by Erin Green
For the nation’s audience there was only one question left to ask: who was I going to choose for a second date? And then there’s the finale night question, which Tamzin hasn’t mentioned for a few days. Is Jez really expecting me to pose the big question live on air?
I spend the rest of our journey on the phone, describing my school visit to my parents and afterwards chatting to my boy about our plans for next week, some quality mum-and-son time watching elephants at the zoo.
There is a growing excitement deep within me as we near London. I don’t want to get my hopes up but I sense that tonight’s second date will be the thrill of the week.
Polly
The events room didn’t look huge until I decided that a pack of twenty colour-coordinated balloons and two carrier bags of tinsel decorations was enough to jazz it up for our party. I step back to view my handiwork but Fraser’s face says it all.
‘Does it still look bare to you?’
‘Yep . . . for the effect I think you’re after you’ll need much more. Do you want me to . . . ?’
He doesn’t even finish his sentence before I give a resounding yes.
‘The same as these,’ I say pointing to the trio of blue balloons, complete with curled silver ribbon and a weight, bobbing over each linen-covered table.
Fraser grabs his keys and heads out.
‘And remember to buy more of the weights too,’ I shout after his retreating figure.
He reaches the door, halts and I hear him say, ‘Hi, there, didn’t expect to see you here.’ A quick look over his shoulder at me suggests concern. Fraser leaves and Lola enters.
‘Hi, Polly . . . How are things?’
I’m standing with a length of silver foiled ribbon in my hand, curling it against the open blade of a pair of scissors.
Now is not the time.
Gone are her oversized boots, her fake-fur coat and the thick smudge of kohl under each eye. She’s wearing a woollen dress, and her eyebrows appear to be different in size, shape and colour.
It’s rude of me but I don’t answer. I simply look.
Before she even opens her mouth to explain I want to ask her to leave.
Why does this girl get under my skin so much? I don’t class myself as rude or unpleasant and yet Lola brings out every negative vibe in my body. I never thought I would develop an older-woman syndrome towards young women. I always imagined that I’d mature gracefully without feeling the need for spiteful actions towards the younger generation, and yet here I am at thirty-nine feeling so venomous towards one female.
Am I jealous of her youth?
Intimidated by her surly manner?
No. None of the above, and yet she only has to say my name and my innards are raging – urgh!
‘Polly, I was wondering if there’s any chance I could come tonight?’
I watch as she enters the room and walks across the wooden dance floor to stand in front of me.
Am I hearing this right?
‘I’ve mentioned it to Cody . . . he was noncommittal but he did say that he thought you’d have an issue with me being here, so I thought it best to speak to you.’
Couldn’t he simply have said no?
I clear my throat, putting the scissors down on the nearest table.
‘The thing is, Lola, I feel we’ve been here before. You dated my son, we welcomed you into our family for that time and yet you behaved in a manner that I didn’t think was the right way to treat my son. Now that might sound as if I’m overprotective, almost smothering him in a way, but from where I stand, I didn’t think you were the right person for him to be dating. And so when it was over, I was relieved. Then there were all the silly games that you played afterwards, when my son couldn’t venture into town without being harassed by you, called names in the street and forced to desert his mates for the evening and return home just to silence you . . . I felt that was a little unfair too. Do you see what I mean?’
She nods.
‘After which, our household endured many weeks of phone calls, unexpected pizza deliveries, unwanted taxi cabs and, correct me if I’m wrong, those were all initiated by you as a means of getting back at my son for calling it a day and not dating you.’
Lola nods again.
I am on a roll.
‘I see the situation very differently to you, Lola. You might wish just to attend his party tonight, join in with the celebrations and enjoy a good night amongst a group of friends, but to me you spell danger. And not just danger for my son, but for me and Fraser too. Cody’s no angel, I know that. He’s got a lot of growing up to do too, but I can assure you he didn’t deserve half of the stuff you dished out as revenge. I don’t want to be condescending towards you, or rude, but I want my son to be with a girl who makes him happy, who makes him proud to be with her, whose company he enjoys – with you, my son was miserable, drained of life and on occasions upset. He didn’t show it, as I might have done, but as his mum I could see it.’
‘I get where you’re coming from.’
‘Do you? Do you really?’
She nods yet again.
‘Well, given that I’m being so honest, maybe I could just continue and finish this conversation. I might be his mother, I might seem really old in your eyes, but potentially the girl that my son dates could end up being his partner in life and even the mother of his child . . . both of which will determine how many years of his life will be spent being happy. I have absolutely no choice in who my son wishes to date but I fear for his happiness and my small family if he chooses the wrong one, Lola.’
She stares.
I fall silent. I’ve said it all: every doubt I have about her and every concern I have for my son’s future happiness.
‘Sorry, but I’ve got nothing else to add.’
That speech has been rattling around my head for many months. I thought I’d feel calm if it were ever delivered, but I don’t. I feel like an utter bitch. I’m thirty-nine and she’s eighteen.
‘See you, Polly.’
I watch as Lola retraces her steps towards the exit. She’s gone in a flash.
