by Erin Green
‘Sorry, love, these things take ages,’ mutters the remaining cameraman who’s been left to babysit me in the foyer. ‘There’s ages left until we’re live on air – but we all have to be ready and waiting.’
‘No worries, I’m getting used to it.’
It wasn’t really a difficult decision based on how I’d enjoyed myself on my previous dates. Three dates, with three different men, each one very different in terms of location, enjoyment and connection.
‘Oh, Dana, now I’m not trying to sway your decision – you know your own mind – but he was absolutely lovely,’ was my mother’s poor attempt to influence my future happiness.
I’m not visibly shaking, which is a good sign as I was incredibly nervous on our first date. I’ve already asked what the format is for tonight. Apparently, we’re having pre-dinner cocktails, then wining and dining overlooking the cityscape, which all sounds very plush.
Despite the live nature of this show, I’m not too nervous. Apparently, Jennifer is undertaking to present a running commentary while the camera pans back and forth between our conversation. I’ve been asked not to swear on live TV. I’ll definitely have to remember my mic if I nip to the loo this time. I check my reflection in the nearest polished surface; the professionals have once again given me a makeover worthy of royalty. Hair, make-up and this time a long flowing gown for the finale evening, giving me the feeling of Cinderella going to the ball. Though it appears, given the time I’ve been standing here, that Prince Charming may have lost his way en route.
Carmen
I stare across the linen-covered table. It’s a perfect setting – I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful ambiance, even if the conversation is a little stilted. That’s my fault for being het-up by an internal monologue which I can’t openly vent.
I’m mad at him.
I’ve been silently mad at Elliot all afternoon, since leaving the Arc de Triomphe, because I’m stuck. I desperately want to ask what he’s up to. Ask him what he’s playing at. But how do I ask such questions knowing I have two engagement rings secretly stashed in my suitcase and a proposal planned for tonight?
I have two choices: keep schtum or ask . . . and I daren’t ask, which frustrates me.
‘How’s the seabass?’ asks Elliot, breaking into my thoughts.
‘Lovely, and yours?’
‘Good, yeah, good.’
Silence descends as we continue to eat, I sporadically take a sip of wine and notice that Elliot’s glass remains virtually untouched.
‘Have you taken your painkillers?’
‘Yep, three lots today, though my knee feels a bit better than yesterday.’
‘And from when you’d initially injured it?’
‘Totally different . . . each day it’s getting a little better.’
I nod. I’m pleased. I don’t like to think he’s in pain or uncomfortable and yet, deep inside my loving heart, a flicker of evil ignites; if the bastard is playing away or planning to, I hope his pain registers off the Richter scale.
I attempt to dowse my negative thoughts with a blanket of love, trust and honesty.
I continue to eat, my mind playing out the scenarios before me.
‘So, Elliot, let’s be honest. Having climbed to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, I saw you openly admiring the ladies walking by – what’s all that about?’
It’s honest, it’s frank and, given my current pre-proposal position in life, bloody ballsy. One wrong move or question and my entire plan will come tumbling down around my lovestruck soul.
But can I possibly propose when I suspect he might be trying his luck elsewhere?
My second option develops with pace.
‘So, Elliot, let’s be honest and open here. Nicole happened to mention that your entire crew of friends are concerned that you’re checking out other woman during nights out. I hadn’t even realised that gym night had been ditched in favour of boys’ nights out, so my question is what the hell are you up to?’
I can imagine the shock registering on his face if either scenario became reality.
I can almost hear the excuses, the ‘hey, Carmen babe’s alongside the ‘what are you suggesting?’s. I can almost feel the negative vibes, the sullen silence which would follow, the caustic undertone that would accompany us to the Eiffel Tower, ruining my moment.
I have two choices. Actually, I have three.
I choose the third: to keep schtum.
On Friday afternoon, I chose to come to Paris to be with the man I love and spend an unforgettable weekend reconnecting before my big moment.
And that is what I want to focus on: reconnection.
I sit back, having finished my succulent seabass presented on a bed of spinach, decorated with cherry tomatoes. I have cleared my plate, except for a discarded sliver of fried skin, which doesn’t appeal to me. Elliot’s meal, much like his wine, remains half finished, and he puts his cutlery together and sits back.
I reach for his hand across the table between our plates and wine glasses.
His fingers are long, his nails clean and clipped, and I play with them, tracing and stroking each digit. Elliot smiles as I move from fingers to thumb and back again, slowly lingering before moving on to the next.
‘Hey, look,’ he says, interrupting my game, pointing to his left outside the cruiser.
I turn to see the gothic towers of Notre Dame with its central rose window watching us stealthily from beside the Seine. The fire damage is still visible on the ancient stonework but the beauty remains beneath the criss-cross of scaffolding.
‘It’s bloody massive,’ mutters Elliot, staring intently. ‘It makes you wonder how they managed to create such a structure in the first place. The original was built by hand . . . but it’ll be repaired using today’s technology.’
‘I can’t imagine it,’ I say, taken aback by his intense interest.
