by Erin Green
I quickly bend to titivate the hemline to ensure it hangs correctly, as she views herself for the first time.
This is a wondrous moment for any woman, whatever her age. Over the years I’ve witnessed instant tears, open-mouthed gasps and shrieks of delight.
In any working day, this is one of my favourite moments. One which twangs at my heart strings every day. To witness the parental pride, the sisterly excitement and the thrill of a bride-to-be – knowing that this image will always be treasured – is so very special. I’ve been known to shed a tear or two myself when a family have shared a touching story or a specific history with us during their visits.
Thankfully, today’s bride is no different.
She stands and stares, a look of bewildered delight etched upon her face, as her mother and three sisters frantically dab at tears of joy and repeat endless adjectives, none of which seem to accurately describe the radiant vision before them.
This is when I know I’ve done my job right. If a bride-to-be ever attends her final fitting and stands staring into this mirror without such a reaction, I will assume the worst. And hastily attempt to put it right with another gown.
Every bride should have her moment of joy – where her dreams begin to come true.
‘Doesn’t she look fabulous?’ I ask the family as I quietly back away to enable photographs and memories to be made.
‘It’s exactly what I’d dreamt it would look like,’ says the bride-to-be.
‘You look like an angel. I can’t wait for your dad to see you,’ sniffs her mother through a handful of crumpled tissue. ‘Suddenly this wedding has become very real.’
‘Who’d have thought that in just one week you’ll be walking down the aisle to be married in that gown,’ sobs a sister.
‘I know!’ The bride smiles. ‘And yet you all doubted me when I asked him.’
My ears prick up. This conversation has taken a slightly different path to the usual script for a final gown fitting.
‘So true,’ replies her mother.
I look from bride-to-be to mother and back again, interested to hear the story.
The bride-to-be begins to giggle.
‘Go on, you might as well say,’ urges her mother.
‘We’d been dating for six years and I wanted to get married. Every birthday and Christmas I thought, this will be the time he’ll propose . . . but he didn’t. So, I kept waiting, dropping hints, as you do, but eventually I took matters into my own hands and proposed to him last leap year,’ explains the bride-to-be. ‘Which is why we’ve waited four years to get married on the twenty-ninth of February.’
‘You asked him?’ I stutter, unsure if I heard her correctly.
‘Yeah! I was the biggest bag of nerves ever but I’m glad I did it.’
‘She’d still be waiting otherwise, wouldn’t you?’
‘I certainly would, Mum.’
‘You proposed to him?’ I can hear the shock in my own voice, so I know my expression must be a dead giveaway. It might seem old-fashioned in today’s age of equality but it’s still not the usual proposal story we hear in the boutique.
‘Absolutely. I went with the tradition of a leap year.’
‘And he said yes straight away?’ I’m now all ears, my shock subsiding.
‘Oh yeah, he was surprised to be asked but he gave me an answer there and then.’
‘Wow, you’re braver than me. I could never do that,’ I say.
‘I didn’t think I could, but I’m glad I did.’
‘But what if he’d said no?’ I ask.
‘I’d have had my answer, wouldn’t I? As I said to Mum, “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know,”’ says the bride-to-be, her face beaming. ‘And now look what’s happening, all because I asked him.’
‘Exactly! I’m glad, even though it isn’t the norm,’ adds her mother.
I fall silent as Trish tops up their champagne glasses and Anna offers around the tray of delicate petticoat tail shortbread.
Extending my hand as a support, I walk our bride-to-be back to the curtained changing area and help her remove the gown. I’m following my usual final fitting routine: conversational pleasantries about how delighted the family were, how exciting that the date is so near and instructions on how to hang the gown ready for the big day, but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is spinning with one sentence: ‘If you don’t ask, you’ll never know . . .’
Females proposing isn’t the norm; surely it’s the male’s job to propose in a heterosexual relationship? Isn’t it up to him to show true commitment towards a woman by proposing?
It might be tradition but . . .
I baulk at the very idea.
It’s not the right thing for me to do.
Cinderella didn’t propose to her prince. And how different would the fairy tale be if she had?
Would Elliot say yes, like this woman’s fiancé?
Knowing Elliot, he’d be too shocked to answer me. Or he’d be offended that I’d questioned his masculinity with such a request. I might ruin a future plan that he’s been concocting for my birthday, our dating anniversary or Christmas.
I pull myself up sharp, as I unzip the gown and the bride-to-be carefully steps out of its sumptuous folds.
If there was even a remote possibility that Elliot might be planning a proposal, I’d be happy to wait but . . . surely me proposing isn’t the answer.
It shouldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Dana
‘Hello, can I speak to Dana Jones please?’ asks the woman politely.
‘Speaking.’ I’m cautious – I didn’t recognise the mobile number which flashed up on the tiny screen. I never get phone calls from unknown numbers, not even PPI calls.
‘Hi there! I’m Tamzin Edwards from Happy Productions TV and I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes to discuss your application for our new dating documentary Taking a Chance on Love.’
