Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  As I stir her tea, I notice the grime around the mixer tap, the speckles of grease layered on the cooker top and the tacky rings inside the fridge door. This isn’t the kitchen of my sister but the kitchen of a woman whose focus has been elsewhere for some time.

  Helen doesn’t answer me.

  Not until I settle opposite her.

  ‘Lost. I don’t expect anyone to have the answers or to able to make it right for me, but it’s as you said, I just need people to hold my hand while this darkness lingers.’

  ‘Oh, Helen.’ My hand reaches across the table for hers. She has such slender hands, pale and fragile – so different to mine. I’ve never noticed before.

  I wait.

  ‘He’s having an affair . . . She turned up on our doorstep on the Sunday night and had the gall to announce his intention of leaving me . . . I feel so stupid. So damned stupid for not seeing, not suspecting what he was up to . . . for so fecking long.’

  My innards twist with anger on her behalf. It’s a good job Marc is out food shopping.

  ‘Four years!’ Her faces grimaces, forcing home her pain and disbelief. ‘Four fecking years of lies, deceit and going behind my back with some slip of a thing from work . . . What a fool I’ve been.’

  ‘I always saw you two being so happy, so close; you’re always so tactile with each other . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah, he kept up the pretence despite his dalliance elsewhere . . . making a mockery of our marriage. Erica was just three when they started seeing each other.’

  I’m lost. I have no advice to give. All I can do is listen and make tea.

  ‘You had the right idea in never getting married, Polly. What’s the bloody point when one person decides to throw it all away for the sake of a cheap affair?’

  ‘Helen, I’m no expert, believe me. We’ve had our ups and downs over the years but I know Fraser would never stray – we both know the expectations of the other and what would break us.’

  ‘Trust, that’s what you and Fraser’s relationship is built upon – ours obviously isn’t. Did we think that a day in church was enough to cement us as one? Yet it’s slipped away, despite our vows.’ She sips her tea and looks at me over the rim of the mug.

  ‘And now?’

  She shrugs. ‘Who knows . . . I don’t. It’s a twisted waiting game while Marc decides what he’s going to do . . . Apparently he’s “not sure”.’

  ‘Even after . . . ?’ I can’t bring myself to say it, yet I can’t ignore the elephant in the room.

  ‘Exactly.’ Her eyes well and hot angry tears begin to flow. ‘He was with her on Monday night – that’s been their routine – and I was left here alone but for the girls and I just thought, what’s the point? He wants her, she wants him, so why not do what you want . . .’

  ‘But the girls?’

  ‘I’ve let them down, Polly . . . I’ve told them I’m unhappy and have stomach ache but they’re not stupid. Evie’s already asking questions and Erica’s become so clingy – and I’ve caused that, Polly. Me, their mother, the one person they should be able to rely upon tried to bail out on life because . . .’ She falters. ‘For what . . . I couldn’t take the hurt? The upset? I didn’t love them enough?’

  ‘Helen, stop . . . In that moment you had no answers, you weren’t thinking straight and your pain simply overwhelmed you . . . you did what you did, as I see it, as a cry for help. And whatever Marc decides to do, we’re all here for you and your girls. Deep down, you know that; you don’t need me to remind you. You’re my sister, my only sister, and we’ve only got each other, Helen.’

  I see my words reflected in her eyes, as she continues to cry and stare helplessly across the table.

  Carmen

  ‘You look beautiful, Michelle,’ I say to her full-length reflection as I zip up her bridal gown. ‘Monty’s going to be knocked sideways when he sees you walking down the aisle.’

  ‘I hope so . . . The year and a half of wedding planning flew by but these last few weeks are definitely dragging. And there’s still nine days to go!’

  ‘But you’re under the double-digit countdown,’ I reply, stepping away to allow her to view her gown to its full effect without me hovering in the background.

