by Erin Green
‘Pretty nobby for an aerial mast though, isn’t it?’ teases Elliot.
‘You don’t have to go on the tour tomorrow; you can always stay on the ground and I’ll hike up to the observation deck.’
‘No way! If you’re going, I’m going.’ He squeezes me tighter into the side of his chest, and a flood of laughter fills the rear seats. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gives a throaty laugh.
This is my Elliot, full of life, teasing me to high heaven and enjoying himself. This is the Elliot who’s been absent for a while, sitting alongside his Carmen, the busy boutique owner – who has also been absent from their partnership, with her head full of business plans for more years than I care to mention.
As we glide along, our eight-year relationship seems to unfold like a giant map before me, much like the Parisian sights, and everything on our journey seems so clear, so specific, as if I can see every event and memory we’ve shared together. Each memory has its history, a specific time and purpose in bringing us together, in building what we have. We’ve had drama, fun, excitement, our ups and downs, thrills and reflections, all of which have paved the way for where we are right now, here tonight . . . in Paris.
I need to stop thinking, as my emotions well inside my chest. I need to enjoy the moment, acknowledge our journey and look forward to tomorrow. If I continue this internal monologue, I’ll be crying before we arrive at the Avenue des Ternes restaurant.
Dana
I breathe in the lavender oil and my mind drifts elsewhere as I wait for Connor to join me. This is more my thing, though I’m very conscious that I’m lying on a massage table with only two huge fluffy towels covering my totally naked body. I would much prefer a complete outfit at this stage of the dating game, but after the quad bike ‘thrill’, this is Connor’s choice of ‘chill’.
The splattering of mud which evenly covered every inch of my boilersuit and exposed skin has been washed away, thanks to the power shower which I was able to indulge in alone. Though our arrival at the spa complex was cause for a few strange looks as clients dressed in white waffle dressing gowns peered at us striding through the lobby. If I’d been rolled in mud, I would probably have been cleaner than my actual state after quad biking.
The gentle sound of falling raindrops fills the double therapy suite; it sounds as if we are on a veranda in a refreshing tropical storm.
I raise my head to see if Connor has entered. The room has mellow lighting and two massage therapists standing on the sidelines awaiting our male, who will occupy the other massage table for this joint session.
This is a first for me.
The camera crew are circling the room, their reflections eerily picked out in the tinted mirrors. Their presence disturbs each flickering candle, causing the light to dance and throw strange shadows against the walls.
‘Dana, can you look away please? I’m not as bolshie as I make out on a first date,’ calls Connor from the adjoining dressing room.
I oblige him by turning my face towards the blank wall.
I can hear the other massage table creak relentlessly as mine did when I climbed up.
Did he bravely drop his robe beforehand? I had struggled to remove it once in place, needing the assistance of the kindly massage therapist.
‘Ready.’
I turn my head to view a semi-naked male lying face down under fluffy towels identical to mine.
‘Hello, I’m Connor, and I probably pick the most inappropriate date nights ever,’ he says, giving a wide smile.
‘Hi, Connor, I’m Dana and this is a first for me.’
‘Relax and enjoy it, and we can chat while these ladies work their magic on our tired muscles,’ says Connor, his face resting on the flat table. ‘You’re supposed to put your face in the hole but I can’t chat properly that way.’
I relax my cheek down into the towel beneath me and smile.
‘What made you choose a massage session?’ I ask, repositioning my chest and shoulder on the towelling sheet. As I speak, the two therapists step forward and begin rearranging the white towels on each of us revealing our bare backs and shoulders, before filling their hands with warm oil.
‘Phew, now, there’s a question. Years ago, and I literally mean years ago, I dated a woman who swore by them. Every few weeks she used to take herself off for an aromatherapy massage to ease her back and shoulders. Over time she dragged me along; I didn’t want to go initially but I had to be honest and say it was working wonders for the footballing injuries I’d picked up playing for my local team.’
