Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

I fall silent – my introduction was a little short compared to the others – then Carmen takes the floor to explain her idea further.

  ‘It would be so much easier if we could work together to enhance the services offered in one location,’ explains Carmen, gesturing around the table as she speaks. ‘We all know how quickly our diaries fill when the wedding season begins, and we can each appreciate how much time and effort goes into attending appointments, making enquiries, comparing services when it could be so much easier for our clients.’

  Carmen continues to outline her vision and I relax, knowing I’m not selling myself but the travel agents’ services and expertise. Carmen’s idea sounds perfectly feasible and I can see it working. I’m slightly different – my wage doesn’t depend upon engaging with the group – but if the travel agents can get additional bookings . . .

  I listen in awe as Carmen explains the details of her plan, knowing that deep down she is probably nervous about her own personal adventure, which will start later today. Wow, such focus to remain in the moment knowing what an exciting and life-changing weekend lies ahead of her!

  ‘Thanks,’ I say absentmindedly as the brochure of laminated pages is passed to me. It’s not that I’m not interested in the discussion, more that my mind is swimming with family tasks and concerns for others. I’ve played my part, said my bit about the travel agents and I’ve lost interest. I’ve never been one for all things wedding related, but I appreciate that that’s my quirky issue, not theirs.

  I flip the cover of the brochure to reveal exquisite wedding cakes in all shapes, sizes and colours. The detail and craftsmanship is highlighted by each photograph, skilfully showcasing the talent of the baker. I’m impressed.

  That’s when a niggle forms at the back of my brain and begins to work its way forward.

  A worry.

  A forgotten task.

  An unknown concern brought to light by . . . Oh my God, I haven’t thought about a birthday cake for Cody!

  A wave of panic overwhelms me as I snap the brochure shut, causing several people to look in my direction and give a polite smile to my panic-stricken expression.

  ‘How long does it take you to make a one-tiered fruit cake?’ I ask, interrupting numerous conversations.

  The wedding cake lady looks up and grimaces.

  ‘Well, it really depends on how long I have and what the requirements are . . .’

  I can hear myself saying something similar in the travel agents when people ask how long it takes to book a holiday.

  ‘Usually?’ I prompt.

  ‘One tier, marzipan with royal icing and intricate decoration takes a fair amount of time.’

  ‘Mmmm, any chance that a one-tier birthday cake could be done by tomorrow?’ I ask, adopting a comic yet desperate tone.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ several people repeat.

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Sadly, you heard me correctly . . . tomorrow.’ I point a finger towards my own chest and whisper, ‘Sorry, distracted mother . . . just remembered a forgotten item.’

  ‘I don’t usually ask favours, but it completely slipped my mind,’ I explain, as we gather together at the end of the meeting. I pray that the cake lady is as dedicated to her talent as she’s just convinced us. Fingers crossed she can deliver by tomorrow evening.

  ‘We do have a local wedding cake delivery booked for tomorrow, so I can’t create, bake and deliver you a fruit cake at such short notice – but I could get one of my girls to rustle up a nice sponge cake with iced decoration for tomorrow. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Deal. Anything will be better than a tiddly shop-bought cake with my wobbly icing scrawled across it, that’s for certain.’

  I watch as she scribbles down the message details on the back of an envelope.

  ‘I owe you one,’ I say in relief, as if I could deliver a two-week package holiday in return, which I can’t.

  ‘No worries. I’ll deliver it to the Red Lion too, OK?’

  ‘You are a life-saver,’ I say, peeling numerous ten-pound notes from my purse, once she’d named her price.

  In no time, I’m back in my comfort zone at the travel agents.

  ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet,’ says Stacey the minute I walk through the door. ‘I’ve taken three bookings . . . one for a honeymooning couple plus two all-inclusive family package holidays.’

  I don’t say it, but welcome to my world, Stacey – I man the desk every Friday morning and, yep, that’s a usual morning for me.

