Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  ‘Carmen, I am so sorry. When you said about Monty being such a lucky guy . . . it reminded me of a comment Steve made about Elliot being lucky to have you. I guess I reacted and you spotted it . . . I’m so very sorry to be the one.’

  ‘Steve thinks Elliot is lucky?’

  Nicole nods, closing her eyes as if pained.

  ‘So, let me get this straight before . . . well, before I lose the plot. There’s been lot of smutty offhand comments, lots of flirting, shall we call it? But no actual evidence?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And Monty, Andrew and Steve all think the same?’

  ‘Yep, Magoo’s been kept busy with the baby so hasn’t caught up with them lately.’

  I wasn’t about to show my ignorance and state that the guys hadn’t met up in ages, months, in fact, because clearly that wasn’t true. Elliot had lied to me.

  I lean back, stretching my arms behind me to support my weight. I look at the ceiling filled with tiny halogen bulbs, then lower my eyes to take in the rich burgundy of the chaise longue, the tiara display sparkling under the intense lights, rail upon rail of designer wedding gowns, each in its protective cover, awaiting a newly engaged woman and her dream man.

  I want to cry.

  I want to scream.

  I want to disappear.

  I don’t want a mini-break to Paris.

  I don’t want two engagements rings sitting inside my bedside cabinet drawer.

  I have no idea when Elliott could be having an affair; to my knowledge he goes to the gym every Thursday night and Saturday when he’s not on bank duty. The rest of the week he’s home watching the football, cricket, quiz shows, and asking how my day has been.

  I stand, causing Nicole to flinch.

  ‘Thank you, now I know what you and Michelle were discussing in the Cross Keys when I inadvertently walked up and joined you, having escaped Hannah,’ I say as cheerily as I can.

  ‘I just didn’t want to be the one to say.’

  ‘No worries, no one need know . . . it’s OK, Nicole.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I am absolutely fine,’ I say, walking towards the boutique’s door.

  Nicole scurries to join me; the relief etched on her face is clear.

  ‘See you soon, Carmen.’

  ‘In nine days, I believe.’

  Nicole’s mouth twitches in surprise but she decides against saying anything as the door closes.

  I stand staring at the busy street through the door’s glazed panel. My hands are shaking, nerves twitching me towards nausea and my mind is spinning with a montage of city sight-seeing. Outside, the world and his wife simply carry on as before, mothers with pushchairs, elderly ladies with tartan shopping trolleys and gentlemen with worn walking canes – everyone looks so happy and content whilst I’ve taken delivery of bad news. Part of me wants to step outside, into the chilly but bright day, amidst the cream-coloured stonework, and ask what they’re playing at, passing this way when I feel as I feel. Could they possibly take a detour along a neighbouring street while I get my act together.

  ‘Are you OK?’ comes a gentle voice.

  I daren’t turn round. I can’t face Trish.

  I cough.

  ‘Could you give Anna some petty cash and send her out to buy milk, sugar and coffee . . . I could do with a chat,’ I say calmly.

  ‘Did you hear?’ I ask, slumping into my chair in the rear office as soon as Anna is safely out on her errand.

  Trish settles on the edge of the desk and nods.

  ‘Now what am I to do?’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Carmen, you need to address this before anything else . . . Do you believe them?’

  ‘My head is saying no way, he’s always at home with me. Yes, he’s out at the gym a few times a week but, more importantly, when does he meet up with the guys?’

  ‘So it’s not a regular haunt they drink at every week?’

  ‘No! In fact, that was a reason we all went the pub on Saturday night, because it had allegedly been such a long time since the guys had been together.’

  ‘Unless that was a total lie.’

  ‘Yep, exactly.’

  ‘Does he definitely go the gym on Thursdays?’

  ‘I’d say yes. I see him wash a sweaty-smelling kit when he arrives home, unless he goes drinking in shorts and a T-shirt.’

