by Erin Green
‘Mmmm, though I’m not really up for the actual tour,’ says Elliot, giving me a dubious look.
‘I gathered that . . . Never mind, we can still walk the avenue and take a look, can’t we?’
‘Sure, as long as you haven’t set your heart on seeing the view from the top.’
I smile and shake my head.
I want to burst out and tell him there and then: no, Elliot, the view isn’t what I have my heart set on. Climbing 1,665 steps of the Eiffel Tower to view the sights of Paris for the second time in one day, but from a slightly different angle, is not something I could do anyway: my thighs are cramping from my earlier efforts at the Arc de Triomphe.
Every step I take nearer, I get warmer.
I’m getting flushed.
My palms are sticky.
I’m getting flustered.
I’m beginning to sweat. Not a gentle, feminine, glistening glow across my temple but a full-blown, is-this-an-early-menopause-meltdown? flush.
‘Carmen, you’ve gone a bit red. Are you all right?’ asks Elliot, stopping to stare at me. ‘Do you need to sit down?’
‘I’m fine.’
Elliot peers at me. ‘Maybe it’s food poisoning?’
‘Elliot, I’m fine, honestly . . . it’s nothing.’
He eyes me suspiciously.
‘Honestly, can we just enjoy the view and the glorious gardens? When we get to the Eiffel Tower, we can take a few pictures.’
We fall silent.
Tourists mill around, posing in groups and positioning their hands to create the illusion of holding the illuminated tower, pushing it over or wearing it as a hat.
I’m desperately hoping that Elliot won’t request such a pose when we arrive. I’d like the next fifteen minutes to be a stylish affair, with two mature adults being sophisticated and debonair and focusing on their binding love, rather than trying to create a funny picture which will lodge in my memory, forever distracting from my carefully planned proposal. A distraction which Elliot will then refer to constantly throughout our life together whenever any social outing requires a funny anecdote. And I will get used to smiling politely whilst wanting to kill him for keeping the eternal spotlight on his immature behaviour and not my heartfelt declaration of love upon which our family will be built. From which our children will spring forth, from which our grandchildren and every future generation of the Cole family will spring, long after we have become worm food and are a distant memory.
In my head, I want this iconic tower to stay alive within us both as a magical reminder of the love we share on this day and every day to come. I imagine that in the years ahead we’ll be changing nappies, feeding children and arguing with teenagers but the moment a TV clip of Paris flashes upon the screen and we see the Eiffel Tower, we’ll both soften, reminisce and sigh heavily, this special day grounding us within our busy family life. This memory. This hour. On 29 February . . . when I proposed to him. I can almost hear our enjoyment recalling our proposal story, amongst friends and family for years to come.
I hear myself speaking to an eager group of friends, anyone new coming into our lives from this point. ‘Yes, yes, really, I proposed to Elliot . . . yes, a slight twist on tradition but you know how it is when men drag their feet a little, us women sometimes need to take the plunge, don’t we?’ And ‘Don’t be silly, of course you won’t mess it up.’ And ‘Honestly, I thought that, I was as nervous as hell, but given all the preparation that I’d done beforehand . . . I simply wanted to savour the moment and ask him to marry me. I would encourage any woman to take matters into her own hands and propose . . . Don’t wait for him to do it – make it yours.’
Make it mine! That is exactly what I intend to do in the next fifteen minutes, if Elliot could quicken his hobbling pace and actually move a little faster on these bloody crutches. Doesn’t he know I’ve got a beautiful diamond ring hidden in my coat and it’s burning a hole in my pocket?
‘Come on, Elliot, I’ll race you!’ I holler, releasing my grip on his hand and playfully jogging off.
‘Carmen, I can’t!’ he shouts, as I turn around to jog backwards, beckoning for him to speed up. ‘These crutches are killing my hands and shoulders.’ I ignore his complaint.
‘Come on, slowcoach, we’ve got things to do and people to see!’
I watch as Elliot tries an awkward hop, skip and larger ‘push off’ from his crutches which lengthens his stride and definitely propels him faster.
‘Yay! And it’s Elliot going for gold!’ I encourage, as I continue to move backwards. I feel awful – if his shoulders and back are aching from the constant strain of the crutches, it can’t be pleasant – but I have more important things to think about. ‘If you make it across the finish line in record time, then I’ll give you a back massage later. How’s that sound?’
‘A naked massage . . . sounds wonderful.’
‘Naked . . . who mentioned naked?’
Elliot gives me a wry smile, his eyes squinting, as he closes the distance between us. This is the face I love, the grin I treasure and the eyes that I want to wake up to see for the rest of my life.
‘Beat ya!’ I call, my outstretched hand touching the rusty metal of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Well, that isn’t bloody difficult given these buggers,’ puffs Elliot, bringing up the rear.
‘Well, touch it then. You aren’t finished until you’ve left your fingerprints on it,’ I add, breathing heavily but not due to the exertion, more nerves at the task ahead.
Elliot smiles, his hand reaching for the almighty metal structure, and pats it.
‘There, happy now?’
