Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way.’ I wipe my face on my sleeve before turning back to the sweetcorn.

  ‘Good to hear it . . . now, you finish dishing up and I’ll call Cody from upstairs.’ Fraser roughly plants a kiss on the back of my head before peeling himself away from my frame to call Cody.

  ‘I said, Dad, what can I do?’ I tell them both, as Fraser and Cody sit open-mouthed, staring at me across the dinner table. ‘I can’t collect Fido’s shorn hair and glue it back into place, can I?’

  ‘You could but he’d look ridiculous and the RSPCA would be in touch,’ laughs Fraser.

  ‘I swear he thinks I can mend this mistake. Dad’s said he’s not going to walk the dog until his coat grows back!’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t think you’re going to do the daily honours whilst that happens,’ says Fraser in disgust.

  ‘He’ll have to buy Fido a little tartan coat and cover him up, or take him out after dark,’ laughs Cody.

  ‘Or you can offer to do it so your mother doesn’t end up lapping the estate.’

  ‘Dad! I haven’t got time to walk Fido . . . but I’ll shave all the bobbles off if he wants with my electric shaver.’

  ‘Good, go and offer your services to please your grandad,’ says Fraser, thumbing for Cody to go and do. ‘Go on!’

  Cody saunters off into the lounge to phone.

  ‘If you think that was bad, you should have collected your mother,’ he says, as soon as we’re alone.

  I close my eyes; I’d forgotten to ask.

  ‘I waited for ten minutes outside on the street before venturing up the staircase. I thought it best I go and find her in case she’d forgotten and had already left. Oh, how I wish she had.’

  I stare as his face cracks into a smirk.

  ‘Never before have I seen an entire room of older people all stroking and hugging each other in such an intense way. It was quite a sight.’

  ‘In the large workout room?’

  ‘Oh yeah, they were all lying down, arms and legs entwined, hands reaching out in every direction, stroking . . .’

  ‘Stop it! I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Derek was there, his hair slicked back and his dressing gown untied and falling open,’ says Fraser, taking my hand and gently pawing it in a distinct and awkward manner. ‘“Pauline, tell me, Pauline, do you like my touching you like that?”’

  ‘Oh no! Stop it, stop!’ I yell, snatching my hand from his.

  ‘I kid you not. He was puckering and wetting his lips, adjusting his . . .’

  ‘La la la la la la la!’ I shove my fingers in my ears and pretend I can’t hear a thing. The last thing I need this week is my mother and her ‘friend’ defining their relationship.

  Fraser pulls my fingers away from my ears.

  ‘I’m quite looking forward to old age if that’s what you can get away with – as a young lad I’d have had my face slapped for much less.’ Fraser laughs at my expression. ‘I wouldn’t encourage our Cody to try such moves, I’ll tell you that much.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asks Cody, rejoining us from the lounge.

  ‘Devious Derek and your gran were busy . . . being intimate today in a class full of people – your mother would have lectured him if she’d seen his behaviour.’

  ‘Eww!’ says Cody.

  ‘Exactly. Now, can we all stop imagining it and get on with our evening? I booked the venue earlier today, and a DJ too.’

  Carmen

  Trish kindly offered to conduct the current bridal appointment, supported by Anna, giving me an hour of freedom. From the back room, I can hear Trish wrapping up the appointment, having sold a chic little gown by a talented French designer, Pierre. A beautiful gown which some might say is a little plain or understated, but the cut and flow of the fabric highlight the very essence of femininity.

  I am present physically but working on autopilot after this morning’s news. On the outside I resemble Carmen – I’ve checked in the mirror several times – but on the inside I am a gibbering wreck. My mind is swimming with comments and distorted looks as my inner self does battle with itself. Questions spill and tumble about my head: do I cancel? Should I believe his mates? We’ve gone eight years without any solid commitment! What’s Elliot said to his father? We have a twenty-five-year mortgage but no engagement ring! As one questions ends another begins and so I simply can’t focus.