I can admire its beauty, its presence and yet Elliot’s seeing something far deeper, much like I had hoped from the Mona Lisa earlier.
‘Look at you getting into it,’ I say, squeezing his hand.
‘Don’t you think it’s amazing how little by little, piece by piece, humans can create something that outlives their physical life?’
‘I felt that earlier about the painting but you weren’t interested.’
‘A painting is quite different. I know artists don’t complete their works in a single day but that . . . that took centuries to build, far longer than any painting, Carmen. You wait – it’ll take years to rebuild given the damage to the roof. Rebuilding will be no easy task, despite what the experts might say.’
I take instant satisfaction from hearing Elliot suggest that the duration of time equates to worth – a suitable note for later. Though, given my favoured speech, there won’t be room for me to reinforce anything: it’s short, sharp and very much to the point.
‘Do you see those rib-like sections? I know they’re called flying buttresses – they take the weight of the walls and what was once the roof, allowing for the expanse of elaborate windows . . . I bet you didn’t know that?’
‘No, but more disconcertingly I didn’t imagine you’d know such facts, Elliot.’ I laugh, seeing his beaming face.
‘You forget, I’m more than a pretty face,’ he says, squeezing my hand lightly.
‘So, no relation to Quasimodo then?’
‘Sadly not, Esmeralda,’ teases Elliot, playing with my fingers just as I had played with his minutes before. ‘Though should you need rescuing from the gallows any day soon, I’ll be sure to leap into action.’
It isn’t his pledge which makes me smile but the sentiment behind them. He’s never been one to be open about his feelings but still, if I read between the lines, I get where he’s coming from.
I sigh, grateful that I have maintained a dignified silence about Nicole’s comments. Ho
w ridiculous am I, allowing negative thoughts or suggestions to cloud my judgement?
I blush, relieved that only I know the true extent to which I have fought down the urge to confront him.
‘What’s the smile for?’ asks Elliot, leaning forward across the table.
‘Nothing.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing from where I’m sitting.’
‘Shush!’
I’m saved from further embarrassment and teasing by the waiter arriving to collect our plates. Our hands snap apart, like typical English tourists, not willing to show affection in front of a third party.
Dana
From where I stand, I can’t see the limousine draw up to the curb. I don’t witness the uniformed chauffer step from the vehicle to open the rear door.
What I do witness is Tamzin’s reaction as she stands with bated breath watching the proceedings from a vantage point that I was denied. It’s my date and yet I’m not allowed to watch – go figure. Tamzin’s zingy curls bob back and forth as she tries to peer around Jez and his camera crew to see the secret occupant of the limousine.
I imagine she thinks I’m mean for not sharing but my word is my word, and even Tamzin’s bribe to stay friends afterwards wasn’t enough to tempt me. I have no doubt she’ll probably sweet-talk Jez into adding a bloopers section to the closing credits for Sunday’s highlights show, in which case my toilet visit will be aired for sure.
Polly
‘Mum, come and meet Anna,’ says Cody, walking me through the crowd towards his table of mates.
A sea of faces politely murmur hello, the lads I recognise from frequent visits to our house over the years, the young ladies not so much, given that most look much older than their years. Funny how you lose track of the opposing gender when your household revolves around just one.
‘Hello, nice to meet you,’ says Anna, smiling broadly as Cody takes her hand.
I settle into the vacant seat bedside her. I wasn’t expecting this.
This is the Valentine’s flower girl then, is it? She’s petite with an elf-like face, and her fringe has a dramatic asymmetrical cut which accentuates her large eyes.
‘Nice to meet you, Anna. Though I wasn’t expecting to be introduced to anyone tonight . . . he’s kept this secret to himself.’
‘Mum, you’re embarrassing her. Stop it,’ says Cody, to cover his own embarrassment. ‘Ignore her, Anna, she’s pulling your leg.’
‘Pulling her leg about what? You?’ I ask, noting the same adoring expression in Cody’s eyes that I saw in Fraser’s when we were young.
‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Polly – I believe you work in the travel agents,’ says Anna.
‘I do.’
‘I work in the bridal boutique next door. I saw you briefly at Friday’s meeting. I know you’ve organised things for Carmen, my boss.’
‘Sorry, yes, Friday’s meeting – I thought I recognised you. Yes, Carmen. I wonder how that’s going.’ I quickly glance at my wristwatch: 9 p.m. ‘I bet that’s all sorted by now.’
‘Yeah, she’d arranged everything for early evening . . . so I bet she’s dead happy by now, and relieved. Did you see the matching rings she’d bought?’
I shake my head and listen as Anna excitedly describes what I’d call a ‘diamond rock’ with an accompanying gold band designed for a man.
Cody sits watching her speak, his eyes never leaving her face. It’s clear there is something different about this girl. She’s definitely not like Lola.
I keep it short for fear of outstaying my welcome and return to circulating around the room.
The music is playing, the dance floor is full, the bar is busy, the buffet virtually gone. I couldn’t be happier. Yes, it’s been a hell of a week but we’ve done it. We got through it and next week I can relax a little and recuperate.
‘Would you like to dance?’
