by Erin Green
‘Yes. Done.’
Elliot hits the button and the TV blares back into life.
Thanks a bunch.
I lower my head, pretending to be busy working, but instead I watch his profile. His brown eyes are fixed on the plasma TV screen, his wavy brown fringe is pushed further to one side than usual and his mouth twitches amidst the beginnings of tomorrow’s shave. He seems content, sprawled on the sofa having completed a day at the bank, but who knows what’s truly going on inside someone’s head? I’ve never heard him complain about his lot in life. I’ve never heard his mates rib him about being the last bachelor standing.
Some of his mates haven’t got the deposit for their own home, as we have, and yet they have young children. I glance around our lounge: we have decorated it, have every soft furnishing, every gadget necessary for our daily lives – the entire house is homely. Anyone walking into this property right now would see us as a contented couple with a comfortable lifestyle . . . and yet we’re not committed.
The only thing missing is the framed wedding photograph on the bookshelf.
Go figure. I can’t.
I’m stuck for an answer.
I’m no further forward in figuring out the complexities of men than I was in my last relationship. We didn’t last as long as Elliot and I have but it was no less intense. I’d pinned my hopes on him being ‘the one’ . . . only for the relationship to flounder, fail and me to be left broken-hearted. He became my lost love, a forgotten ache in the memory book of life.
I love Elliot to bits. We’re good together. We make a fine couple in everyone’s eyes so why aren’t I the one choosing a wedding venue, ordering bridesmaids’ shoes and checking off RSVP replies? Instead, despite the late hour and having completed a full working day at the boutique, I’m trying my hardest to put together a new business venture so my little empire can grow into something more lucrative. It’s not guaranteed to work – it’s a risky business stepping out of the proverbial comfort zone – but needs must if I’m to expand and invest in my own future. I don’t pretend to be a wedding entrepreneur, but I’ve got my head screwed on regarding ambition. From a tender age, I realised that hard work never did me any harm, which is why I work hard in all areas of my life: home, business and personal development.
Still, what I really wish I was doing right now is investing in our future family by planning a wedding.
‘What?’ asks Elliot, glancing up and seeing me staring.
‘Nothing. Sorry, I was in a world of my own,’ I confess, shuffling papers and returning to my task.
Elliot goes back to his TV drama.
If you don’t ask, you’ll never know . . . says a tiny voice in my head.
Mmmm, and that’s the problem: I don’t want to ask. I don’t think it’s my job to ask.
Chapter Three
Saturday 22 February
Carmen
I skim my index finger down the list of today’s appointments as Anna hovers beside me, looking over my shoulder.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask her, having taken in the busy nature of our day ahead. Saturday is always booked solid with appointments and fittings accommodating those who work full-time during the week. We have an appointment every hour on the hour from ten o’clock until five. By closing, we’ll have kicked off our shoes and be tidying up or vacuuming in stockinged feet.
‘I was wondering if I could go a little earlier tonight? Not much earlier, just fifteen minutes?’
I raise an eyebrow inquisitively.
‘I know we’re busy but if I can leave early, I’ll happily make it up at lunchtime or work over on another day,’ she adds, twisting her fingers into knots.
‘Who is it?’
‘Remember last week, the guy from the bathroom shop who sent me the flowers? Well, he wants to catch up for a quick drink straight after work and . . . I was thinking that . . . well, if . . . you know . . . Carmen, please?’
I give a gentle nod.
‘Oh, to be young again,’ I call to Trish, who is busy tidying the rails of bridal gowns ready for our first appointment.
‘No, thanks. I’m past all that fuss. When I think of the number of hours I wasted on men who really were not worth my time, let alone spending eons washing my hair and getting dressed up for . . . oh no, I’m happy as I am, thanks. You enjoy yourself, Anna, while you can – but don’t get too bogged down with men at your age. Have your fun.’
Anna gives her a hard stare from under her asymmetrical fringe.
‘Cody’s OK, he’s worth bothering for.’