  Michelle chose well at her initial appointment twelve months ago – she knew exactly what she wanted. A simple, figure-hugging gown, which skims her waist and hips before floating gently into an A-line skirt to flick at the hemline as she walks. She refused any bling detailing on the bodice, ignored the crystal droplet option, which she rightly believed would distract from her deep blue eyes. Instead, her wedding gown focuses upon her as a woman and a bride. She looks breathtaking. I feel honoured she chose my shop for her appointments and, ultimately, her purchase. I did remove the majority of my mark-up – mates’ rates.

  ‘Are you ready?’ I ask, knowing her mother, sisters and matron of honour, Nicole, are patiently waiting on or around our chaise longue.

  ‘Yep, let’s show them.’

  ‘Walk over towards the large gilt mirror and I’ll help you to step up on to the platform,’ I instruct, ensuring she knows her route through the boutique to present her gown in the best possible manner.

  I position my hand high upon the edge of the curtain and quickly draw it back.

  A gasp of excitement fills the boutique, quickly followed by a gush of happy tears and a motherly offer of tissues from Trish.

  Michelle gracefully glides across the floor, her hemline flicking with each step. I dart ahead to be at the gilt mirror and platform ahead of her to offer her a helping hand.

  Once in position, I crouch down to smooth her hemline and step back to admire our bride-to-be.

  Stunning. Simply stunning.

  Everybody in her party is in tears, some grapple with camera phones, capturing the moment under the boutique’s spotlights, which highlight and enhance every shimmer in the fabric.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouths to me, admiring her gown.

  ‘My pleasure,’ I mouth in reply.

  And I truly mean it. It will feel strange attending her wedding after she’s purchased the dress from my boutique; I never get invited usually, but this is somewhat different given that Monty and Elliot are such close friends.

  I am truly delighted for her. Michelle’s gown and overall look matches her dreams and that is visible to everyone present. This is the moment she’s been waiting for and of which she deserves to enjoy every moment.

  ‘Shall we crack open another bottle?’ I say cheerily to the gathered crowd. I don’t wait for an answer but leave Trish and Anna to hold the fort while I escape to the kitchenette.

  I don’t usually open the best; I have a policy that the bubbles are Prosecco unless there is a very special occasion, when I have been known to ask for the champagne to be opened. This is one such occasion. I am not prepared to skimp on my friends. It’s not in my nature and I hope it never will be.

  I open the chiller cabinet, ignore the nearest bottle of Moet and grab the Bollinger.

  My fingers nimbly remove the gold foil, release the cork’s wire cage and deftly twist the bottom of the bottle to release the steadfast cork. I wrap a white cloth around the neck and re-enter the boutique.

  The excitement has calmed a little, the tears are dry and the ladies give a little cheer at the new arrival. I hastily usher Trish to collect three additional clean glasses for us staff, there’s no reason why we can’t enjoy a small one with our guests.

  ‘Say when,’ I say, pouring Michelle a glass carefully: the last thing I want is a disaster while she’s still wearing her gown. I tip the bottle gingerly, the bubbles flow as Michelle indicates enough as I near the lip of the glass flute. I quickly pour for each of her ladies and then a small amount for each of us.

  ‘Michelle, it has been an honour to source your dream gown and we all wish you the very, very best of luck and futu
re happiness in your marriage. To Michelle and Monty!’ I say, and the gathering chorus, ‘Michelle and Monty!’ before we each smile and take a sip.

  The bubbles dance on my tongue. It seems an age since we shared a celebration in the boutique but how could I not, given the closeness of our connection?

  Anna grimaces at her second sip and passes on drinking any more of her bubbles. Trish swallows hers as if there is no tomorrow. I stand and sip, savouring the moment. This time next week, this could be me celebrating my engagement to Elliot. I can’t imagine what it will feel like having that ring on my finger twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and knowing that our next job will be to decide on a date, book a local church, choose bridesmaids and groomsmen, write the order of service, reserve a horse and carriage, invites, flowers, groomsmen’s suits, bridesmaids’ dresses, wedding cake and decorations, reception music, favours, honeymoon destinations – wow, so much to organise!