  ‘Gym bag.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Trish raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Nah. He’s not a fifteen-year-old girl heading for school with a change of shoes and a shorter skirt safely hidden in her bag.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘He has days off when he’s worked a Saturday shift . . . to balance his hours on the rota system but the other guys aren’t off on those days.’

  ‘So what it boils down to is a few too many comments about other females?’

  ‘Yes, from what Nicole said. She reckons that nobody has seen him go home with someone else, or gone off with them in the pub, club, wherever they’ve been . . .’

  ‘It’s just irresponsible comments then, Carmen . . . men say all sorts of shite when they’re drunk.’

  ‘I bet your Terry doesn’t!’

  Trish smiles ruefully.

  ‘See. I bet your Terry could get as drunk as a skunk and not eye up another female . . .’

  Trish sighs.

  ‘That’s what I want, Trish, that security in a relationship. I’m here, after eight years of emotion, time and effort being ploughed into a relationship with a guy who I was about to propose to and now I’m not sure if what Nicole’s said is true. Whereas you – you instantly have that secure knowledge that your Terry would never disrespect you in that way. You are his number one, his first and last thought of each day. Me, I don’t have that . . . because if I did, I wouldn’t be questioning his actions.’

  ‘Oh, Carmen.’

  ‘Trish, focus on what she actually said: he’s commenting about other women! That’s why he hasn’t committed to me after eight years, isn’t it? Elliot is metaphorically still out there fishing for the right one. He’s not sure it’s me he wants to be with even after all we’ve built together. It makes sense.’

  ‘I wouldn’t listen to them, chick,’ says Trish.

  ‘How can I not? The guys have known him for a lifetime. Nicole said they’re concerned, that he hasn’t acted like this for years but now . . .’ I say, adding, ‘Even the wives, including Michelle, are obviously shocked by it because I caught them discussing it in the pub last Saturday night. And today I made one comment and there was a flicker of something across Nicole’s face. I saw her thoughts register in her expression and then it was gone . . . but she’d changed. She couldn’t hide that something was wrong.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can hardly call him and have it out. He’s probably halfway down another bottle of whisky in the middle of Wales. For all I know he might not even be with the guys anymore – Elliot might have cancelled his plans now he’s damaged his knee and made off elsewhere for a couple of nights. Oh, Trish, what the hell do I do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I stare at her.

  ‘Seriously, if I were you, I’d do nothing.’

  ‘And make a right prat of myself come Saturday?’

  ‘You won’t make a prat of yourself, Carmen. Somewhere along the line there is a big misunderstanding waiting to be uncovered whether it be from the guys who claim what they’ve noticed or their wives who’ve repeated some light-hearted banter as something much more. But you, you’ve done nothing wrong and I suspect neither has Elliot, given what you’ve said.’

  The boutique door flies wide open, Anna dashes in clutching a bulging shopping bag and holding a newspaper.

  ‘Looks who’s m
ade the front page of the local paper!’ squeals Anna staring in delight at the full-page image.

  Dana

  I’m as nervous as hell. Despite the professionals giving me the onceover in hair and make-up, I feel an absolute wreck as I perch on the studio couch.

  ‘Dana, tell me . . . how did that kiss feel?’ asks Jennifer, who has been hastily promoted from relationship and dating coach to replacement presenter for Taking a Chance on Love.

  I hesitate and glance at the camera, which I know is zooming in on my expression, much as it had done during yesterday’s final shot.

  I sigh deeply.

  ‘Oh dear, that bad?’ she asks, her brow puckering slightly. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  I glance from the cameraman back to Jennifer.

  I really don’t want to talk about this, but how do I say that without being unkind to her or appearing defensive about what happened with Brett? I’ll look a right cow on national TV if I speak openly.

  ‘You seem lost for words, honey,’ she says, glancing around for off-camera support. I notice Tamzin has moved into my peripheral line of vision. I’m not sure whether that’s for my benefit or Jennifer’s.