‘Oh right, yeah, of course,’ I stutter.
‘I have your details in front of me . . . Let’s see . . . mother of one . . . boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
‘How old?’
‘Five . . . nearly six.’
‘Good, good, and it says here that you haven’t ventured on to the dating scene in quite a while. Is there a reason for that?’
I hesitate. How honest do I want to be?
‘Kind of . . . I had my little boy – I’m a single mum, so I wanted to focus on him during the early years. I wanted to establish a strong bond between us, ensure he had my full attention and that we both developed as a tight little unit before I began sharing my time with others . . . That probably sounds very selfish of me but, you know, first-time mum and all that.’
‘Absolutely. I get your drift, nature and nurture are both crucial in those precious formative years,’ says Tamzin. ‘You never get them back, you know – never.’
I imagine she’s hastily writing down every word I say, like a crazed journalist at a news conference, though given my status of self-employed florist I doubt she’ll have to quote me on Newsnight.
‘And finally, Dana, is there any chance you’re available this Saturday for an interview with a couple of our production team and the professionals? An hour or so is all we’ll need to ask a few vital questions and get to know you a little better.’
I swiftly glance at our kitchen wall calendar, which is always up to date and the deciding factor for any arrangements in this house. I can see Saturday is entirely blank, which equals free: no birthday parties, no christenings and no play dates. Though I do have to prepare for the wedding fayre taking place the next day. I know my parents will have Luke for an extra hour or two in addition to our arrangement for Sunday; I won’t leave him with anyone else. I spy Luke’s visual timetable pinned beside my cale
ndar, which shows his morning and bedtime routines in picture form – I will need to rearrange the images for the weekend so he has prior warning of what is happening otherwise he’ll be thrown by a change to our usual routine. I will have to put his ‘going to Grandpops’s’ image on there, which will please him.
‘What time were you thinking and where?’
‘Midday. We’ve booked a meeting room at the Red Lion Hotel, do you know it?’
‘Oh yes, along the High Street.’
‘That’s the one . . . So, you’re OK to attend?’
‘Yes. OK. Midday on Saturday at the Red Lion. And who do I ask for?’
‘Ask at reception for Happy Productions TV . . . and I’ll look forward to meeting you, Dana.’
‘Yes, me too.’
‘Oh, Dana . . . could I ask that you bring along your birth certificate, your passport and any qualification certificates you may have?’
‘Oh OK.’ I’m taken aback as she reels them off as if in a practised speech.
‘Purely a formality, you understand . . . So we’ll see you on Saturday. Ciao!’
The line goes dead at her end. Wow, she didn’t wait for me to say bye. Maybe she’s got numerous phone calls to make, and it’s such short notice.
I tap the mobile screen and return to the sink unit where I’d been working when my mobile rang. I have three buckets sitting on the draining board filled with cut oasis, which needs soaking in cold water before I can use it. I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes cutting the green foam, all the while cringing at the awful sound it makes against the metal carving knife blade. Since day one as a trainee florist, that dreadful squeaky noise has always given me the heebie-jeebies.
I glance at the wall clock: 9.45 a.m.
I’ll fill the buckets with cold water and leave the oasis soaking while I prepare my orders for tomorrow. If I can get the Taylor birthday arrangement and the Willets’ wedding posies made, then, once I’ve collected Luke from school, done teatime, bath and bedtime, I can make a start on the flower arrangements and bouquets ready for my stall at the wedding fayre on Sunday. If I store them in a cool dark garage they’ll look as fresh as if I’d created them on Saturday evening. That will ease my workload so that I can attend tomorrow’s meeting.
That sounds like a plan.
Gingerly, I hold each plastic bucket beneath the kitchen sink tap and fill them with cold water, before heaving them on to the tiled floor. I really should get an outdoor tap fitted in the garden as it would cut down on me dragging heavy buckets of cold water back and forth each day to the kitchen sink. Firstly, it’d save wear and tear on our hall carpet – which get splashed on a daily basis from me slopping buckets through the house. Secondly, it would save my back, which takes a hammering from the heavy lifting. But, like many jobs, I keep meaning to get around to it.
My stomach flutters with nerves.
What have I agreed to? It might be fun – or a complete nightmare. Either way I’ll get a sense at tomorrow’s meeting and, if needs be, I’ll pull my application out of the mix. Anyway, what’s the likelihood of them picking me from the scores of women who also applied? Pretty low, I imagine. I know what tomorrow’s meeting will be: it’ll be the opportunity for them to give me the once over, check out whether I look like my application photograph, ask a few questions and then decide. Decide that I’m a definite no-goer, given my lack experience and confidence about finding love. No doubt they’ll class me as permanent singleton material and be eager to wave me goodbye.
My innards continue to jitter. I won’t think about the outcome; I’ll simply turn up, accept a cup of coffee, show my documents and come home after a nice chat. Simple. Even I can do that.
Polly
I switch the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’ and pray that no one accepts the invite to walk in until at least one o’clock, when my co-worker Stacey will arrive to join the shift. I need the next four hours on the phone moonlighting from my job to organise a family affair, rather than an all-inclusive package holiday for a family of four.