The therapist’s hands gently touch my lower back in long, firm movements lifting towards my shoulder blades. It feels wonderful. I exhale slowly, then deeply inhale, enjoying the soothing strokes.
I listen as Connor calmly explains. He’s honest, he didn’t flinch at mentioning another woman, even on a first date, which I think is pretty mature. We all have previous relationships and friendships which we’ve left behind on our journey through life.
I’d be blind in not seeing the very obvious before me: a masculine frame with defined biceps and triceps – I have no complaints about how today has ended.
Polly
‘Are you still awake?’ comes Fraser’s voice through the darkness.
‘Yep.’ I don’t want to admit it to myself and definitely not to Fraser but I’m waiting for my son to return home.
‘If you’re worrying about the party, well, don’t – everything will be fine. You can’t micromanage everything, you know?’
‘I know. I’ve done all I can and what will be will be.’
‘So?’
‘So, what?’
‘Why can’t you sleep?’
‘I don’t know.’ I can’t admit that I’m frightened that my son might be sharing his night with Lola. I can envisage them driving around the local area in his new car. I’m hoping he’s not showing off, getting into trouble and restarting what I see as a disastrous relationship. How do I turn a blind eye to her previous behaviour? I know she may well have grown and matured since they split but still, why my son? How can she claim an attraction to someone she treated so badly?
So I’ve lain awake listening to next door’s cat whine for thirty minutes only to be ignored on their doorstep; I’ve heard the bickering couple across the road arrive back from the local and the spluttering engine of their neighbour arriving home from a late shift.
I’m listening for a brand-new noise, one to which I’ll become accustomed: the purr of an Audi engine, the clunk of a closing door and the tread of his footsteps.
If I say one word on the subject, Fraser will correct me. He’s far more objective than I am. He doesn’t get the concern I have about that particular girl. If the truth be known, I’d prefer my son to be out with any other female, in any situation, to him being with Lola.
‘Come here.’ Fraser wraps an arm over my warm body and snuggles into my back. I can feel his breath tickling my neck, his thighs resting behind mine. This is how we have always been. Us. Me and Fraser, Fraser and I. We’re not a demonstrative couple, we’ve never felt the need to lavish each other with compliments, bouquets or public displays of affection. This, right here, has been us for the last twenty-three years.
Within minutes, his breathing softens and lengthens as he dozes back off to sleep without a care in the world. Fraser never worries about Cody in the way I do. His concerns revolve around the kind of man we’ve raised rather than the interactions he encounters, be it with his friends or with girls. I know Fraser’s sleepless night would be caused by negative behaviour towards others, a lack of respect towards me, say, but never by a late-night drive with an ex.
We took many late-night drives when we were dating. At the time I never imagined that anyone would be lying awake awaiting my return. Who does when you’re young, adventurous and curious? Since then we’ve had good times and bad along the way, b
ut for the majority of our time together this has been us. Together. United, despite not being married.
It was a shock to find we were expecting Cody, but there was never any question about our next steps: finding a house, securing a deposit and beginning our lives as a family. Fraser had wanted to make it official but it wasn’t necessary, not to me. It almost felt like we’d be doing it to please everyone else but us. And it was us that mattered.
I get why the likes of Helen and my mother sometimes question the decision we’ve made, but still, each to their own. Isn’t that the rule? What’s right for them isn’t necessarily right for me, for us. And despite their remarks over the years, Helen’s done what she’s done. My mother divorced my father after twenty-six years together. And yet here we are, snuggled up and content after twenty-three years together.
I wonder if we’d have stayed the course if we’d chosen to get married once we had Cody? I know it was what my parents had wanted but, having witnessed their Third World War, there was no way I was prepared to follow suit.
We’ve stayed together, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, because we wanted to.
Wow!