‘I used to think that at first but then they’d stand me up, or let me down at the last minute and I used to feel so depressed about it. In reality, they were proving to me that I should be doing other things rather than dating and waiting for them. My priorities should have been having fun with my girlfriends and achieving my own dreams. You need to read the signals based on how he treats you, then decide if he’s worth it. Don’t you agree, Carmen?’
‘Not really. I wasn’t asked out that often and when I was, I made the most of it, until Elliot came along.’
‘You went steady for ages with that one chap . . . what was his name?’
‘Connor? Oh yeah, but I outgrew him so it didn’t go anywhere, did it? My first serious love. We were too young really, but at the time I thought he was “the one for me”. He made everyone smile with his funny one-liners or his favourite saying, ‘I’m in no rush’ – and he wasn’t, was he?’
‘He was nice though, good-looking too . . . but, yes, very immature compared to you,’ says Trish, adding, ‘You’ve always been beyond your years though, Carmen.’
Trish is right. I should take it as a compliment, but I never have. When other girls giggled through biology class I was transfixed and learning, when others failed their driving tests seven times over I studied every page of The Highway Code and passed first time and, yes, when it came to boys, I was always the level-headed, sober girl holding everyone else’s hair back while they puked in a nightclub loo. That’s me: sensible, mature and now, looking back, maybe a tad boring in my teenage years.
‘Anyway, Anna, what did you say to him about the Valentine roses?’ asks Trish, swapping sides of the boutique to neaten the other rail of gowns.
‘I just thanked him when we ran into each other in the Cross Keys, and he asked if I wanted a drink, so we chatted for a bit before his mates moved on to another pub.’
‘And you didn’t follow them?’ asks Trish, her hands swiping and pushing yards of white, ivory and champagne fabrics neatly into place.
‘Nope, my crowd had pitched for the night at a table and we stayed there . . . I don’t go chasing guys into other pubs just to get attention. What kind of girl do you think I am, Trish?’
‘Phew! We used to, didn’t we?’ giggles Trish. ‘Many a night I’ve trekked from pub to pub, checking if a certain guy was in there before rushing out and into the next.’
‘That sounds desperate,’ mutters Anna, wincing at the idea.
‘Yep, I’ll give you that. We thought we were upping our chances of getting chatted up by the guy we fancied, nothing more. We must have looked like a right bunch dashing from pub to pub before settling in one and buying a drink.’
Anna glances at me. She’s wondering if Trish’s ‘we’ refers to me too, but it doesn’t. I was rarely asked out on dates, so limiting my chances by setting my sights on a specific guy never appealed.
The church clock of St Peter’s strikes the hour and I check the wall clock, ensuring it is time before I flick the door sign to ‘open’.
Our first appointment will be here within minutes, from which point we’ll only have time for quick toilet breaks and staggered solo lunches.
As I stride away from switching the sign, the door’s buzzer sounds. Anna rushes to the reception desk to release the automatic catch as Trish and I, prof
essional smiles in place, turn to greet our bride-to-be. We know that first impressions count; we’ve been in the wedding business long enough to know that every little interaction goes towards ensuring that a bride-to-be and her associated family have the very best experience in our boutique. We give each bridal appointment our undivided attention; I would never allow two brides to share the limelight – it isn’t what I’d want for myself – so I insist one appointment, one bride. I’ve taught Trish everything I know and I don’t doubt that if I were absent for a matter of time she would continue to run my business in the exact manner in which she sees me do it on a daily basis.
As we both smile at the incoming party we instantly recognise our lady. This is not her first time visiting us. This is not our typical bride. I recall the surname written into our appointment book and step forward to welcome her, for what I believe could be the ninth time in my boutique, but manners must prevail on every occasion, to every prospective bride, real or not, sale or not.
‘Hello, Miss Ingram, how are you today?’ I ask, still smiling, though I know that the next hour will be a total waste of our time and effort. I might send Anna into the kitchenette to make Trish and me another cup of coffee – we’ll need it once this appointment is through.
