by Erin Green
I lie back and stare at the wafting cobweb, which I really must get down – but I’ve been saying that each night for a month.
I daren’t allow myself to pinpoint the true reason for the change, though I might allow myself to believe it has something to do with Edinburgh. My fleeting visit? The gallery visit? Viewing my painting of Lady Agnew of Lochnaw?
Perhaps.
Maybe.
Possibly I’d experienced another kaleidoscope moment in life. Had I twisted the mirrors and tubing to create a new pattern which was better than the old one?
I must stop thinking before I fool myself. Watch some TV, take the folded washing upstairs . . . get that bloody cobweb!
I daren’t move. I’m suddenly aware of everything surrounding me, as if I’ve turned the kaleidoscope barrel and unknowingly created a new snowflake pattern but with fresher brighter colours than previously ever seen.
I mustn’t continue with these thoughts. I can’t allow my brain to twist and connect the minuscule shapes to form new patterns that I’ll fall in love with. I know from experience that one tiny twist and everything will be lost. Irretrievably changed and lost forever. And the memory of what is lost will cause me endless pain by remaining in my head. And my heart.
I can’t. I won’t. I mustn’t allow my thoughts to wander, grow or connect to form pretty patterns because it might pinpoint the reason for my kaleidoscope twist . . . and there’s a definite chance that the name Brett might feature in that pattern.
Part of me wonders if the camera crew captured anything which links to my current thoughts. I’m tempted to tune in to watch tonight’s episode, purely to make sure I didn’t make a fool of myself. They say a camera never lies but I doubt they capture everything, or least I’m hoping not.
I clutch a small cushion to my face and cautiously peer over the top at the TV screen. I don’t know if I can face watching myself appear in the opening credits, let alone watch the entire episode of Taking a Chance on Love.
I’ve switched my mobile off, knowing my mother may ring mid-programme to ask what I thought about Brett. Or maybe she won’t need to. Maybe I gave myself away so anyone and everyone watching tonight’s episode will instantly know.
I cringe a little more and lift the cushion to cover my lower lashes.
How embarrassing. Thirty-nine years of age and acting like a lovesick teenager.
It’s only date two and I’m already singling out one guy from the two I’ve met. Alex was nice, polite, well-mannered but . . . he wasn’t Brett.
Stop it, Dana, stop it now.
I close my eyes and all I can see is Jez doing a geeky thumbs-up to Tamzin, who is beaming and nodding back to him across the gallery landing as we walk by.
Where were the experts at that specific moment? Were they jubilantly high-fiving each other and congratulating themselves on picking a winner for their dating match experiment?
On hearing the theme tune, my eyes snap open.
Decision time.
I watch. I can’t help myself. In fact, I can’t stop watching. I watch the hour-long episode through again from beginning to end, immediately after it has finished airing to the nation.
My mobile phone records five missed calls from my mother. I daren’t speak to her because I know exactly what she’ll say and it will either relate to the colour of her wedding hat or will focus upon the final closing moments!
I throw the remote down beside my seat as I pause the TV screen for the umpteenth time at a particular shot. A specific moment which I have now watched more than thirty times in every possible TV playback mode: slow motion, normal speed and even fast forward – simply to convince myself that I’m seeing things. I was present in the moment, so I know exactly how it felt from my side, but seeing is believing. How might it appear to others? Better or worse than I remembered?
I know my faults in life. I understand and appreciate exactly why I react, behave and respond in the way that I do. I’m not perfect – none of us are – but even I can see that this particular image, now static on my TV screen, tells only one tale. The close-up is dominated by two faces: mine and Brett’s. Those faces are inches away from each other, our gaze locked, and I definitely remember bated breath . . . The TV image doesn’t portray such sensory involvement for the audience, but I’m certain they get a clear picture.
I reach for the small cushion and bring it high before my face to watch for the final time. This time I’ll imagine it’s not me, it’s some other thirty-nine year old on a date in the art gallery.