  Suddenly I feel a little overwhelmed.

  I give a small giggle at myself. Here I am feeling overwhelmed at the thought of organising all that and yet I’m part of the industry. How must another bride-to-be feel as an outsider? Though this just adds more weight to my new wedding centre venture, bringing all the necessary services together to aid a couple’s planning.

  I exhale.

  The champagne tastes good, the company look so happy and I am on the verge of my own exciting adventure, well . . . as soon as Saturday comes and I pop the big question.

  I watch Michelle. She’s radiant, the happiest I have ever seen her.

  Inside my heart quietly aches. This is what I want. I want that glow at the prospect of marrying Elliot, I want the excitement of knowing our day is around the corner, just waiting to happen.

  I have never been jealous in my life before, but in this moment, watching Michelle in her stunning gown, I can admit . . . I’m a tad jealous of her situation.

  ‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’ sighs Nicole, handing me her empty glass once all the champagne has gone.

  ‘So elegant and so divine,’ I say, placing the empty flute glass on the tray. ‘Just nine days to go and Monty will know he’s such a lucky guy.’

  Nicole doesn’t answer but looks at me sharply.

  Not a word is said but something just happened. Something changed in her demeanour. Does she think that by praising Monty I’m knocking her Steve? Or even Elliot?

  ‘Not that I’m saying Steve wasn’t a lucky man when he married you,’ I add quickly, just in case I’ve caused offence.

  Nicole smiles, but I can see it is a forced, unnatural smile which goes no higher than her lips.

  What the hell?

  Nicole continues to watch me. I quickly replay the conversation in my head. I can’t see what I’ve said to instantly quieten her spirit.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask, unsure whether I should apologise or quit the conversation.

  ‘Me?’ She seems shocked by my question.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Silence.

  I want to move away, take the tray back to the kitchenette where I know Trish is waiting to load the dishwasher, but I’m fixed to the spot.

  Something is wrong. Very wrong. I can sense it in Nicole’s face. I can almost read it in her eyes.

  ‘Carmen!’

  Michelle’s voice brings me from my moment.

  ‘Can I take this off now?’ she asks, indicating the changing area.

  ‘Of course, yes . . . Anna, could you take this tray through to Trish, please?’

  I take one swift glance in Nicole’s direction, she’s dropped her head and is staring at the floor. She doesn’t look comfortable.

  I follow Michelle to the changing area and assist in unzipping her gown.

  What the hell is wrong with Nicole?

  ‘I can’t wait now; the wedding seems so real now that I’ve seen the actual dress in which I’ll be married.’

  ‘Is Nicole OK?’ I ask carelessly, rudely interrupting her moment.

  ‘Nicole? Yeah! She’s fine.’

  I give a smile to acknowledge her answer but I’m not convinced.

  I can sense Michelle watching me, so I try to hold my smile in place until I have her gown removed and safely stashed into its protective cover, and then I can leave her to dress in peace while I rejoin the family group.

  I carry the dress in the billowing protective cover in both arms, like a bride being carried high over the threshold, and exit into the boutique area. My smile is firmly in place as I pass the females readying themselves to leave as soon as their bride-to-be joins them, and carry the bridal gown over to lay it upon the chaise longue.

  I’m so conscious that all eyes are on me. I avoid glancing towards Nicole.

  ‘Ladies, it has been an absolute pleasure and I can’t wait to see you all on the seventh of March – we will have such a fabulous day. Let’s hope the weather is kind for the photographs,’ I say, giving my voice a giggly undertone.

  Trish and Anna are still in the kitchenette, loading the dishwasher.

  For the next five minutes, I brightly bid them all goodbye, repeat my sentiments that the bride-to-be looked fabulous and eventually herd them towards the door. I notice that Nicole’s energy is muted.

  We linger uncomfortably at a goodbye peck. We don’t hug, as Michelle and I did.