  Carmen

  ‘You did so well, Carmen . . . very professional,’ whispers Trish, as she hands me a coffee cup.

  ‘Was it OK?’

  ‘More than OK, extremely impressive,’ Trish replies.

  I finally get to breathe, as my guests mingle and flip through the supplied literature whilst enjoying their coffee.

  ‘Can we all be accommodated in the available space next door?’ asks Kevin Knightley as soon as I am available to chat.

  ‘Absolutely. Have you ever seen inside? The ground floor alone is huge, then there are three more floors which could accommodate us all if needs be. I realise that it’s been boarded up for years, but the owner has given me a tour and inside is structurally sound. You have to remember it was the nearest thing we had to a department store in this area, so the floor space is vast.’

  Mr Knightley nods encouragingly, which is a surprise, given his reputation.

  ‘Granted, you might need more promotional material than most as you couldn’t have your vehicles parked inside.’

  ‘But it might enable me to move premises and garage the limousines elsewhere, which would be a financial saving.’

  ‘Exactly. I for one wouldn’t need accommodating, given that I’m next door, and neither would the travel agents, for instance, but the florist, the cake designer, the milliner and the photographer could all have individual space within a combined property.’

  I feel encouraged by each question, each conversation and the interest received before my guests leave, taking my proposal literature with them.

  ‘Phew! Am I glad that’s over,’ I sigh to Trish and Anna as I close the boutique door on my final guest.

  ‘And now you can focus upon your main proposal!’ says Trish, with an air of excitement.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, I’d forgotten about that one! Though I have piled our suitcases into the car ready for an effective and swift departure once Elliot arrives home.’

  ‘What time are they expected back from Cardiff?’ asks Anna, looking at her watch.

  ‘Two o’clock, so we’ll be heading straight to the airport as soon as he gets back.’

  I breathe in deeply and exhale just as strongly.

  ‘You’ve had a week and a half, lovey,’ says Trish, slipping her arm about my shoulders for a hug.

  ‘I know and it’s not over yet, is it?’

  ‘Nope, but this is where the fun starts!’ she says, releasing me from her bear-like grip. ‘Why don’t you leave now, and we’ll get this place looking shipshape ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Would you?’

  They both nod enthusiastically, causing a knot of emotion to rush to my throat.

  ‘Thank you, you are the best,’ I gush, blinking rapidly.

  ‘We know,’ sings Trish, as she rolls her sleeves up to begin dismantling the decorative meeting table.

  I give them both strict orders to just tidy up and then go home for an early finish, to ‘phone me if you need me’ and ‘wish me luck’ as I stride from the boutique.

  As I dash through the door a thought suddenly hits me.

  Next time I enter the boutique, I’ll be engaged!

  Dana

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I apologise to the school receptionist as she signs me in for my meeting with Mrs Richards and Mrs Salter just before one o’clock. I’ve snuck into school, avoiding p
assing Luke’s classroom window for fear of disrupting his daily routines.

  ‘No worries, we understand that you’re busy . . .’ She lowers her head rather than finish her sentence. But it confirms that even the school office staff know which is Luke’s mother; I bet she couldn’t pick Tyler’s mother out in a line-up! ‘If you’ll take a seat, I’ll tell them that you are waiting.’

  I perch on one of the low chairs outside the head teacher’s office. I dearly wish my meeting was with the head, Mrs Huggins; she’s an old-school sort who believes in the abilities of every child. I get the impression that whoever Mrs Richards is she’s lacking in that department.

  I’m surprised they agreed to a meeting when I called first thing this morning, I thought I would need to wait a few days for a suitable time when both ladies were free.

  Within minutes, I spy Mrs Salter approaching along the corridor and, at her side, a stern-looking woman who I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before.

  ‘Mrs Salter, so nice to see you again,’ I say warmly, shaking her by the hand.

  The teacher returns the sentiment, gives a weak smile and lowers her kind eyes. I have a feeling she’s here purely for decoration and not by choice.