‘Hi, this is my mum, my nan and my cousin who is bridesmaid,’ says Miss Ingram, pointing to each in turn as the ladies gather inside the boutique, ignoring my question.
‘Welcome,’ I say, recognising each of the females from last time. ‘Please come and take a seat and we’ll get some details.’ The family know the routine: four females scurry towards the chaise longue as Trish brings across our appointment clipboard and the form into which I usually add many details regarding our bride-to-be. But not this one. I have long ceased taking notes about this young woman and her associated family. On her first visit I was eager to please, on her second visit I was helpful and polite. On the third, fourth and fifth occasions I was dubious. On the sixth, seventh and eighth visits I was non-committal, not convinced that this bunch had a conscience, indulging in this absurd behaviour. For Miss Ingram – a different name from the one she used last time – is a serial appointment bride. A wannabe bride who does the rounds of bridal boutiques making appointments on busy Saturdays simply to try on numerous gowns and pretend that she is one of the lucky ones who has a wedding to plan for. In fact, she never pays a deposit, never chooses a specific gown and never appears to be getting married, despite having a wedding date, venue details and a wealth of information about a fiancé – though I suspect he is also fictitious.
But still, once she’s here, we have to honour her appointment.
Just twenty-five minutes later, Anna watches the boutique door close, open-mouthed.
‘How come . . .’
‘Don’t ask. We’ve seen that one at least eight times before. She’s been coming in here and trying on bridal gowns since she was your age and the conversation then revolved around how young she was to be getting married,’ I explain.
‘She hasn’t got a wedding booked, she simply wishes she had,’ adds Trish, biting into a custard cream and handing out our coffees.
‘She had an engagement ring on . . . it was a sapphire and diamond cluster,’ says Anna.
‘Yes, she always has an engagement ring on. I think that’s part of the act,’ I reply.
‘It’s a bit sad that she hasn’t anything better to do on a Saturday morning. I blame the family for encouraging her – they should be taking her in hand rather than complying with the obsession,’ says Trish, leaning on the reception counter.
‘Exactly. In the future, if she does receive a genuine proposal of marriage and comes looking to purchase her bridal gown, her special moment has been marred. She’s ruined it for herself by playing games.’
‘She’s desperate for attention,’ says Trish, before sipping her coffee.
‘I feel sorry for her . . . she’s obviously desperate to get married,’ says Anna, slurping hers.
‘Mmmm, she’s not the only one but we don’t all go around faking bridal appointments, do we?’ I say with a chuckle, glancing towards Trish.
‘Some simply wait years and years until it happens,’ says Trish, grasping my meaning.
‘Or like the bride-to-be yesterday, she proposed to him,’ interrupts Anna. ‘It’s a sign of modern life.’
‘Not so modern. Queen Victoria proposed to her cousin, and I think that’s the greatest love story of all time,’ swoons Trish.
‘Only because she was Queen!’ I add quickly, not wanting to mislead Anna. ‘It’s hardly a fair comparison.’
‘Even so, she still asked him.’
‘Did he say yes?’ asks Anna, showing her lack of knowledge.
‘Obviously,’ pouts Trish.
‘If you don’t ask, you’ll never know . . .’ I mutter softly, more to myself than the other two.
‘Exactly, Carmen . . . but are you willing to ask?’ says Trish, a smile dawning.
Dana
‘Everything OK, love?’ asks my dad, as I drop Luke off at half eleven on my way to my meeting. Dad’s instantly curious given that I’m wearing a blouse and trouser combo, which was the only thing in my wardrobe that looked remotely interview-ish. It’s been a long time since I’ve needed to smarten up my appearance: my days revolve around a five year old, cold water and flower pollen. Fingerless gloves, a baggy fleece and a messy bun are more my style.
‘Fine, Dad, just meeting friends for a quick lunch. Nothing fancy but I wanted to . . .’
I don’t finish my sentence, Dad simply nods and takes Luke’s rucksack containing his spare set of clothes, his toy elephant in case a nap is necessary and, I have no doubt, a packet of half-eaten sweets shoved in for good measure by Luke when I wasn’t looking.
