by Erin Green
‘Again!’ cries Jez.
It’s late afternoon, there are curious tourists milling around and I’m being filmed getting out of a plush car – the whole scenario is totally ridiculous.
Take three: the door didn’t open as smoothly so I crack my forehead on the inside window.
Take four: I sneezed as I stepped from the vehicle.
Finally, take five: I exit the car and walk several steps before Jez shouts, ‘Cut!’
‘Bloody hell, Dana – you made hard work of that!’ mutters Tamzin, shaking her head and causing her zingy curls to dance.
I feel like an utter fool. How did I think I was ever swish enough to pull off a dating documentary when I can’t even get out of a car? Someone please call for a responsible adult to help raise my dear boy. I hope that Jez doesn’t create an outtakes section at the end of the week showing my car exits and toilet sound effects. I’d never be able to face the chummy-mummies again and Luke would have to be homeschooled on my limited knowledge, which would be the biggest downfall of his life!
I’m so consumed by analysing my lack of life skills I haven’t clocked where we are.
‘Dana, simply walk in a straight line from this stone pillar to the end one . . . and please stay on your feet,’ instructs Jez, gesturing to the camera man to record my walk.
Ha bloody ha, Jez.
I focus on my task. I concentrate and manage to walk, one uneventful step after another, along the required route for the camera angle Jez wants before noticing the colourful banner strung up on the red sandstone building announcing the Scottish National Portrait Gallery.
I adore portraits and art.
My excitement overflows and I can’t hold back my smile.
‘That would have been a better shot, Jez,’ shouts the cameraman, pointing out my expression.
Jez pops up from nowhere.
‘Walk it again, Dana . . . but smile like you were just doing,’ shouts Jez.
For the life of me, I’m no actor; I’ve only just mastered the art of walking on command, let alone a retake of a genuine smile.
I redo the walk with the additional smile with the camera in front of me, which is slightly distracting, but Jez doesn’t complain when I reach the end pillar so I assume he’s happy.
Tamzin rushes towards me as I await my next instruction.
‘Remember, if you nip to the toilet . . .’ she says, fixing the tiny microphone next to my collarbone.
‘I’ll remember.’
‘Mmmm, you said that on date one,’ she mutters, titivating my hair. I get the feeling Tamzin is tired of being my minder. She’s obviously disappointed by their selection having spent some time with me. Maybe she expected me to be chummier, more feminine or slightly less naïve, but surely I’m supposed to be me. Isn’t that the whole point? It was me who answered the isometric test questions, my face that was photographed from every conceivable angle and my backside that was filmed walking along before they decided my smile was slightly more pleasing.
‘Now, Dana, your date is standing at the top of the main staircase . . . We’re going to enter the gallery and position ourselves at the top and bottom of the staircase so, as you go in, please don’t look at us. Focus on him, OK?’ explains Jez, holding my gaze as he speaks before turning to Tamzin. ‘Give us five minutes, then send her in.’
I watch her orange curls perform a lively dance. Jez runs inside with his camera crew. The experts file in after them; none of them look at me as they pass.
‘Your hair must take ages to do,’ I say, admiring her look.
Tamzin frowns.
‘It’s not real,’ she mutters, her brow furrowing further.
This is going to be a long five minutes.
I enter the foyer of the portrait gallery, where every surface is pristine and gleaming – there isn’t a soul around. I was expecting the buzz of visitors, the stare of security staff or gallery staff manning the ticket desk. But there’s nobody apart from Tamzin, leaning against the open doorway, frantically gesturing for me to walk through the foyer towards the staircase.
I do as I’m told.
The staircase sweeps up and curves slightly in the most elegant of fashions. One camera crew captures my arrival and continues to roll as I walk, which I feel I’ve mastered now.
I climb the stairs and it’s only when I’m halfway up that I can see there is a man standing at the top, awaiting my arrival, and he’s definitely not Jez or his camera crew.