I press play on the remote control: slow motion.
I peer from behind the cushion as both faces move closer, automatically tilt and their lips connect. Eyes close. I watch his hand gently come into shot, sliding up and around her neck before disappearing into her hairline. I watch their noses bump and their eyes remain firmly closed as their mouths passionately enjoy each other.
After fifty-six seconds of kissing, I hit the pause button.
I don’t need to witness the next ten seconds. I’ve seen it enough times.
If I saw that couple together kissing in real life, I know what I’d be thinking, assuming and predicting. And yeah, if I were my mum, I’d probably be buying a wedding hat too!
I hastily depress the remote’s off button and the TV screen goes black.
It’s late and I’m tired.
I need sleep.
I need to think what I’ll say tomorrow during the feedback session. I want to be honest. I need to be true to myself but I don’t want to jump the gun and assume anything. I need to plan my answer carefully, play it coy, if necessary, because tomorrow I can pretty much guarantee that the new presenter – and I pray they’ll be kind to me – is going to demand I answer one important question. Having experienced the best date of my life with a great guy, who was interesting, humorous and my version of gorgeous, I will be asked what I thought when Brett dramatically and unceremoniously pulled away from our romantic clinch.
There is no avoiding the question: Jez’s camera crew captured every second of my bewildered look, my utter confusion and aftershock in close-up. I don’t need to see that clip ever again to confirm it looked as bad on the screen as it felt for me in real time.
Carmen
I wait up until eleven o’clock. I’ve cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed the lounge and am dressed in my pjs, awaiting Elliot’s call.
I don’t know whether to be angry or not, given that I spoke to Monty at seven o’clock; couldn’t Elliot have phoned or texted me from the car as they drove to Cardiff? Wouldn’t that have been the sensible option, especially as he couldn’t drive, and then he’d be free all evening to down a skinful of scotch?
Whilst cleaning the kitchen, I’d spied Elliot’s favourite tipple for the second time this week and refrained from pouring myself a large glass – just because he was having a skinful didn’t mean I had to. Anyway, one sip of whisky would undo all my good work drinking three pints of water to aid the benefits of my earlier massage.
Finally, at 11.23, my mobile rings.
Elliot.
I wish I could ignore it. Wish I was out enjoying myself and surrounded by noisy friends, but I’m not. I’m sitting on the sofa staring at my mobile screen.
‘Yes?’ My voice has an edge that I can’t hide.
‘Babe!’
He’s drunk.
‘Hi, Elliot, how are you?’
‘Fine. Fine.’
‘Fine? How can you be fine with a knackered ligament?’
‘Torn, that’s all. Six weeks in a knee brace and maybe some physio sessions but I’ll be fine. Just fine. Fine.’
He’s definitely had a skinful.
‘Can you walk on it?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got crutches. I’m a bit slow but walking is no problem.’
‘What about Paris?’
‘I’ll
be fine.’
‘Did they give you painkillers?’
‘Oh yeah, I’ve had two lots of those.’
‘You’ve had two lots did you say?’
‘Yes. Two. Lots. It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine.’
I bet you are, mixing four painkillers and a belly full of scotch.
‘Elliot, have you eaten?’
‘We’re just going for a curry now . . . then bed.’
It gets better and better.
‘Can you put Monty on, please?’
‘Monty . . . Carmen wants to speak to you. No, I’m not bloody joking. Here she is.’
‘Hello?’
‘Monty . . . can you make sure—’
‘No, no, no, no, no, no way, lady . . . I’m not his babysitter. Bye, Carmen!’
The line goes silent.
Then I hear the noisy handover of the mobile.
‘Hello . . . Monty said he’s not doing anything you say, so I’m back.’
‘Elliot, will you make sure you drink plenty of water and eat some food before bed, please?’
‘Yep. I’ll do that. Monty’s calling me, I need to go now. Bye. Bye. Love ya. Bye.’
He ends the call before I say ‘bye’.