If Helen’s proved anything this week, it’s that a marriage certificate is nothing more than a piece of paper which you can use when you need to paper over the cracks. Though even then, maybe it wasn’t the most suitable fix-it. How is she to trust Marc ever again, knowing he can ride roughshod everything she has believed in for all of these years? How can he make amends knowing he’s stepped outside of their marriage and caused such hurt to his wife and both his daughters? He cheated on them as much as Helen. How would I have felt if my father had cheated on our family?
I hear a car engine outside, see the reflection of the headlights move slowly over a section of wall by the window. The engine dies. A car door slams beneath our window.
This is Cody.
I hear the key in the door.
The heavy tread on the bottom stair.
He’s home.
I glance at my bedside clock: twenty past one.
How’s he ever going to get up for work tomorrow?
Carmen
‘Stop squeezing me! I’ll burst if you hold me too tight,’ I giggle, as we enter the hotel lift, heading back to our suite.
Elliot presses the button, then playfully squeezes me tighter, despite my request. We’ve had the best evening together, and have laughed more than we have in months.
‘Please don’t, otherwise my marinated bream, chilled langoustines and citrus pavlova will be wasted, and such divine food cannot be wasted, Elliot!’
He releases me quickly, and we stand openly staring at each other. I can see a wanton desire burning in his eyes, a slightly squiffy expression but the desire is there, alive and burning bright.
‘What?’ he asks, frowning in a boyish manner, wobbling on his crutches.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t lie!’
I give a seductive shrug. I’m heartily full, slightly more than tipsy and very much in love.
‘Tell me,’ he demands playfully, moving closer despite his crutches.
Dare I?
I dare.
‘You have approximately five minutes to brush your teeth before I ravish you senseless,’ I giggle, hoping that an air of confidence featured somewhere in that proposition.
‘Really? Now there’s an offer a guy can’t refuse!’
The lift comes to a halt and the doors glide apart.
‘Five minutes, did you say?’ says Elliot, awkwardly grabbing my hand and hobbling as fast as he can along the corridor towards our suite, dragging me behind him.
Chapter Ten
Saturday 29 February
Carmen
Despite his crutches, Elliot and I hold hands like lovestruck teenagers for the entire morning as we walk around the Louvre, refusing to let go even for scratching noses, undoing coat zips or attempting to walk in opposite directions. It feels stupid, juvenile and yet so bloody wonderful! When did it become important that I use both hands to obtain change from my purse? When and why did this stage ever stop? Did we lose this goofy-yet-romantic ‘teenage’ stage once sex entered our partnership? Wasn’t it possible to combine that rather than lose the previous stage altogether?
‘So, what’s it to be?’ asks Elliot, staring at signs defining the eight curatorial areas, with miles and miles of floor space to cover and only 35,000 artefacts on display.
‘Mona Lisa . . . please, please, please.’ There’s no chance we’ll visit everything in the tiny time frame we have, so I must see the one piece I’ve longed to view.
Elliot pulls a face.
‘That’s not a very good impression,’ I tease, knowing La Joconde is last on his culture list.
He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to change my mind, because he knows I’ve been waiting years to view her enigmatic smile. He unfolds the museum map, locates our position in relation to her position and we’re off on a mission. No doubt Elliot’s calculating that once we’ve seen her he’ll never need to hear my request again. Ever. Little does he suspect that my second request will be the Venus de Milo, but too much information at once is never good for Elliot, so I allow him to lead me, hobbling through the crowds.
‘How’s your knee?’ I ask, as we wait our turn.
‘Tired and aching but it’s the crutches that are giving me gyp. Kids at school made it looks so easy, but my aching back and shoulders are killing me.’
‘Say if you need a chair,’ I urge, knowing he’ll be in agony once the painkillers wear off.
‘Could you imagine attempting to push a wheelchair around this place?’ he asks, thinking of the countless staircases feeding the flow of bodies through the building on the upper and lower floors.
Finally, we arrive.