  ‘Can I be frank?’ I ask, adjusting my hemline and sitting back on the large red couch.

  ‘Of course, of course . . . that’s what we always encourage when discussing relationships . . . focus on being honest and building trust. There’s nothing that can’t be discussed, simply choose your words carefully so as not to upset or offend.’

  It’s two minutes into the feedback interview and already I’m bored by her textbook speak.

  ‘Go on,’ she urges, leaning forward as if that’s going to ease my nerves.

  ‘I’d prefer not to discuss the situation or Brett before I’ve had a chance to chat with him. I have to be honest and say I had a lovely evening, he was easy to talk to, good fun to be with and we . . . well, I think we were on the same wavelength in many respects. That goodnight kiss was a little unexpected but it felt right, it felt . . .’

  ‘It looked passionate from where I was standing,’ interrupts Jennifer, her eyes sparkling.

  I glance up to be met with her overactive reaction to anything romantic, but I suppose that could an occupational hazard for these experts. Do they understand their chosen topic so much that it ruins their chance of finding it in life or maybe enjoying it?

  ‘Engaging is how I’d describe it . . . I know we are appearing on a TV programme but if that kiss had occurred at the end of a normal date, I’d have gone home a happy girl.’

  ‘But the manner in which it ended, surely you can’t excuse that?’

  ‘No, I agree . . . it wasn’t a satisfying ending to a goodnight kiss. One minute we were kissing, Brett’s hand was cradling my head, and the next moment it was fresh air on my face and a look of shock on his features. I have no explanation for why it ended that way.’

  ‘Then he was off dashing down the staircase.’

  I nod; she’d described it exactly.

  ‘And have you spoken to Brett since?’

  ‘No. I was told we weren’t allowed to contact each other – I’ve followed the rules.’ I keep it simple. I keep it real.

  ‘Ah, well, here on Taking a Chance on Love we have spoken to Brett and . . .’

  My heart is about to burst from my chest. Jennifer pulls a card from beneath her papers and begins wafting it about as she talks between me and the camera lens.

  ‘Sadly, he expressed a desire not to comment. We did ask for an explanation of his behaviour last night. He said, and I quote, “you seemed a very lovely lady, he enjoyed his time touring the portrait gallery with you and found you very humorous and down to earth. Just the kind of woman he wishes to meet”.’ Jennifer reads the details from the card and then watches me intently, wanting a reaction, I guess.

  I’m lost. Brett enjoyed himself. He liked me. We had a good laugh together. We had plenty of things in common and he went in for the goodnight kiss – yet he broke it off as if my skin had scalded him.

  I stare into space, my mind whirring with the details.

  ‘Now, we’re very sorry, Dana, but we can’t force Brett to discuss his behaviour. It would be very interesting to find out why he did what he did but we aren’t at liberty to dig deeper or demand an explanation. Is there anything you’d like to say on hearing his statement?’

  I can see Tamzin and Jez dashing around behind the camera crew. Are they annoyed that I’m not dishing the dirt for their TV audience or have they truly got my best interests at heart? I’m really not sure. They seem genuine enough, but do good people make for high ratings? I fear not.

  ‘I’m not bitter. He seems a nice guy. I don’t understand why last night didn’t end on a more conventional note but none of us are perfect. We each have our issues, don’t we?’

  ‘Dana, that is very kind of you to try to see it from his point of view, it really is, because it was clear for us all to see you were shocked. Let’s take another look . . .’

  I don’t have time to catch my breath before a rerun shows our passionate kiss and the awful ending. In the studio, I look away just in time and watch the production team’s faces as Brett swiftly pulls away with lightning speed and the clip freezes on a close-up of my shocked expression.

  Jennifer leans forward and strokes my knee, as if that helps my situation.

  ‘My heart goes out to you, Dana – it really does. Last night, we all thought today’s feedback session would be filled with lots of juicy talk about potential second dates on Saturday night. But Brett’s behaviour and subsequent “no comment” has really dampened the mood in the studio. So, my question for you is, is there any chance that you and Brett will be seeing each other again?’