Polly
‘Mum, I’m here! Don’t worry, you won’t be late,’ I call my mother from the curbside, knowing I’m later than I had planned. ‘Come out to the car, we’ll head straight off.’
I put my phone in my handbag as my mother exits her front door, checks the door is locked and then checks she has her door key. Typical Mum – why doesn’t she check before the door is well and truly shut?
I watch as she walks towards me. Sporting bright white trainers and dressed in her new velour burgundy tracksuit from M&S, she takes tiny shuffling steps, her head lowered, watching where she steps on her gravelled pathway.
She looks older this week.
I glance in my rear-view mirror. I see the dark circles under my own eyes, the tiny splash of make-up which I’ve used purely to detract the viewer and a slick of lip gloss.
We all look tired this week.
‘Hello, Polly, I thought you weren’t coming,’ says Mum, climbing into the passenger seat, and securing her seatbelt.
I give her quick peck on the cheek. It feels like tissue under my lips.
‘Just delayed. I had to view the venue for Saturday’s party, organise a buffet and then cut through the traffic – not easy given the snarl-up on the ring road. But I’m here now.’
‘Is this seat catch mended yet?’
‘No, though I’m not sure if it’s the catch or the springs – it hasn’t lurched forward for a week or so.’
‘It doesn’t feel secure. Look – it rocks back and forth.’ She demonstrates by rocking the seat’s backrest violently, just as she did last week.
‘I know, I’ll get it sorted, Mum. Or you can discuss it with Fraser when he collects you after the class if you prefer.’
‘Will he meet me outside The Bed Shop?’
‘Yes, that’s what we arranged.’
I start the engine and away we go, heading back into town, but at least I know now that the ring road is a nightmare and can avoid it, ensuring she’s on time.
‘So, how have you been?’
‘Worried sick. I keep saying to Derek – where does this leave us?’
‘Derek?’
‘Oh yes, he’s been most helpful about Helen. Very supportive . . . he’s a caring man at heart, though I know you don’t know him well enough to judge.’
‘Are you sure Helen would want you discussing her situation with Derek, Mum? I’ve hardly even said much in front of our Cody; it’s very much her business and she probably won’t want it discussed by everyone.’
‘Phew! You’re just like your father, you are! I bet he’s all “let’s brush this under the carpet, everything will be all right by next week”.’
‘Mum! That’s not fair. Dad is beside himself to think we could have lost her but he’s ready to support her in any way he can.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Please don’t, it’s tough enough without the bickering between you two. She comes home tonight. The girls are staying an extra night at ours to make sure Helen gets some rest and then we’ll see what she wants to do. There’s no point us arguing amongst ourselves about this one.’
‘Now that sounds like Fraser,’ she says.
‘It probably does, given my daily interaction with him, Mum.’
‘Are his parents coming on Saturday?’
‘Oh yes, they’ll be picking you up at just gone seven o
’clock, so if you can be ready and waiting, that’d be great.’
‘Are you not collecting me?’
‘No, Mum, I can’t collect everyone.’
‘Who’s driving your father then?’
‘We are but . . .’
She clicks her tongue in that annoying manner which has haunted me since childhood.
‘Mum, we live on the same side of town as Dad. What’s the point in us driving past his place to get to yours, knowing he can’t get there either? This way you both get collected and delivered home safely without hassle or fuss.’
‘Olive doesn’t like me. You know that, don’t you? It’ll be all politeness and fake smiles. “Hi, Pauline, how are you?” she’ll ask. I’ll answer and then there’ll be total silence for the rest of the journey unless Fraser’s father is in one of his chatty moods. I’ll sit in the back, counting the streetlights passing the window.’
‘His name’s Malcolm, Mum. Would you prefer a taxi then? Let me book you a taxi.’
‘Mmmm, like your dad’s having a taxi.’
‘Actually, he did ask for a taxi but Fraser refused to consider it when I mentioned it.’