  ‘Miss Jones, I’m Mrs Richards. I organise the SEND department with the school and I’ll be leading this meeting so we can discuss Luke’s needs and his development within mainstream education.’ I note she doesn’t offer her hand to shake so I don’t offer mine. I hate that my son is linked to the school’s Special Educational Needs and Disabilities department but needs must, given his condition.

  We walk in silence towards an empty office at the end of the corridor, which I’ve been shown into many times for private discussions about Luke.

  I take the offered seat around the meeting table; suddenly today’s little discussion feels very different. Is it Mrs Richards’ presence or my attitude?

  ‘How can we help you, Miss Jones?’ asks Mrs Richards, her pen poised above a writing pad which she’s produced from nowhere. Mrs Salter stares at the polished table.

  ‘I was unable to attend parents’ evening, but my parents relayed a message regarding speech therapy, but only if the session is shared with another pupil due to concerns about Luke’s reaction to being alone . . . I’m a little lost, that’s all.’

  ‘We feel the session would benefit both pupils. It is a one-hour slot and we know how long it takes for Luke to settle with new people—’

  I interrupt Mrs Richards, I can’t help myself.

  ‘Not if the change is explained to him beforehand. I keep asking that the school start using visual timetables with him to help him to navigate his day in pictures. He uses one at home, and he is happy to trot back and forth to see his next task: brush teeth, get dressed, clean glasses, tidy toys away – he’s very good at following it, plus it gives him some independence.’

  ‘All our children have a large timetable pinned on the classroom wall . . . every child benefits from knowing what is coming next in their day,’ says Mrs Richards. There is an edge to her tone. I expected this woman to be more understanding about disabilities and behavioural issues, or at least to be open-minded about finding ways to help inclusive education.

  ‘I appreciate that, but if Luke had a pictorial timetable pinned alongside the class one, he would cope much better. You could even put a toilet reminder on there to help him avoid little accidents. He’ll soon get used to a new routine as long as he is introduced to each image. Honestly, the system works for him. And as for poor reactions to attending a speech session . . . this is the first I’m hearing of it. I haven’t had any messages in his diary, not one.’

  A heavy silence lingers after I finish speaking. I continue to look at each woman; neither one speaks.

  They don’t want him here – the thought suddenly pulls me up sharp.

  ‘Is the speech therapy session the only concern or is there something else the school would like to address but . . . ?’ I can’t bring myself to ask out right. Suddenly this feels like a kaleidoscope moment. I daren’t twist the mirrored tube in case the current pattern changes. Luke loves this little school. I can’t risk gambling my son’s current snowflake pattern for one that is a fraction different but which will change his world forever.

  My breath snags in my throat.

  I wait.

  Mrs Salter continues to stare at the table’s wood grain and coffee rings.

  Mrs Richards looks everywhere but refuses to meet my gaze.

  Oh my god! What kind of discussions have they been having behind my back, whilst I’ve been happily standing at the school gate thinking everything was harmonious? And only now they bring it to my attention, when I’ve asked for a meeting. How dare they? Are they having similar meetings with the parents whose children have ADHD, autism, epilepsy?

  I can feel the panic rising in my chest. I want to rant, scream, shout but mainly beg – please don’t close your hearts and mind to my little boy. He’s just a little boy! A little boy like any other, who simply has extras. Luke’s extras are no more disruptive than Tyler being naughty in every lesson, no different to Max running off at every opportunity, than Ryan wetting himself, Jack fighting during story time and Harry, who still cries each morning when his mum drops him off. My Luke is the third from the top of the sticker star chart so how can you imply he’s not welcome in your classroom?

  I have simple solutions to support his daily needs but you’re not listening to me. No one has answers to Tyler’s behavioural issues, Harry’s crying or Max’s repeated attempts to escape yet you’re happy to accommodate their education.

  I say the only thing that I can.