  ‘I doubt it. I haven’t any contact details so unless the programme supply them off-air, I have no means of contacting Brett.’

  ‘He might be watching right now. Is there anything you’d like to say on-air?’

  I shake my head.

  I see the disappoint dawn upon her face. It isn’t the answer she wants.

  ‘OK, let’s put that sad subject to bed . . . So, Dana, how are you feeling about tomorrow’s date, date number three?’

  I sit up straight; maybe talking about tomorrow is a safer topic.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Male C. I know nothing about him and hope that we can spend an enjoyable date in each other’s company without any disasters.’

  ‘Absolutely. This is what dating is all about, Dana. I tell my clients all the time . . . dating isn’t easy but focus on having fun, being positive and, above all, stay safe!’

  I smile and nod. There doesn’t seem much else for me to do but sit this one out. This studio session will be over before I know it and then I’ll be speeding my way back to my little boy.

  ‘Any thoughts about the kind of date you’re hoping for? So far this week you’ve had a dinner date and the unfortunate date in a gallery . . . what’s next, I wonder?’

  ‘The gallery night was as enjoyable as the dinner date, it was only the ending that went badly . . . but I’m happy to go along with his choice of date.’

  ‘Would skydiving be OK?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Deep-sea diving?’

  ‘I’m not so keen on water but I’ll play along.’

  ‘OK, Dana, we are going to have to call it a day there and we all wait with bated breath for your third and final date tomorrow night with Male C. Thank you for joining me on the sofa of Taking a Chance on Love and let’s hope that when I next speak to you, Dana, you too could be taking a chance on love!’

  I give a weak smile, aware that the camera must be focused upon my reaction to her cheesy lines and eagerness for a romance to blossom.

  I remain seated and smiling until Jez signals that the camera has stopped rolling.

 
‘Nice one, Dana. You were more open and honest during that session. I wish you all the best for tomorrow night. Personally, I think this guy is the one for you!’ whispers Jennifer, as the techies remove the microphone from my blouse.

  I give her a polite smile. I’m not holding my breath that the outcome of this date will be any different from the previous two. Alex was nice, Brett was gorgeous, but still I’m no further forward in taking a chance on love.

  Polly

  ‘And?’ asks Fraser, stirring the gravy while I dish up the cooked vegetables.

  ‘She’s not sure if he’ll be coming because he can’t make up his bloody mind what he wants to do! Can you believe it?’

  ‘No, I can’t. What’s wrong with the man? He nearly lost his wife and he’s “thinking it over”? He needs a kick up the arse.’

  I pile sweetcorn on to Cody’s plate and the words spill out without thinking.

  ‘Have you ever thought of . . . you know . . . having an affair?’

  ‘Polly, no! I bloody haven’t . . . Don’t you start questioning our life. We’re solid, love.’

  I glance around, giving him a smile. He knows me well enough. It would kill me to lose him to another woman, the man I’ve grown up with, the man I have created everything with, shared my son with, and . . .

  I swallow quickly, as the second spoon of sweetcorn blurs amidst my tears and I spill it across the countertop.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey . . . don’t you start upsetting yourself,’ says Fraser, his arms circling my shoulders. ‘You’ve always said that a marriage certificate is a piece of paper and, as proven, it hasn’t kept them together. We are just fine. Always have been, always will be.’

  ‘But if they split up, it makes a mockery of everything.’

  ‘Hang on, who says their marriage is the blueprint for everyone else on this planet? Look at your parents . . . twenty-six years together and they still divorced . . . people change, people choose different paths . . . decide on different futures. Us . . . we want the same so, here we are.’

  ‘And what if one day we want different things?’

  ‘When that day comes, we’ll decide what to do,’ he says hugging me tight, resting his chin on my shoulder. ‘But until then, my lovely, you are stuck with me.’