  I pour myself a glass of Prosecco, finishing off the bottle opened for the current bride-to-be. I really shouldn’t be drinking alcohol: I should be hydrating my body after last night’s massage. The stress of all the planning and juggling of this week had been gently eased away last night, but this morning’s remarks have put me in dire need of a second massage. I roll my aching shoulders as I stand, sipping bubbles. Was I twenty-four hours too early in attending that pampering session?

  My only interruption is the bleep of my mobile phone.

  Automatically reaching for my handbag, I’m instantly annoyed that a modern gadget has so much control over me. It’s probably Nicole apologising for this morning and telling me not to worry. Which is a little late, given my plan for the weekend, though she doesn’t know that. My mind is working overtime. Have the crowd been speculating that our relationship might not make the additional nine days to join them at Michelle and Monty’s wedding service? How embarrassing is that going to be come 7 March?

  I unlock the screen: a text from Elliot.

  Oh my God – has Steve told him that Nicole’s told me? Has Nicole told Michelle, and Michelle’s confessed to Monty?’

  I tap the screen to read:

  I am def off on Sat – just confirmed by boss 

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I squeal, my voice cracking with emotion.

  There’s no kiss.

  Why is there no kiss?

  I take another sip of the bubbles as I ponder.

  ‘News?” asks Trish, entering the kitchenette with a tray of dirty glasses and crumb-covered plates.

  ‘Elliot is off on Saturday – his boss has just confirmed.’

  Trish puts down her tray and begins clapping wildly.

  ‘I’m just as excited for you, that’s all,’ she says in a comedic tone.

  ‘Why didn’t he phone me to say?’ I mutter, my spark of instant relief fading fast.

  ‘Because you’ve been as tetchy as hell all week and he won’t want to hear any more of it,’ suggests Trish. ‘He knows you better than you think, and that was before his boss caused the complication . . . but that is all in the past now. See, I told you didn’t need to worry.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Carmen, this is what you’ve wanted all week; don’t allow one remark to undermine everything you and Elliot have.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asks Anna, bustling through with a handful of scrunched-up paper napkins.

  ‘Carmen was just saying Elliot’s off work on Saturday . . . so it’s full steam ahead,’ says Trish, loading the dishwasher.

  ‘Phew! How good does that feel!’ says Anna, wiping my forehead like a drama diva.

  ‘Yep, phew indeed!’ I say, handing my empty flute glass to Trish.

  ‘Though now you’re probably back to worrying . . . what if he says no?’ continues Anna.

  I stare in horror. Why would she say that? Why would she spoil my day any further? Why would another female choose to openly air the worst possible scenario while the Universe was still aligning and configuring my future? Why, oh why does the sisterhood never stick together on matters of the heart?

  ‘Anna!’ screeches Trish, picking up on my body language. ‘Why would Elliot say no?’

  ‘Well . . . he might not want . . .’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no!’ bleats Trish, her hands waving in front of Anna’s face to stop the free-flowing words from pouring forth as they seem to
be doing. ‘She’s just sorted the issue of Saturday, we don’t need another drama to focus on, thank you.’

  ‘I’m just saying that . . .’

  ‘I hear you, sister, cheers!’ I retort with attitude, suddenly unable to speak politely.

  ‘Anna, Anna, Anna! Elliot is going to be so blown away by the magnificent wave of love and emotion felt and understood this weekend, so much so that he is going to be shouting “yes” from the Parisian rooftops before Carmen has finished giving her proposal speech. That’s how I imagine it!’ says Trish, as sternly as I’ve ever heard her talk to anyone.

  Anna stares at Trish as if she has lost the plot.

  ‘And you, Anna – how do you imagine Elliot reacting?’ Trish is wearing a grimacing smile which is veering between creepy and that scary-mother ‘you’re in trouble when I get you home’ look.

