just up and off.
‘Yes, this Friday . . . for a weekend stay.’
‘Coming back Monday or Sunday?’ I ask, tapping her details into the computer.
Carmen
I watch as her computer comes to life. My nerves are jittering and my throat is dry, confirming a slight fear about what I’m about to do.
I’d clocked the poster offering a holiday of a lifetime to Paris when I walked by yesterday. Some may say I’m stupid – obviously my potential in-laws think so, and Anna clearly thought so too when I mentioned it earlier as we unpacked our weekly delivery. Trish had sighed deeply, adding: ‘Be careful – you want genuine sentiment not some flashy city break which doesn’t represent you as a couple.’ She’s got a point. I trust Trish’s judgement; I’ve known her long enough to know she has my back. Though I hope she’s not suggesting that Elliot and I aren’t romantic. Because we are. We might not splash out on Valentine’s Day, which is partly my fault for not saying anything over the years, but we are romantic. We have our moments. I can name numerous occasions when he’s arrived home with flowers for absolutely no reason – not lately, of course, but he has done in the past. I once ordered a whole box of Love Hearts with our names printed on them, though it was slightly ruined when we opened them to discover they’d misspelt ‘Elliot’ as ‘Leliot’ – we still ate them, it didn’t affect the flavour. Plus there was the occasion when we considered getting matching tattoos for our fifth anniversary, though we couldn’t decide on a design. I didn’t like his Celtic warrior symbol whilst he didn’t care for my peacock feathers. Merging the two would have been entirely ridiculous, so we scrapped the idea.
But still. It’s the thought that counts in a relationship; you can’t expect everything to work every time.
I am planning to propose marriage only once in my lifetime and so, after this morning’s epiphany, I’ve decided to go the whole hog. In my mind’s eye, I see us dashing about Paris, having the time of our lives, with my proposal the defining moment of our perfect weekend.
I’ve transferred some money from my own savings account to ensure I can plan as I like. What’s the point in working hard, saving hard and not spending it to make memories? You can’t take it with you, can you?
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br /> ‘So, you are interested in Paris, flying out on Friday and returning on Sunday evening?’ she repeats, typing quickly.
I nod eagerly. I want her to press buttons and create the best honeymoon package without it being an actual honeymoon.
We spend the next twenty minutes browsing classy hotels and direct flights, eventually securing a luxury suite at the Hotel Splendide Royal, near the Champs-Elysées. I feel quite spoilt – this is a first for me; usually I leave such planning to Elliot or hastily opt for cheap offers on the internet. I never use travel agents.
‘Anything else you’d like to do on your visit?’ asks Polly, her fingers poised over the keyboard, once we have the basic bookings in place. ‘I can book a multitude of tickets or events before your arrival.’
I reel off a list of ideas. I want each day to be filled with sightseeing, culinary delights and an unmistakable air of romance which will lead up to my big moment.
Her eyebrows lift into her fringe and her eyes widen as she jots down my extensive list of ideas.
‘Not that I’ve given it that much thought,’ I mutter, more to myself than to her.
It’s at this point I’m grateful to Trish for insisting I ‘nip next door to the travel agents and book properly’.
‘That’s quite a list. How about I have a browse through the necessary details and current offers . . . I’ll come back to you with a definitive list of possibilities and prices. Then you can choose which to book as a package. Does that sound OK?’
‘That sounds great, you’ve been really helpful,’ I say, collecting my handbag. ‘Nip round, or give me a call, if that’s easier.’
‘Perfect, see you in a short one.’
My mood is as high as a kite as I enter the boutique.
‘That couldn’t have been easier,’ I say, adding, ‘I couldn’t have wished for better service or choice.’