‘Won’t Fraser be drinking?’
‘No, not now he’s promised to collect Dad to save him getting a taxi.’
‘If anyone should be getting a taxi, it’s you . . . you should be celebrating your son’s birthday, not ferrying everyone else around.’
‘Absolutely, but life isn’t like that, Mum. Fraser’s happy to drive.’
Silence descends as my mother squirrels away the details. I can’t keep everyone happy, but I’m busting a gut keeping all the balls in the air without dropping one. Which has become the main aim of this week. Come Sunday, I can have a quiet day at home and forget juggling for a day or so.
‘Come in with me,’ says Mum, when we can’t see hide nor hair of Derek outside The Bed Shop, their designated meeting place.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Polly, he’s probably waiting just inside; he’ll have forgotten our arrangement and gone straight up. It’ll only mean you walking me in, and then you can leave.’
How can my mother sign up for a tantric intimacy class and yet be unable to enter the double doors and meet her fellow tantric learners?
‘I’m parked on double yellows, Mum,’ I say, hoping that’s enough of an excuse. In truth, I don’t want to see any of the participants for fear of bumping into the same crowd whilst shopping in Waitrose.
‘Polly, please.’
‘All right.’ I put my hazard lights on and climb from the car, locking the doors. I’ll only be a minute: a quick nip over the road, in through the double doors, deliver my mother and back out.
Funny how you never notice certain things without actually looking. Beside the entrance to The Bed Shop, which we’ve visited many times, I’d never noticed the glass door situated to the left. As we enter, a steep set of steps ascends directly before us; there’s very little room to even close the door behind us before we begin to climb. At the top, I hold the banister rail for a moment to get my breath back, and I’m taken back to find an entire new world which I didn’t know existed. The first floor is decked out as a series of workout rooms – wooden flooring and mirrors, and glass frontages putting participants on show throughout each session. An absurdly healthy-looking lady sits behind the reception desk, amidst a promotional display about juicing, beaming an over-welcoming smile at us.
There is no sign of Derek.
‘OK, Mum, I’ll be off then. Fraser will meet you at two o’clock. Remember, he’ll be waiting outside for you.’
‘Polly, don’t go.’
A flashback from nursery days occurs, though the demanding individual isn’t two foot tall.
‘Mum, I need to . . . You’re here now . . . sign in at reception and take it from there,’ I say, indicating the lady behind the reception desk.
‘What if he doesn’t show up?’
I shrug. Good. That would be perfect.
‘You’ll still have a wonderful time learning whatever it is you’re going to learn, Mum. Now, I really must go. They look a friendly bunch,’ I say, pointing towards the glass wall of a workout studio where mats are being unrolled, and seeing a range of ages, mainly my mother’s generation, wearing an assortment of dressing gowns and kaftans. I give her a quick peck on the cheek and dash down the stairs, fighting the momentum created by the steepness of the flight.
As I leave through the main door, I see it stuck to my windscreen in a plastic bloody envelope.
Bastards!
I dash across to my car and yank the offending parking ticket from the windscreen, whilst scouting for the cheeky git who’d signed it. In the distance, as far as the travel agents and the bridal boutique, I can just make out his patrolling uniform. He might look as if he’s plodding along but I know for a fact he must have broken an Olympic speed record to have achieved that distance between me and him given the time recorded on my ticket.
Seventy quid wasted.
I unlock my car and throw the ticket on to the passenger seat before manoeuvring into the afternoon traffic.
Dana
‘Hello, I’m Brett Fallon. Nice to meet you,’ says Brett, extending his hand as I climb the final stair. His accent is deep Scots, his colouring not quite as I’d imagined. His thick hair is a tumble of auburn curls, a contrast to the neatly trimmed beard which covers half his pale complexion, but it’s his piercing grey eyes, which instantly dilate on meeting my gaze, that hold my attention.