I stand there, replaying the scene in my head.
Should I have been so honest?
‘Are you all right?’
Fraser breaks into my thoughts, as he re-enters with three carrier bags from the card shop.
‘I’m such a bitch!’
He plonks the goods on to the nearest table and begins unpacking the decorations. He’s done me proud, purchasing the exact ones I’d chosen earlier.
‘Difficult conversation, was it?’
‘Not really, she didn’t say much apart from ask politely to come to the party, and I basically told her no.’
‘OK. She knows now. Let’s hope she’ll stay away and allow Cody to enjoy his party with his friends and family.’
‘Hope?’ I glance up at him.
‘Yeah, hope . . . Lola’s not one for taking advice now, is she?’
Carmen
Within minutes, we’re deposited on to the busy traffic island, home of the great archway, amongst a fresh crowd of tourists. We take the obligatory selfies with the monument as a backdrop before making our way, tickets in hand, to the kiosk to be swiftly directed to the entrance.
‘A last-minute DIY job, would you say?’ mutters Elliot, pointing at the undercoat of gunmetal grey paint and the moulded aluminium handle, which look so out of place amongst the elaborate Neoclassicism stonework. I laugh at his humour, but my face falls once he opens the door.
I had imagined a plush visitors’ foyer behind the grey door, with informative staff wearing bright smiles and offering two options: the stairs or the lift.
Nope. Behind the grey door is three feet of tiled floor leading to step one of a very long spiral staircase, with a metal banister and a wall-mounted handrail. This installation provides a
fascinating swirl above our heads, which simply keeps turning for 284 stone steps.
I stare around, which takes all of two seconds.
There is no foyer, no smiling staff and, more importantly, no lift!
I have a boyfriend with a tour ticket, a knee brace and a set of NHS crutches!
As Elliot looks at me, his eyebrows lifting, a female tourist walks into my back. She also seems surprised to find nothing behind the grey door apart from an English couple frozen like statues.
‘Now what?’ I ask.
‘I can’t do stairs with these, can I?’ he groans, as the woman sighs impatiently down my neck for blocking her way.
‘We’ll leave it,’ I say, turning around and coming face to face with the miffed female; behind her stand three children and an adult male. I can’t understand a word she’s muttering, but her body language speaks volumes. She’s annoyed at me for blocking her way to the first step.
‘Don’t be daft. You’ve bought tickets.’
‘But you can’t climb,’ I moan.
‘You go . . . I’ll wait down here.’
I’m torn. Go. Stay. Yeah, go – that way only one ticket will be wasted.
The stranger and her brood impatiently push past, causing me to make full bodily contact with each one as they squeeze by. Not something I choose to do in life.
‘Carmen, go on.’
‘All right, as long as you’ll be OK waiting down here.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Try and give your ticket away if you can. Someone outside might as well use it.’
In a split second, Elliot has hobbled past me and through the underwhelming door, back into the sunlight.
I take the first step.
One, two, three . . .
By the time I’ve taken forty-six steps, my thighs are burning, my hands are clutching on to the metal rails on both sides and my lungs are about to burst forth from my chest. I wish I’d stayed with Elliot. Damn my thrifty attitude of ‘We have tickets – we can’t waste both of them!’
I look down and see a backlog of bodies behind me, most of them irritated by the slow woman blocking the staircase, so I release one hand from the rail and move to the side, like I do on the Tube or the Metro. The crowd race past, showing off their energy and springy young thighs, while I clamber on as if climbing Mount Everest, wondering when my trusted Sherpa will bring me an oxygen tank. Partway through, I pray there is a base camp nearby in which I can spend a night before continuing my ascent the next day or, given my lightheadedness and wheezing, next week! Sadly, that’s in my dreams too.
Finally, I reach the plateau and make an undignified scramble for the row of benches kindly provided for those dying of exercise. I feel ill. Joking aside, if I develop a pain in my chest that moves to my left arm and a sense of doom, I will be cruelly demanding that an ambulance crew sprint up those stairs to attend me. Though my current sense of doom is probably due to my subconscious knowledge that what goes up must stagger down eventually.
I hope Elliot isn’t cold and hungry outside, wondering why I haven’t rejoined him yet.
After a considerable time watching the passing crowds, many of whom wear the same desperate expression that I must have had, I gently ease myself from the bench and take a look at the exhibition pinned up on the walls. I don’t read everything as I’m conscious that Elliot is waiting.
I groan on realising that I have a second small climb to reach the summit, the observation platform.
That’s when I see it.
A set of metal double doors with a polite notice taped across announcing ‘out of order’.
I bloody knew it! How could there not be a sodding lift given today’s modern amenities?
I begin the final ascent.
A brilliant blue sky greets me as I emerge into the open air of the observation platform. People are swarming in every direction, cameras and mobile phones snapping images as mementos. There are silver spikes creating a fitting yet scary boundary, and I’m amazed that some tourists are attempting to lean out beyond them, despite the potential consequences fifty metres down. The majority of visitors line the boundary, taking crazy-faced selfies. I find a section of free space at the barrier and simply stare down at the beautiful star shape created by the surrounding incoming roads. From up here, Paris seems incredibly neat and tidy, organised into geometric sections giving a vibe that life is sweet, in every way possible.