  ‘Could you ask Mrs Huggins to call me, please? I’d like to arrange a meeting with her instead.’ I stand, calmly return my chair under the table and head for the exit. As I reach the door, one last request jumps to mind. ‘Oh, and from today, Mrs Salter, if Luke has a little accident, I’d appreciate the school office texting me and I will collect the bin liner myself. Please don’t send him to the school gate carrying it. Thank you, both, for your time.’

  I sign out, politely say goodbye to the school office lady and just make it through the reception’s security doors before hot angry tears spill down my face.

  Despite my prayers, I sense a kaleidoscope moment has just occurred; the school’s driveway seems entirely different as I traipse towards the metal railings.

  Polly

  ‘I told him not to be late,’ mutters Fraser, pacing the hallway, waiting for Cody to arrive home. We both stand ready in our coats, eager to leave the house the minute Cody steps through the front door.

  ‘Have you called to remind him?’

  Fraser throws me a disgruntled look.

  ‘I’m not his nursemaid.’

  ‘He’s probably been waylaid, or he misinterpreted your instructions, that’s all.’

  Fraser opens the front door, as if that’ll speed our son’s arrival. This has always been our usual day of celebration but still, with the party tomorrow, maybe Cody doesn’t think his father’s instruction about tonight is important.

  ‘I told him, “Come home immediately from work, we need to dash out” – how can that be misinterpreted as anything other than you are needed at home urgently?’

  I’m not helping matters, so I remain quiet. I know how long he’s been waiting for this evening to arrive. Months . . . actually years isn’t an over estimation.

  ‘Here he is, finally.’

  I’m bustled out of the door and along the driveway towards a startled Cody; we’ve never greeted him on the drive on his arrival from work before. Not even on his first day.

  ‘What’s up, guys?’

  ‘You’re late. Quick, get in,’ says Fraser, zapping his own key fob and settling into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Jump in,’ I say, heading for the rear door, knowing my leggy son can’
t cope in the back seats any longer.

  ‘Is anyone going to explain or am I supposed to guess?’ asks Cody, as Fraser cuts through the town’s traffic, navigating busy roads and heading along side streets in a manner befitting a spy.

  My gaze meets Fraser’s in the rear-view mirror, urging him to explain.

  ‘We’re about to collect your birthday present . . .’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously,’ I mimic from the back. ‘Though your father was on the verge of cancelling as you took so long to arrive home.’

  ‘I told him . . .’

  ‘I know, you said a million times in the hallway . . .’

  ‘Anyway, we ordered it a few weeks ago, before you’d decided on a party . . . but we’re certain you’ll like it.’

  Cody turns round in his seat to look at me.

  I nod, eagerly watching his expression.

  I’m expecting him to be shocked, a little taken aback – our son might not be expecting a big present but we didn’t get to have the eighteenth like other families so we’ve waited the extra two years to make this one special.

  A lump leaps to my throat.

  We need to make the most of such moments – our days as a threesome may be drawing to a close if he continues to mature and the pace of life continues as it is.

  Fraser keeps glancing at me in the tiny mirror. His eyes are flashing with sheer joy. I really do love this man, he tries so hard to provide everything we need in whatever way he can. And yet, even on the brink of realising another joyous moment, I can see Fraser becoming nervous as we get near.

  I chose well: the best and right man for me.

  ‘What the hell!’ exclaims Cody, as Fraser pulls in to the garage forecourt. I watch as he does a double-take out of the window before glancing between me and his father for confirmation that his initial thought is actually correct and not a dream that will be dashed any second.

  ‘Happy birthday, son,’ says Fraser, drawing up alongside a brand-new Audi A3.

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Nope, it’s yours, Cody,’ I add, as a warm flush of excitement drifts to my stomach, knowing another milestone moment has been reached. It always seemed like a wild present whenever Fraser mentioned it, but I knew he’d planned it for years, wanting the gesture to be significant for our only child.