  ‘Oh yeah, right, of course, yeah, Elliot will totally accept . . . he won’t be able to wait to say yes and, yeah, will defo be saying it before you manage to finish asking him. In fact, he might say it before you even start to ask him . . . in fact, I think there’s chance he might even be planning his own marriage proposal as we speak, not realising that you are about to ask him instead. Yeah, right, yeah, that!’

  ‘You don’t even know Elliot, so why would you think that?’ I ask. My voice has hit ultra-flat monotone, with a defiant edge, purely for effect. I stare at Anna, without blinking, as my weekend dreams slide toward the nearest toilet.

  Anna shrugs.

  Trish is breathing slowly. Heavily. Nervously.

  ‘Anna, weren’t you wanting to get the satin shoe display finished before going home tonight?’ she says, her eyes wide, motioning wildly for Anna to get the hell out of here.

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s right, it was my goal for today . . . Thanks for reminding me, Trish – I owe you one.’ Anna quickly hurries from my presence.

  The silence lingers after she’s left.

  When did Elliot stop putting a kiss at the end of his text messages? Did Elliot ever put a kiss on his texts? Just like last night – since when did I not say goodbye before he cut me off?

  Trish gives me a weak smile as she drops the washing tablet into the dispenser.

  I return her smile, though my eyes fail to engage, just my mouth.

  ‘What if she’s right?’ I ask.

  Trish obliges by giving me a big false smile.

  ‘Seriously, what if he says no?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘He bloody well won’t.’

  ‘He could.’

  ‘I’ll kick his fecking arse for him if he does!’ she says.

  ‘Trish . . .’

  ‘Carmen, don’t go there!’

  ‘It’ll go one of two ways and I can’t not talk about it.’

  ‘Please don’t. You’ll ruin everything you’ve planned and then, come Monday, when you’re dancing around this place and we’re planning appointments for your gown fittings and tiaras . . . you’ll be like, “what a fecking saddo was I harping on about what I’d do if . . .” Why do it to yourself?’

  ‘Because it might happen.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘But it might!’ I spit, not wanting to face reality but knowing I must. ‘If he says no, will it be the end of our relationship or could we continue as we are?’

  Trish lowers her eyes and purses her lips.

  ‘Trish?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, Carmen . . . only you know what his reply will mean for your relationship.’

  ‘But that’s it . . . I don’t!’

  Trish rubs my forearm and gives it a squeeze.

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Carmen, you can’t ask me that.’

  ‘I bloody can!’

  Trish shrugs.

  ‘I think it would depend upon why he’d said no.’

  I wait for her to explain further, but she remains silent, so I prod, ‘Such as?’

  ‘If it was because he couldn’t ever see us getting married, then it would be the end. I don’t think you can live with staying as you are forever. But if it was because he wasn’t quite ready . . .’

  ‘After eight years?’

  ‘Yes, after eight years he might feel it’s in your future but not right now, that’s a feasible reason. Then I could continue as was before the weekend . . . but I’m not you, honey. You need to know what you want before you ask, just in case . . . though I am sure he is going to snatch your hand off at the suggestion of getting married.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting, Trish – I’m actually asking to get married. There’s no grey area here, there’ll be no “if you want” or “maybe we could”, not for me anyway.’

  ‘Oh Carmen . . . I’ll have my fingers crossed for you, you know that,’ she replies, her eyes going all sparkly with tears.

  ‘I know you’re right. I have to think it through, and I have, sort of, but I do want to be married to Elliot. So I need to tell him that.’

  Trish gives my forearm another gentle rub and a squeeze. I know she has my interests at heart. I also know that Anna is in for it when they get a quiet moment together out of my earshot.

  Dana

  ‘Mmmm, you’re not going to be happy,’ says Mum as she opens the front door to me just after five o’clock. Luke runs up behind her and launches himself into my open arms.

  ‘Hello, my darling. Did you show Grandpops your practice book?’

  ‘Noooooo,’ cries Luke, his face crumpling.