To my right the Eiffel Tower stands proudly, under which tomorrow I will pop my question. From that moment on, for the rest of my days, the gigantic tower will hold different memories each time I see it. Today, it’s simply an icon amongst icons; from tomorrow it will represent the next chapter in my life. Our life.
The more I think about the prospect of proposing, the better it feels that I have ventured along this path. I know my initial reaction was one of horror, which has been diluted into acceptance and now I’ve finally arrived at exhilarated. I would never have imagined myself proposing to a man, let alone Elliot, but standing here with the Eiffel Tower in the distance it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
I take a few snaps with my mobile, walk the perimeter boundary, peering through to locate Elliot far below. He isn’t easy to spot amongst the crowds, his dark hair blends in.
My eyes search the masses. It looks like an ant farm; everyone is busily going about their day, and yet each one has a life, desires, fears and, sadly, losses. No two people down there are the same, have the same, or want the same . . . and yet, somehow, we are supposed to go through life and find the one who best fits with us. How impossible that seems right now, viewing a mass of bodies moving back and forth below me.
How do two people ever find their match?
Or do we each have several plausible matches wandering about the world?
I suddenly spot Elliot.
He’s sitting beside the right-hand pillar of the arched monument, his head bowed, knee brace in place, his crutches laid upon the paving stones, watching the passing tourists. I watch as a lone woman walks by him, short skirt, long legs and a flowing mane of hair, and his head follows her stride.
Elliot, don’t!
Seconds later, another woman walks by and his head twists in her direction to watch and admire.
Bloody thanks! I’m not the jealous type but of all the moments to witness my boyfriend window shopping the passing parade – this doesn’t leave me feeling good. I know he’s not blind, and we all do it. Us females know window shopping is great; you can admire from afar, drool a little and dream without having to venture inside the shop, try on or even purchase. Nicole’s comment flashes through my mind.
Is this what Elliot’s doing whilst out with his mates?
No wonder they’ve noticed, he hardly bloody hides it. I watch his head, and suppose his gaze to be moving continually to watch every lone woman who walks by him.
Thanks a bloody bunch, just what I needed to see!
I lift my mobile clear of the railing and snap a photo of the ant farm below.
Not that I want one. This unexpected image of Elliot is seared upon my memory.
I pull back from the boundary, for fear he might see me spying, which is ridiculous, but still . . .
My legs carry me down the spiralled staircase faster than I could ever imagine. I am now the one frustrated by the slow tourists blocking my path, holding both rails and not allowing me to pass.
Two hundred and eighty-four steps is nothing when the motivation to get down them has suddenly been given to you.
My breathing is heavy, my hamstrings tight but I do not need to sit down once I arrive at the bottom stair. I need to speak to Elliot. Ask him what the hell he is playing at?
Mmmm, maybe not. I’d probably sound like some crazed bunny boiler and for what . . . him happily watching the traffic?
‘Hi,’
I call, approaching the spot where he’s leaning against the neoclassical stonework. ‘Sorry I took so long. It was a bugger to climb to the top and then getting back down was so frustrating.’
‘No worries, I’ve just been sitting here.’
I wait for him to add further details but he doesn’t.
I smile at him, waiting. Lord knows what I expect him to say or confess too.
‘What?’
‘Nothing . . . Do you not want to know what you can see at the very top?’ I ask, playing for time.
‘Sure.’
I unlock my mobile, and begin flipping through the images, brilliant blue skies, landmarks and history fill each frame. I can feel a dividing wall between us, as we stand side by side. I glance up to see if Elliot’s viewing my snaps but he’s elsewhere.
‘Fantastic. See, I told you it would be worth it,’ he mutters. ‘Now where?’
‘We have a dinner cruise on the Seine booked later, so what would you like to do now?’
‘I fancy grabbing a kip back at the hotel . . . yeah?’
A kip? Is he serious?
‘Are you tired?’
He yawns an extended fake yawn, almost childlike in its lack of authenticity.
‘Wow, that tired!’ I exclaim.
‘Yeah, really tired . . .’
‘OK. Let’s head back.’
Elliot leads the way on crutches in search of a taxi, and I follow.
Dana
I wait patiently as instructed in the foyer of the Shard. I am nervous as hell and conscious that passing guests are staring at me and yet again wondering why I have a TV cameraman circling me. I simply smile. I’m starting to get used to being stared at; I don’t have the urge to explain that I’m no one special.
Jez and Tamzin left me here some twenty minutes ago in order to capture for the audience the big moment when they learn who I’ve chosen to go on a second date with. Jez briefly outlined that they’d hired yet another executive car with tinted windows and that my chosen date would be driven through London to appear as if by magic at the foyer doors. To heighten audience anticipation and the drama, I’ve been asked not to share my choice with anyone. I haven’t, not even with my parents, despite my mother asking constantly all day. I know the woman is keen but why ruin the fun at the final hurdle?