He leans heavily on his crutches, resting his injured knee, whilst I pace about on the spot, looking up and around at the sheer size of the tower. I ignore the three hamburger and ice-cream trailers complete with chalkboards – everyone needs to make a living but I don’t want them as part of my memory. Instead I focus on the intricate way that the neon lights appear through the intricate lattice work, how the night’s ghostly clouds provide a continually moving backdrop for this giant and how couples lovingly hold hands whilst strolling beneath the four giant feet.
I quite like the shade of olive green it’s painted, though dealing with such a quantity of rust must take some dedicated elbow grease and a sturdy wire brush! Amidst the pretty flower displays and the numerous concrete blocks used as posing pedestals for selfies, the ticket office and sovereign gift shop, I feel as if I’m standing beneath the world biggest cake topper, on which a bride and groom are probably standing at the very top.
Elliot stays near a giant foot, leaning against the iconic structure and the concrete building which encases each corner. He looks relaxed, recovered from his short dash on the crutches, but I think I’ll give it another five minutes or so before I invite him for a slow walk around.
My eyes follow the tiny caged lift gliding its way up a leg strut – funny how you never notice it in pictures or on film yet there it is, never ceasing but working constantly day after day. Much like me with our relationship, quietly caring for Elliot the best way I know how on the good days and the not-so-good, shall we call them?
I slowly walk in circles, staring intently at the metal structure above my head, but really I’m buying time. I’m trying to focus, to meditate and calm down before embarking on my big proposal. I’m not bothered by the crowds of tourists milling about; I’ll never see these people again in my life. All I care about is getting it right for me and Elliot.
I want it to be perfect.
I want it to be a natural step.
I want it to be unique.
I need it to be memorable.
Everything I’ve planned and prepped in my head and heart meets my goals.
I take a huge breath and slowly exhale.
This is it. After eight years of loving, my moment has arrived.
; I stride back towards Elliot, who is leaning heavily on his supports, a confident smile on my lips. I manoeuvre him and his wretched metal crutches a little way away from a group of arguing tourists, before throwing the crutches to the gravel floor.
I stand facing him.
‘Give me your hands,’ I instruct, taking control and looking deep into his quizzical face. His gaze is darting about my features as if unsure where to focus.
‘What?’
‘Shush!’
His eyes widen at such a command.
I squeeze his hands in mine and stretch up to kiss him. His warm lips react to mine. This feels right, we feel right. This is it.
‘Elliot, don’t utter a word and please let me finish, I’ve been practising for days how to say this properly and I would like to get it right first time.’
Elliot’s eyes widen further in surprise and he nods, as if scared to answer – which isn’t quite as I’d imagined.
‘We both know that we, you and I, have been together for eight years, living together for several of those. We’ve had some good times, bad times and once or twice some ugly moments but, hey, I’m not counting or including those unfortunate days. Despite everything, the good, bad or ugly, I have loved you. When we’ve laughed, cried and shouted at each other . . . I have loved you. When I’ve seen you every day or whenever we’ve been apart . . . I have loved you. The bottom line to my existence for the last eight years is that you, Elliot Oliver Cole, are the one I have loved from the first day until this moment here today and so I would like to ask you a simple question . . . Veux-tu m’épouser?’
The words spill from my mouth in a logical, orderly manner. I can hear that my speech made sense. I didn’t race. I didn’t rattle. I didn’t splutter or stammer. I didn’t cry. I actually held it together, which is more than I have done when repeatedly practising the speech each time I’ve been to the toilet in the last twenty-four hours, the only alone time I have had.
I stare into his eyes.
There is total silence. Everyone else seems to be listening to our conversation; the entire universe has stopped to earwig.
His eyelids flicker rapidly as my words register.
He’s better at French than I am, I’ve heard him conversing with the waiting staff during our weekend.
His fingers twitch in mine.
He gulps deeply.
His lips part slightly . . . hesitate, and then continue to separate.
His eyes close as he whispers, ‘Non.’
Polly
‘Polly, can I have a word?’
I turn from the hand basin in the ladies to behold Lola before me, drink in hand.
‘Hi, Lola, enjoying yourself? I didn’t realise your brother was a DJ.’
I feel relaxed, and I can’t be bothered to take issue with her, given that the night’s nearly over, everyone has enjoyed themselves and I’ve had more than my fair share of white wine.
‘Well, I would be, but I see that Cody’s with someone . . . He didn’t say that at the bar.’
‘He doesn’t have to explain to anyone, Lola, least of all to you. He didn’t tell me either, he doesn’t need to.’
‘How long’s he been seeing her?’
‘I’m not sure, it’s recent but . . .’
‘So you weren’t joking about the flower delivery last week?’ She doesn’t give me time to answer before continuing. ‘My mum said you were just being a mean cow towards me, when actually you were telling the truth.’
My mouth drops open.
I cringe that her mother saw straight through my mean comment. To actually hear their view of me cuts deep.
‘Lola, I wasn’t joking. It probably sounded very mean but . . .’ I can’t lie but I can’t excuse myself either.
‘And she’s what . . . eighteen?’
I shrug. ‘I haven’t a clue . . .’
With perfect timing the ladies’ door opens and in walks Anna, all smiles.