‘Your mum’s nipped out to the shop, but you’ll see her when you get back,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek and taking Luke by the hand and hauling him over their doorstep.
‘Luke, give Mummy a kiss,’ I say, kissing his soft, plump, upturned cheek. ‘Now, be good for Grandpops, OK? Mummy will be back by the time you’ve had some cake, fed the billy-birds in the garden and watched your favourite elephants programme, OK?’
Luke nods, eager to disappear with Grandpops into the garden on the hunt for wild birds and the big bag of bird seed which he knows lives inside the shed.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I mutter, as I turn to go.
The pair remain on the doorstep as I walk the length of the path towards my car. Luke waves enthusiastically, as if I’m leaving him for a fortnight – which I never have: six hours is probably the longest separation we’ve endured in nearly six years.
‘Bye, Mummy!’ shouts Luke, holding my dad’s hand. My heart melts.
I reach the car door, give one final wave, and breathe. I can focus ahead now that I know Luke is settled. He’s never usually a problem, but on occasion he’ll become clingy, like all children do, and then throw a paddy-fit, which always makes it so much harder to leave him.
‘Afternoon, I have a meeting with Happy Productions TV,’ I say to the attractive receptionist sitting behind the wooden desk. She has the brightest smile. The large vase of decorative lilies have a few days more life in them, though I would have placed more eucalyptus leaves amongst the flower stems as a colour contrast.
‘Straight along this corridor, fourth door on your right,’ she says, pointing as she speaks.
‘Thank you.’ I turn, about to follow her directions, then instantly turn back. ‘Can I ask where the toilets are?’
‘Along the same corridor, second door on your right . . . you can’t miss them.’
I quickly dash to the loo, check my appearance and am back in the corridor within a few minutes.
I locate the fourth door and knock.
I’m early, but I’ll wait if necessary.
‘Hello . . . Dana, isn’t it?’ sa
ys the man who opens the door. ‘I’m Jez. Come on in and take a seat.’
‘Hi,’ I reply. He beckons me into the room and I am greeted by a sea of smiling faces sitting in a row behind a table covered with a linen cloth and a scattering of teacups and papers. I know I am blushing profusely but still I repeat, ‘Hi.’
There’s a Mexican wave of greetings as I ease myself into the single chair on this side of the panel. There are so many faces I can’t count; more than eight but less than twenty.
‘Guys, this is Dana Jones . . . welcome, Dana. Can we go along and each give a brief introduction before we start?’ says Jez. ‘I’ll go first. Hi, Dana, I’m Jez, as I mentioned, and I head the production team for Happy Productions TV. The documentary is my idea.’ His blond crew cut bobs as he talks as if reinforcing his own answers.
I nod and smile at each person in turn, but I’m lost already. My mind is awash as they continue to throw a register of names and job titles at me: clinical psychologist, a lifestyle coach, a sociologist . . . the panel of people seems endless. I don’t remember any apart from Jennifer.
‘I’m Jennifer, a relationship and dating counsellor.’ She has a soft Australian accent and gives a little wave as she speaks, causing her tie-dye top to slip seductively from her right shoulder.
All the ‘ologies’ remind me of an old TV advert for British Telecom recalled and re-enacted by my dad’s generation: ‘Oooh, he got an ology!’
‘So, before we begin, Dana, do you have any questions?’ asks Jez.
‘Where’s Tamzin, the lady I spoke to yesterday on the phone?’
‘Tamzin is running late unfortunately but, hey ho, that’s Tammy for you. She’ll arrive when she arrives. She’s great at her job, just can’t set an alarm properly.’
The panel chuckle. Some smile, some openly peer at me, taking in the head-to-waist view above the table. I fiddle with my hands in my lap.
Jez gives me another smile, faker than the first one.
‘Are there any other interviewees today?’ I ask, unsure whether Jez’s smile was to encourage me to ask more questions. I had imagined they’d be asking me plenty, not the other way round.