‘Thank you, Brett . . . I’m happy to meet you,’ I say, blushing profusely as my nerves are reignited.
‘I can only apologise if you’d hoped for a dinner date but I tend to show myself up in social situations like that so I thought an art gallery would be more pleasant . . . though I didn’t expect them to close it to the general public just for us.’ Brett laughs.
‘They haven’t?’
‘Yep . . . there’s no one here but us. It feels selfish in some respects.’
I stupidly look around, knowing perfectly well there was no one downstairs, but I refrain from looking at the camera crew – Jez will want us to pretend they aren’t present either.
‘I thought they only favoured the rich and famous with private viewings. And, believe me, I’m no one special.’
His brows crease before his wide smile reappears.
‘Neither am I, but given that we’ve got my favourite gallery to ourselves, we’ll pretend –’ Brett leans in close to whisper, his aftershave permeating my next breath – ‘for one night.’
There’s no point him whispering to avoid the microphones – I know how much they can hear.
I nod in agreement.
My gaze lingers on his grey eyes, framed with such long lashes.
I like Brett. In an instant, I sense he’s not flash, not super-suave but ordinary like me. He’s a decent sort, like the hundreds of good eggs that I see driving around town, shopping alone in the supermarket or doing the school run most days. The ones I can never pluck up the courage to speak to.
I can’t keep staring at his beautiful eyes, so I shift my gaze and am instantly distracted by the sight over his left shoulder.
An enticing sight which I’ve known and loved for a lifetime.
I gasp in surprise, my hands lifting to my mouth in childlike delight, acting a lot like Luke in a sweet shop.
‘Shall we?’ Brett indicates to his right towards the first archway, intent on starting our tour, but I’m stuck fast to the spot and staring.
‘Could we?’ I say, pointing towards the portrait displayed to our left.
‘Sure.’
‘Do you come here often?’ I ask, as we stroll towards the camera crew. Jez obviously hadn’t expected us to take this route, given the amount of hand-flapping and hasty instructing he does as we slowl
y approach.
‘Many times during my childhood and now every time I come home to see the family. And you?’
‘Never . . . which is why I didn’t expect to see her.’ I nod towards the Singer Sargent painting staring down at me.
‘Lady Agnew of Lochnaw . . . You like her portrait?’
‘I love it. She’s breathtaking,’ I stammer, staring open-mouthed at the vast canvas. ‘Look at her gaze . . . it’s so alluring!’
‘A definite beauty of her time,’ says Brett, staring up at her delicate features.
‘Such an informal feminine pose and yet that look,’ I say, sounding as if I knew something about art. ‘I wonder what she was thinking?’
‘Mmmm, I wonder. I’m sure her husband asked the same question,’ mutters Brett. His tone is suggestive and we both begin to giggle.
‘Her name was Gertrude – hardly regal, is it?’
‘It probably was back then . . .’ Brett pauses before adding, ‘If it wasn’t, then maybe she was just a tad closer to being “no one special”, a bit like us.’
‘No one special . . . she was the granddaughter of a baronet who just happened to marry another baronet?’
‘A valid point. I stand corrected; she’s obviously someone very special.’ Brett’s laughter resonates deeply and his smile reaches his eyes.
I like his humour.
‘Come on, let’s go through,’ I say, bravely linking my arm in his, which he allows without hesitation, gently patting my hand into place upon his sleeve.
‘Don’t you want to admire your painting for a little longer?’
‘My painting?’ I giggle at his phrase.
‘Sorry, the way you were talking, I assumed . . .’ Brett gives a broad smile.
I stare at my painting and ponder.
‘Mmmm, I think I’m going to allow the gallery to borrow her for just a little while longer . . . until I’ve had my lounge redecorated anyway.’
Brett laughs as we head back towards the staircase.
As we stroll past the camera crew, trying to ignore them, I spot Jez giving the thumbs-up to a bemused Tamzin.
Polly