  Mum’s shaking her head and pulling a ‘leave it’ expression.

  ‘Oh, never mind. Maybe Mrs Salter was using it to show other parents how your beautiful class work is,’ I say, soothing my son’s disappointment.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ mouths Mum.

  ‘OK.’ I pick Luke up and carry him, clinging to me koala-bear style, into the lounge. He’s far too big for such a move but my back can take it – just. ‘Hi, Dad, have you had a good day?’

  ‘Oh yes, the boy’s doing well at school. He’s third in the class on their sticker star chart,’ he says, grinning from ear to ear.

  I glance at Mum. What’s going on?

  ‘Luke, down we go,’ I say, depositing his chubby frame on the nearest empty sofa seat. ‘Remember, little piggies have very big ears so please be careful, but can someone explain?’

  ‘The teacher said that she wasn’t happy not to have seen you in person. She said, and I quote, “Now would be a good time to discuss the situation about his learning.”’ My mum changes her voice to impersonate Mrs Salter, but she sounds nothing like the primary school teacher.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘People’s speech.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ I spit, flopping down on the far end of their sofa, as Luke busies himself with his cuddly elephant. ‘How many times have I chased them about weekly speech therapy sessions? Four times? Five?’

  ‘At least five from what I know; it could be more,’ says Dad, changing the TV channel. ‘They still aren’t using the visual timetable you asked for either.’

  ‘And did she say when those could begin?’ I can’t keep asking for the same things over and over and being ignored. Anyone would think I was trying to make their job harder, not easier.

  ‘She’s not sure, but they want another little girl to attend the same sessions because they feel he won’t respond well to being taken out of the classroom. The little girl has a stutter – her parents are asking for weekly sessions too.’

  I can’t believe my ears. ‘How many times do I need to explain that Luke is fairly happy with any change in routine as long as he is talked through the changes before they occur. How come they can follow this rule when it suits them, to deal with a minor disruption such as a change of seats or a new teaching assistant, but forget when it’s imp
ortant to his development?’

  Mum pulls a face, stares at Luke, then she continues, ‘Anyway, she feels that if they share the sessions then the speech therapist will have an easier time.’

  ‘And Luke?’

  Mum shrugs.

  ‘She seems more concerned about how he’ll react to being alone in the session than the advantage it’ll have for his communication skills. I told her, it’s his lack of control over his tongue which causes the difficulties with articulating words but he’s getting better with practice, even the little bits you do at home,’ explains Dad.

  I’m now wondering how Dad’s day could be described as good or Luke as doing well at school?

  My dad is very biased with regards to his only grandchild.

  ‘Anyway, she wants you to call her . . .’

  ‘Call her? Why has she waited until now to ask me to call? I’ll happily call Mrs Salter any day she likes, not just for parents’ evening, she knows that. I’ve told her many, many times.’

  I want to scream. Why can’t people simply contact me when necessary rather than leave me bobbing along thinking everything is going well because I don’t hear anything from the school? There’s nothing written in his little diary: I check it every day. My security and confidence in others is suddenly stripped away. Do I need to go back to delivering him to the reception area every day purely to ensure I have contact with school staff on a daily basis? I don’t want to as it singles Luke out as being different, but if I can’t trust them to call me, what else can I do?

  ‘She sent this too.’ Mum hands me a brown envelope. ‘It’s the answers to your questions.’

  I’m puzzled why Mrs Salter didn’t simply discuss them with my parents. I had phoned to make them aware my email had been sent, rather than give Luke the job of handing in a letter.

  Dear Ms Jones,

  Thank you for your email outlining your concerns regarding Luke’s progress in Year 1. Below are details which I hope answer your queries.

  What strengths have been observed in his learning?

  I have noticed that Luke has grown particularly fond of painting over the last term and a half. He is able to hold the paintbrush correctly and mix colours when directed. He often has little accidents with his water pot which can cause situations in lessons with other children’s work being ruined.