Before us, placed behind a double-glazed unit of bulletproof glass which mimics any cashier’s bank window, minus the chained biro for customer use, sits my Mona Lisa, staring back at the sea of gawping faces.
She’s much smaller than I’d imagined, and given the exclamations of surprise in an array of languages from the jostling crowd surrounding me, we are in total agreement.
‘Why’s she so small?’ I ask Elliot, puzzled that this fact had been hidden from me.
‘Why is she so bloody popular is more the question?’ he retorts.
I frown and go back to staring aimlessly at the portrait. I can’t see the brushstroke detail I’d like to, or the stone damage by her left elbow or the split landscape depicting bridges and a winding road.
‘Happy now?’ asks Elliot, failing to feign any interest and instead openly scrutinising the ginormous painting The Wedding Feast at Cana on the opposite wall.
‘I am, but . . .’ I can’t put into words how I feel. I’m thrilled that I am looking at Leonardo’s painting, that I’ve finally made a journey I’ve waited years to make, and yet I’m disappointed by the end result. How can I have built this moment up to be so great an experience when the reality is actually quite underwhelming – not what I was expecting.
‘Now, that’s a painting! And, boy, it must get overlooked because of her!’ he laughs, as he drags me away through the crowds to stare at the other picture.
I stare, twist my head from side to side and stare some more, while Elliot raves about the size, the brushstrokes and the talent of Veronese. I’m jealous. Elliot is having the art experience I wanted not five minutes ago.
‘Are you ready?’ I say, feeling as flat as uncapped lemonade.
‘What’s next?’
‘You choose. I’m not much fussed now.’ I lead the way towards the room’s exit.
‘Are you serious?’
Elliot hobbles behind, catching me as I saunter back, retracing our steps.
‘Venus de Milo?’
‘If you want.’
I stop, turn and see his confused face.
‘What?’
‘“What?” she says . . . We came here just for you to view the portrait and now you’ve got a face like a bulldog chewing a thistle . . . What’s up?’
‘Have you ever waited years and years, since childhood, to do a certain thing and it simply doesn’t live up to your expectations?’
‘Er, yeah!’
‘So you know how I’m feeling . . . Come on, where to next?’
‘I didn’t ruin that for you, did I?’ he asks sheepishly, peering at me.
‘Nah, I ruined it for myself by bigging it up in my head. Serves me right really.’
I indicate the folded map clutched in his hand, and Elliot busies himself balancing on crutches and unfurling the map to find our next point of interest.
‘Happy?’ asks Elliot, three hours later as we exit the museum.
‘Yeah, if slightly mind-boggled and overstimulated by all the artefacts . . . but I’ve seen more than I imagined given how vast it is, despite your injured knee.’
‘At least we’ve seen what we came to see.’
‘Let’s grab a cab and make for our next stop, the Arc de Triomphe.’
Dana
I curl up on the rear seat of the executive car, plugging my headphones into my mobile – the screen might be tiny but I can still watch the Taking a Chance on Love final feedback show as we journey to our final destination: London.
Tamzin smiles as she watches me settle to my choice of early evening TV viewing; I’m sure I must appear narcissistic but I don’t care any more. If the rest of the nation are enjoying it, then so can I.
Within seconds I’m lost in watching a woman dressed in a white robe, her damp hair hidden under a turban-wrapped towel, happily chatting to Jennifer in a spare room at the spa. I don’t listen to her words, instead I watch her bright smile, her clear vibrant complexion, as she explains what a lovely third date she’s had with Connor.
I was pleased that Jennifer didn’t stick to her textbook questions. She missed out the waffle of the previous interview this time and kept it real. It meant I could do the same and I answered every question she asked openly and honestly. After just twenty minutes, she’d bid me a good night and that’s how my third feedback date interview ended: with me feeling deeply relaxed, full of renewed spirit and energised in my journey towards finding true love. I left for home feeling delighted that maybe the social science experts had chosen well.