My coffee mug awaits my swift return to my desk as I straighten the travel brochures on each display shelf, repin a falling poster advertising the Maldives to the back wall and then ditch my work responsibilities, knowing at least that the shop floor is respectable should anyone drop by, be it a potential customer, a mystery shopper checking the quality of our service or the regional boss. If the regional boss did surprise us with a visit, he’d be amazed by the complicated staffing rota, all part-time workers who pass like ships in the night at various hours ensuring a smooth service.
I settle at my desk, sip my steaming coffee and grab a pad of paper to make my to-do list for the party.
But first I need to ask the all-important question of Fraser.
It’s naughty of me but, given my endless years of service, unplanned overtime and lack of co-workers on a Friday morning – which always ends up being a busy day – I’ll use their telephone and not my mobile to make the necessary calls. I have until Stacey arrives bang on time at one o’clock for her four-hour shift. Till then, I’m on my own.
Fraser answers his mobile immediately.
‘Fraser, you didn’t hear when I asked you earlier . . . what are you thinking should be our maximum spend for this party?’
I wait as he mentally calculates. I imagine him sitting at his planning and design desk, pulling his serious thinking face, the one where he looks up and stares as if the answer is written upon the stippled ceiling. His mouth will twitch, as if he’s talking to himself, and then he’ll eventually answer. I’ve learnt to wait, not to interrupt the process. He’s so methodical, logical and usually precise on his upper limit, so it won’t be worth trying to force another hundred once he’s said. Fraser has never worked that way. He does the accuracy and figure work in our relationship; I do the caring stuff, the running around and the family commitments. The balance can often be skewed but it works for us, despite what others may think.
‘Fifteen hundred quid,’ he says, surprising me by how quickly he’s answered. I was expecting to hold for a few more minutes. ‘Given the cost of his present . . . Is that about what you’re thinking?’
‘Perfect. Bye.’ I can’t afford to waste time; Fraser will know I’m on a mission.
October seems like a distant memory, when planning a sizeable party could have been enjoyable, but no, Cody wasn’t interested back then.
A twentieth birthday party probably isn’t the norm in most families, but in ours it was – he’d forgone the possibility of a proper eighteenth celebration due to my inability to push him through a birth canal on 28 February. After a sixteen-hour labour, I failed miserably, missing the deadline to avoid having a leap-year baby by eleven minutes, unlike the other three women in the labour ward, who didn’t go on to deny their children an annual birthday.
My midwifery team, family and close friends were thrilled with his unusual birth date, Fraser simply relieved he had a son with ten fingers, ten toes plus a healthy set of lungs. Me, I was never quite taken with the date. It was always a conversation starter, when his birth date or certificate was asked for, lots of oohing and aahing over something a little different. We’d opted for the 28th as his annual celebration, given he was a February baby. Everyone played ball and duly accepted it, apart from my in-laws, who frequently pointed out that Cody wasn’t actually here on earth on the said date so ‘surely the first of March is more logical’. March didn’t belong on his birth certificate, so it wasn’t logical to me. Each year it riled me, and never more so than when Cody did the circuit of celebrating eighteenths with each his mates. We offered to organise a bash for the 28th, but he’d refused and went boozing with his mates around town instead.
So when Cody gets a true birthday on a leap year, we need to make the most of it, which is why I mentioned it last October. Yet here I am, with just eight days to organise an event that can’t appea
r as if it has been thrown together in such a short time.
I scribble my to-do list:
Venue
Food/buffet – hot?
Bar
Music
Invites – family, friends, mates?
Decorations
How the hell am I going to get a party booked and organised in a week? As well as complete my usual weekly routines as a dutiful homemaker, mother, daughter and daughter-in-law alongside my part-time hours at the travel agents?
I punch Cody’s number into the phone and wait while it rings for an age.
‘Mum, what? I can’t really talk at work, you know that!’
‘Cheers, son, but I need to get started if next Saturday is going to materialise. Does the venue need a dance floor?’ I ask.
After Cody’s affirmative, away I go on to the internet in search of phone numbers for so-called ‘decent’ local pubs.
In one hour I’ve drunk three coffees and researched and called four local pubs, of which only one answered, given the early time of day. And, luckily, received no customers but the crowds passing the window are growing – it’s the school half-term holiday, so I know my time is running out.
As I wait on hold to speak to a local company about the cost of hiring a photo booth complete with amusing props and dressing-up regalia my mobile begins ringing from inside my handbag. I juggle the landline and finally retrieve my mobile from the bottom of my bag: my mother.
I stare at the illuminated screen.
I’ll call her back once I’m through with this supplier.
As it’s Friday morning, I know exactly what she’s calling for. If I had a choice, I would refrain from returning her call, but that wouldn’t be the action of a dutiful daughter, would it?
‘Hello, we wouldn’t be able to confirm the final cost without knowing the venue, in order to take travel costs into consideration.’