I cradle my mobile to my chest and whisper ‘bye’, for all the good it does. Then I dowse the lounge lights and make my way up to bed, with Maisy, our border collie, lying on top of the duvet for company.
Chapter Eight
Thursday 27 February
Dana
‘Hi, Mum . . . I know, I know . . . I wasn’t ignoring you but, yeah, I was,’ I say, as I drag an unwilling Luke over their doorstep.
‘I couldn’t believe what I was watching . . . One minute he was laughing and joking about the artwork, being so tender towards you . . . and I just knew he was going to kiss you at the end of the date, but I’m shocked that he pulled away like that. Your father’s not impressed either.’
Oh great! That’s one conversation I can’t wait to have.
I drop Luke’s school rucksack and bundle him out of his coat, draping it on the bottom stair.
‘Grandpops?’ slurs Luke, pointing upstairs.
‘Yes, Grandpops is upstairs having a shower,’ answers Mum, as I make my way through to their lounge.
‘Up?’ asks Luke of his nana.
I settle in the armchair as Luke nosily bolts up the stairs to hammer on the bathroom door.
‘I wonder what he’ll say in his feedback . . . He’ll have to explain himself,’ says Mum, entering the lounge.
‘Not necessarily, Mum . . . he might choose not to. I don’t know how to play it. Should I be honest and explain that I was really enjoying myself all evening? Or do I act a bit coy until someone hints to me what Brett has said? I’ll look a fool if I wear my heart on my sleeve and he says he didn’t like me.’
Mum shakes her head and settles on the sofa with her morning tea.
‘He seemed so lovely too . . . I kept saying to your dad, “The experts have got it right this time, that’s for sure.”’
I envisage her remarks as the programme aired, my dad nodding along or keeping schtum as he saw fit. I bet her voice hit that high-speed, shrill tone; it always does when she gets excited. And last night, I bet she was on top form watching us move around the empty gallery enjoying the art, viewing the sculptures and mosaic pottery. Watching her now, despite the early-morning start, I can see remnants of excitement still lingering under the surface, just wanting good news for the couple she watched last night on TV. She’s bubbling, she’s alive and I know she’s willing that, somewhere, not so far from here, a certain young man is feeling slightly annoyed by his own actions and has a decent explanation for his unceremonious end to what started as a delightfully engaging kiss.
‘Sorry that I’ve had to ask you to take him in today, but I need to get a flower order out by ten o’clock and if I had to do the school run in between making up the arrangement and its delivery, I’d be cutting it fine for my feedback slot,’ I say apologetically. ‘Plus I’ve a small table arrangement to make for a meeting I have tomorrow.’ I feel I’ve overstepped the mark this week. I know my parents are happy to have Luke every minute of the day, and Luke loves being here just as much as they love having him, but even I can see how some might call me a poor excuse for a mother. I can almost hear the chummy-mummies slating me at the school gate and even on social media: ‘I don’t know who she thinks she is!’, ‘Fancy gallivanting off to Edinburgh for a date and leaving your son behind!’ and even ‘I can’t see what’s so special about her anyway, she’s a plain Jane in all respects!’
I sink into my mother’s three-piece suite at the very thought of their comments.
Maybe I should walk Luke to school purely to save face with the school-gate crowd.
‘Dana?’
Dad’s voice makes me jump. I look up to see him in a coordinated outfit of claret M&S sweater and trousers, his hair slightly wet but combed back. Luke is hanging on to his right hand.
‘Sorry, did you say something, Dad?’
‘Just be careful . . . You don’t know how the production team are cutting and editing and what story they are weaving, OK?’
I nod.
He’s got a point. I can imagine if last night’s heroine hadn’t been me, I would have been tuned in and hanging on to every word as the couple got closer and closer in the reality of four hours rather than the fleeting TV experience edited to perfection and timed to precisely one hour. I also know that I’d have jumped from the sofa screaming in frustration as Brett pulled away from that final clinch.
I sink lower into their sofa.