  I wave and smile as the door closes and, as soon as they’ve walked the length of the bay window, my mask falls.

  I’m confused. What just happened? Did I say something wrong? Did she say something wrong but I didn’t catch what she’d said? Was she embarrassed by a remark? Where was our hug and why did kissing Nicole’s cheek feel awkward?

  ‘Carmen?’

  Her voice catches me off-guard.

  Nicole’s standing inside the closed door, her hand clutching the handle, her expression pained, brow crumpled, eyes peering at me.

  ‘Nicole!’ Instantly my smile returns on seeing her direct gaze.

  ‘Carmen . . . I’m sorry but . . . well, just . . . Carmen, can I have a word?’

  ‘With me?’ I’m apprehensive; I can hear it in my voice. My smile disappears.

  Nicole walks to the chaise longue and slowly sits down, her handbag cradled upon her lap like a barrier to hide behind.

  I don’t hesitate, but sit down on the platform in front of the large gilt mirror used just moments ago to showcase our friend’s bridal gown.

  I wait.

  Nicole can’t meet my gaze.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to say this but I think it needs to be said . . .’

  I nod, oblivious to her intentions or meaning but, yes, whatever needs saying needs to be said. And said as soon as possible, given the heightened rate of my heartbeat.

  My eyes must be pleading in expression.

  My body is wound like a tight spring, held static for fear of what the next few minutes may bring.

  ‘Carmen . . . you’ve known me for a fair while now and I hate to be the one to say – Steve is going to kill me for even mentioning it. I promised I wouldn’t but, hey, I would want to be told . . .’

  ‘Nicole, please,’ I urge, unable to bear her commentary as it delays whatever is to follow.

  Nicole straightens her back as she continues, ‘Carmen, Steve and the boys think that Elliot is seeing someone.’

  I burst out laughing. A deep, throaty laugh that uses every muscle in my body from the abdominals up to my face.

  ‘Yes, me!’ I stupidly retort, laughing wide-mouthed and with eyes shut tight.

  I suddenly hear my own words lift into the air around me. I snap open my eyes and see the look of horror on Nicole’s face.

  She slowly wets her lip, swallows and lowers her head.

  I cease laughing.

 
The boutique air has become thick, rancid and heavy.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t sit here staring at the top of her lowered head. Waiting for the next line, another snippet of information. The name. The reasons. The theory. The guys’ remarks whispered in confidence to wives. Their unspoken fears that their guy will follow suit. Their promise not to tell. Their promise to quash any remark made to them. Their startled look of horror when discussing it with another female on Saturday night in the Cross Keys, especially when the woman in question rushes to join their secret conversation and neither of you knows what to say, do or how to smooth over the awkward situation.

  I am proposing on Saturday, he is away for three days, I have a speech to write, a new business venture to launch tomorrow morning and now, this.

  ‘Is Steve away on the stag do?’ I ask softly.

  Nicole nods.

  ‘So that is actually happening . . . for a minute there I thought I’d been duped by a late-night phone from a couple of drunken men about a torn ligament and some painkillers,’ I say. ‘Nicole, I’m sorry but you’re going to have to explain why the guys think as they do. I want to know – you can tell Steve I dragged it from you.’

  Nicole swallows deeply and nods.

  She spends the next ten minutes explaining that Monty, Andrew and Steve have noticed comments he’s made about other woman during nights out in bars. The guys are taken back as he never used to comment, never openly stared. In recent months he’s ventured over for a chat, despite the other three advising him not to.

  I realign my expression from shock to a noncommittal smile.

  I listen carefully, absorbing every detail and trying to remain calm.

  ‘Has anyone seen him go off with any of these women?’

  Nicole shakes her head.

  ‘Witnessed any uncompromising acts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you all know?’

  Nicole nods.

  ‘Even Hannah?’

  Nicole gives another nod.

  ‘Well, that’s bloody great news! And, what am I expected to do with such information while they enjoy their bloody stag do in Cardiff?’