I’m startled by the question but how can I refuse Fraser’s polite request and extended hand? This isn’t our style but, hey, how better to show your son up at his own birthday party than by taking the floor and slow-dancing to a number that is not a slow dance? I know that’s all that’s in Fraser repertoire, given his lack of rhythm.
He leads me to the corner of the dance floor, currently the emptiest space, and wraps his arm about my waist. I don’t care that everyone else is bouncing up and down to the latest rave music, we’re doing it our way, like always.
‘I love you,’ whispers Fraser, as I rest my head on his shoulder and look up.
‘I know. And I love you.’
‘That’s never wavered for us, has it?’ he says, as we begin to slowly rock from side to side.
‘No, from that first moment you walked into the college refectory, I knew. Even though you were chatting to Denise Bradley at the time.’
‘I wasn’t. You’ve got your crushes mixed up. I was talking to you.’
‘You weren’t, you didn’t even notice me. You were mooning over Denise . . .’
‘If I was mooning over Denise, how come I asked you out that afternoon to the pictures, eh? Explain that one . . . yeah, you can’t.’
‘And now you’re going to say that Denise was just an excuse to stop by our table because you knew her,’ I tease, having joked about this moment for so long.
‘Exactly! You girls don’t know the half of it,’ says Fraser, squeezing me tight.
‘Has Cody introduced you to Anna?’
‘Yes, a few minutes ago. She seems nice.’
‘She does, and he seems smitten.’
‘I’d say.’
Everything is going well.
The dance floor is full of lively movers. Cody’s mates have bagged numerous tables near the bar and it appears a huge group of them have actually turned up, despite not answering my text invite. Cody’s birthday cake sits centre stage, with the remnants of hot rolls and half-eaten desserts scattered the length of the buffet table, which help to dissolve my fears of loads of leftovers whilst proving that I’d catered for plenty.
‘Lola’s here,’ whispers Fraser into my ear as I enjoy my wine. It’s the first chance I’ve had to sit down all night, to actually have a decent conversation with a friend. How long has it been since I saw Jill and Tony – our friends from school? Ages, yet before I even begin, I’m pulled out of the conversation. ‘Can’t you speak to her, Fraser?’
‘I can but . . .’
Yep, he’s too kind. Such a conversation isn’t one that Fraser will handle well, given that, firstly, she’s female and most females can get around Fraser, and, secondly, he won’t want to appear brutish by asking her to leave.
‘Where?’ I ask, apologising to my friends and promising to return in a second.
‘Over by the bar.’ Fraser nods to the swarm of bodies waiting to be served.
I cross the room, eyes on Lola as she queues for food. From the back, I can see her short skirt curving upwards from the outer thigh, leaving little to the imagination. She’s side-stepping from one foot to the other as she waits to be served, her clutch bag thrust beneath her left arm, a note being waved in her right hand.
Who is she with?
The rest of the people in the queue are busy chatting with one another as they wait. Not Lola. She is alone. Which heightens my annoyance.
I spy Cody and make a beeline.
‘Cody . . . Lola’s here. What do you want me to do?’
‘Ah, Mum, don’t say that.’
‘She is . . . look,’ I point towards the bar. ‘Are you going to speak to her, or shall I?’
‘I will. She’s probably here to hang around with her brother, Milo.’
I watch as Cody strolls over and taps her on the shoulder. Lola’s face ignites into a beaming smile as she turns and gazes adoringly up at him. She shoulders begin to sway, her eyes study his face as he speaks and her gi
ggling begins. It’s plain to see how much she likes him but, oh dear, can we go through that again? I couldn’t. I wish Cody would turn a little so I can see his expression, witness for myself his true feelings – hers are obvious, but maybe he’s encouraging her slightly. Flattered by the attention . . .
I’m suddenly aware that, yes, I am standing in the middle of the floor, staring at my son chatting to a young lady, which will look slightly obsessive from a third party’s point of view. But I need this resolved. Lola needs to leave.
Cody finishes talking and returns to me.
‘She’s staying but she isn’t going to cause a fuss or a scene, Mum.’
‘Really, Cody?’
‘Mum, please just leave it . . . She’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
‘Cody!’ I’m exasperated. This is precisely why I feel as I do.
Cody touches my forearm before walking back to his table of friends and Anna.
I give a heavy sigh, take a final look at the gatecrasher and return to chat with Jill and Tony.
Carmen
‘Finally,’ says Elliot, as we slowly approach the Eiffel Tower, illuminated as darkness falls, his crutches clunking on the paved walkway. ‘It’s been in my eyeline from the second we arrived.’
We’d disembarked from the river cruise, both fit to burst due to the fabulous food we’d consumed, and hailed a taxi for the short journey.
My stomach is tumbling like a circus performer with stage fright. Having a beautiful meal before proposing is a definite mistake, which I’m sure many males have realised over the centuries.
‘Isn’t it beautiful though?’ I say, linking arms and wanting to swoon as much as possible as we walk through the flood-lit gardens approaching the tower, despite the clunky manner in which he moves thanks to his bloody crutches.