‘Hi, I’m Lola.’ Lola immediately thrusts a hand in Anna’s direction.
‘Anna, nice to meet you.’
‘I’m the ex.’
I watch the sneer dawn upon Lola’s face as she watches for the other young woman’s reaction.
Anna doesn’t react.
‘I know, Cody pointed you out earlier. I’ve heard a lot about you from his mates. I think it’s good when people can remain friends after a relationship breaks down.’
Touché!
Lola is silenced. Her mouth works like a goldfish’s but nothing comes out.
‘Lola was just being polite, Anna . . . I wouldn’t want you to think the two of us are close. Are we, Lola?’ I add.
Lola’s eyes narrow before she spins on her heel and leaves the ladies.
Anna doesn’t say a word. Neither do I.
‘I’d better go and mingle,’ I say eventually.
‘Mmmm, I need to go.’ She points to the lavatory cubicle. ‘I was desperate when I walked in, but somehow lost focus. See you later.’
I leave the ladies, humbled that Anna handled Lola with more maturity than I can usually muster. But as soon as I walk outside, I enter a new drama.
Lola is dragging Cody across the dance floor towards the exit, parting the lively dancing like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Cody is trying to wrestle his hand and wrist back without being forceful, his head shaking vigorously.
‘Hang on, where are you two going?’ I ask, glancing between them. Cody looks annoyed, Lola furious.
‘Outside.’
‘Cody?’ I call in earnest, knowing that any second now Anna will emerge from the ladies’ toilets.
‘We’re not,’ answers Cody, despite his body being pulled towards the exit.
‘We are!’ Lola’s voice has edge, her grip is vice-like.
‘Lola, this is exactly why I didn’t think it was right for you to stay,’ I say, placing my hand on theirs in an attempt to pacify her into releasing her grip.
‘No, you just don’t want me to ask him. That’s your problem, you’re jealous,’ she rants, turning her focus to me.
‘Lola, don’t speak to my mum like that!’
‘Why not? She says what she wants to me. Cody, we need to go outside – I have something to ask you.’
‘Ask me here.’
‘No, it’s embarrassing.’
‘Lola, no!’ My heart leaps into my mouth. This can’t be happening. Has that been her intention all along – to ask him a question during his own birthday party, in front of his friends, family and now a new date?
Cody stares at me, trying to understand why my reaction appears so stricken.
‘Lola, no, you can’t do that. It’s not fair on Cody. Tonight of all nights.’
‘Traditionally, I can only do it tonight of all nights, Polly . . . Cody, will you marry me?’
Our hands remain entwined in a complicated knot of digits and palms.
Cody’s mouth drops wide.
I gasp.
Lola beams in delight.
The silence lengthens.
‘Well?’
Cody shakes his head and starts to wrench his hand from the knot.
‘Cody?’ she stammers, her eyes big, her beaming smile fading. ‘You said you loved me.’
‘When did I say that?’ snaps Cody.
‘You always said . . .’
‘I said nothing of the sort. And this – this is not what I was expecting you to ask me. No, if that’s what you need me to say, you’ve heard it from me!’ He gives a final yank of his arm and his hand is freed. Mine too. I want to die with embarrassment. I had joined them in her proposal. The moment she has probably been planning all week. The moment when she thought all her dreams would come true if he said yes. I had stood there holding their hands like a conjoined triplet. How emb
arrassing! Or is now the embarrassing moment – the fact that having heard what she’d asked and his answer I am still standing here, dumbstruck at the situation unfolding at my son’s birthday party.
‘I think you need to leave, Lola,’ I say quietly, not wanting her to make more drama which everyone else is alerted to.
‘Cody?’
‘No. Not now, not ever!’ says Cody.
Please be quiet, Cody, please don’t upset her further. You know what she can dish out – it’ll be all over social media in ten minutes, she’ll be slating you to anyone who will listen. Be firm. Be polite. Be kind.
‘Cody?’
‘No.’ Cody walks back to his table of friends.
‘Polly?’
I hold my hands up and back away.
‘Lola, you shouldn’t have done that to him. He’s been patient with you, very polite given how miserable you made him in recent months, but to think that he would ever say yes to such a proposal is ludicrous. It really is.’
‘I thought you’d understand.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, given that you and his dad never married, I thought you’d understand why it was so important for me to ask him, to try and show how much I cared . . . Fraser’s obviously never bothered asking you.’
‘Excuse me! Whatever you think you know about mine and his father’s relationship, you are way out of line, young lady. It is no business of yours how we decide to live but it was me who didn’t want to get married, not Fraser.’
I watch as her eyes widen. She might have heard my mean comments but she’s never before seen me this angry. Never.
‘But, Polly . . .’
‘You don’t truly know us, Lola, so please don’t assume you understand the decisions I’ve made in my life. Now, please, I would like you to leave. And I believe my son would like that to happen too.’
‘Polly, can I just explain how I feel . . .’
‘I think you just did!’
I place a firm hand on her shoulder and steer her towards the exit. I walk her through the double doors and out into the car park.
I want to turn and walk away. I’d like to, but I can’t.