Dad sits in his armchair, pulls Luke on to his lap and they settle to watch the morning news.
And today I’d be at the office water-cooler analysing every move he had made and she had made in last night’s episode. I can imagine coffee breaks up and down the nation filled with comments about last night’s events. Are you supporting Team Brett or Team Alex? Which is exactly what TV producers want for good ratings: audience chatter, forum discussion and drama sells TV.
The very thought makes me cringe just a little bit more.
‘Right, I’ve got work to do so I need to dash. Luke, come and give me a two-hand love.’ I bend down as Luke dashes from Grandpops’s lap to swing both his hands around my neck and snuggle into my cheek before delivering a wet kiss. I squeeze his little body tightly into mine, slightly tighter than usual if that’s possible.
‘Bye, my darling. Be a good boy and I’ll be back before bedtime,’ I say, reluctantly releasing him and straightening his glasses.
Luke hastily nods before returning to my dad’s lap. My guilt about leaving him this week means very little to Luke, whilst weighing heavy in my heart. I’m probably trying to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing, that I’m not a negligent parent for desiring change and an additional adult to join our life. Maybe my guilt relates purely to the intrusive method chosen on a lonely Friday Valentine’s night after one too many glasses of cheap wine.
‘Good morning. I have a flower delivery for Mrs Edith Regis,’ I announce, placing the freshly made arrangement on to the reception desk at the Golden Years Retirement Home.
‘She’ll love those . . . She’s ninety-seven today,’ says the matron-like woman manning reception.
I smile. This is when my job brings true satisfaction, knowing that I’ve brightened someone’s day with my handiwork – and provided her granddaughter with as much delight, knowing that her birthday idea came to fruition after just one phone call.
‘Could you sign here please?’ I offer my clipboard and pen to the receptionist and she duly delivers a scribble. It isn’t much proof should I ever get a complaint about non-delivery, but it’s good enough for me and my reputation. She returns the clipboard and pen to me and then stares.
&nb
sp; ‘Oh, it’s you!’
‘Sorry?’
‘You, Dana from off the telly . . . I thought it was going very well last night, and then he pulled away so horribly at the end of the kiss . . . What was all that about?’
I am lost for words.
This is the last thing I expected on my deliveries. Was that totally naïve? Have I unknowingly opened Pandora’s box? I’ve browsed the net and squirmed whilst viewing the hashtag #TeamAlex and #TeamBrett. Surely the audience can separate the show from my daily life? It’s only Thursday; how much bigger can this get by finale night?
‘Would you be interested in seeing Brett again if he could explain himself?’ she asks quickly before I have chance to gather my thoughts together.
‘I, errr, well . . . I’m not . . . Oh, I haven’t even thought about it,’ I stammer, knowing full well I’d thought of little else since I left the gallery. En-route to the airport, Tamzin had tried to coax an answer from me. During the gate check-in, Jez had wandered about looking mournful and scowling; gone was the thumbs-up sign which he’d so eagerly given. And now a total stranger is asking for an update and I don’t have one to give.
‘Never mind, lovey . . . there’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ she says, patting my hand.
‘Thank you, I think. Bye.’ I beat a retreat from the retirement home, knowing I’ll be facing similar questions in my feedback session in the studio.
Polly
‘I’ll do it,’ I say, taking the kettle from her. ‘Sit down, tell me how you are.’
For the first time in her life, Helen acquiesces to my request and goes to sit at her kitchen table. I fuss about the familiar yet unfamiliar kitchen, caring for my sister, doing the only thing I can: making her tea. Helen sits in her towelling housecoat, her hair unwashed and her face bare of the basic make-up which she applies every day of her life. Not today.
She’s silent. Watching. Mindful that’ll I jump on every detail she offers and question everything she doesn’t mention.
For the first time, there’s a vast expanse of silence between us. Every other occasion of our lives, our family bond, our memories, our sisterhood has paved the way to here, but right now she looks like a stranger, whilst I feel like one.
