by Erin Green
The panel glance at one another, swapping little smiles before turning back to me.
‘Can I answer that one?’ asks Jennifer, her Australian accent coming across broadly.
‘Sure,’ says Jez, gesturing between us.
‘Well, you completed an online application form for a new documentary following the journey of individuals finding true love. We had –’ she pauses, grabs a pile of papers from the table, shuffles through them before continuing – ‘two thousand females apply and we’ve spent the week whittling those down and . . . well, we’re delighted to say we’ve chosen you.’ She smiles on her final word.
‘Oh!’ is all I can manage as the butterflies in my stomach spin about.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve collated a whole host of males, but we need to get to know you a little better, Dana. Then later today or tomorrow, we’ll be reducing the male applicants to just three. The experts here are sure you’ll be a good match for all of them and then, as the dates progress, you’ll be able to stipulate which you would like to get to know better. By the finale night, we’re hoping that there’ll be a very special someone in your life and, well . . . things might develop naturally from there onwards. All we ask is that you don’t exchange contact details with any male until the week is complete.’
Three males?
‘Of course, we’ll all be on hand twenty-four-seven for you to discuss any issues or concerns you may have with us,’ adds the woman who I believe is the lifestyle coach.
Concerns?
‘You seem a little surprised,’ says the psychologist.
No shit, Sherlock, however did you pick up on that!
I give a weak smile.
‘You can be honest, Dana – this whole process is being offered to support your search for your Mr Right-in-Life,’ she continues, tapping her pencil on the table.
They all wait for me to speak.
The meeting room is near silent, except for the tapping pencil.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, I can’t say it enough times – you know what I’m like. I make the bloody arrangements and then sodding oversleep . . . and . . . oh, hello . . . I’m Tamzin. You’re Dana . . . I spoke to you yesterday.’
I jump at the interruption that bursts into the meeting room. A mass of orange and yellow dyed hair in tight zingy spirals, wide eyes and an enormous smile enters my personal space.
‘Dana, yes, I am,’ I say.
‘You bet! And given it’s a leap year – are you up for popping the big question come finale night?’ says Tamzin, plonking herself on the edge of the table and beaming at the panel.
Polly
‘And she’s interested in that, Polly?’ asks my dad, his mild-mannered features grimacing like I’ve never seen before.
‘Yep, it seems so.’ I slowly push the trolley along the aisle as he saunters beside me.
‘And . . . you’re taking her?’
‘Yep, looks like it.’ I stop to grab a couple of tins of his favourite soup before continuing to guide the wonky-wheeled trolley.
This is our weekly routine. A slow walk around the supermarket while I do Dad’s shopping and he catches up with the wonders of my mother’s world. I can’t say it is the healthiest conversation I have, but it’s all part of the juggling act which is my life.
‘Do you need any sauces?’ I ask, pointing to the ketchups. A quick shake of his head enables us to continue but I know he’s lost in a world of how they used to be. Married. This isn’t how I expected my aged father to live out his later years. I always thought that their arguments were a side-effect of her early menopause or maybe his mid-life crisis. I assumed that the sniping and bickering would one day cease and they’d resume being the loving couple they once were, when I was a child and we took day trips traipsing through the Forest of Dean or unravelling mysteries at Berkeley Castle. Sadly not. Not long after my sixteenth birthday, they officially divorced, though thankfully the dust settled just in time for Helen and Marc’s wedding. But twenty-three years on, still he asks about her.
‘I’ve run out of shaving foam,’ he mutters.
‘OK.’
‘I don’t understand the attraction . . . he’s older than I am,’ says Dad as we turn the corner of the aisle.
‘He makes my skin crawl and I’ve only met him twice,’ I say, picking a couple of items from the shelf as we pass. I don’t stop; there’s no need to browse as we buy virtually the same items every time. Shaving cream is the anomaly purchase for this week.
‘And is he joining her at Sunday lunch?’
‘He bloody isn’t, Dad. Sod that for a game of soldiers! I’m not encouraging Mum and Derek in any way. Fraser would have a fit at the very thought of them being in our house. It takes him all his effort to ignore what my mother’s up to, let alone her . . . friend.’
‘Friend?’
‘I think so . . . she hasn’t said anything else so friend sums them up.’
‘Mmmm.’
We continue in silence, only broken by the clunk each time I place an item into our trolley.
‘Can you take Fido to the groomers next week?’
‘I can if you make it around Thursday,’ I say, knowing he dislikes such tasks. Though it’s a grooming parlour for dogs, he sees it as a beauty parlour, full stop, and not a place for his generation to frequent.
‘I’ll phone on Monday and let you know.’
Family life with married parents seems such a breeze. Growing up, I never imagined this scenario. I attempt to spend time with each of my parents, soothing their disgruntled feelings about the other and encouraging them each to lead an active and healthy lifestyle. My mum has her friend, Derek – who I’d wish she’d exchange for a nice gentleman with shared interests. I’d say ‘normal’ interests but Fraser would say my mother’s partly to blame for the ludicrous ideas. My dad deserves a kindly female companion, someone who could share his days and weekends, if nothing else. I know he’d love to spend quality time out of the house, visiting garden centres, going to the pictures once in a while and enjoying some company. He’s a proper gent is my dad, his manners are innate. He deserves to spend time with a wider social circle. I keep hoping he’ll meet someone at his bowls club, but it hasn’t happened.
‘What’s it to be afterwards? Pie and chips or a cream cake?’ I ask, wanting to steer the conversation away from my mother.
His face breaks into a genuine smile. I watch his wrinkled cheeks lift and partly cover his eyes. This isn’t the life he’d planned either, but he makes the most of it.
‘Cake it is, then.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Do you want me to write it on the calendar?’
‘Do you think I’m an imbecile? I can remember my only grandson’s birthday. Though could you order me a taxi? I’d like to be there early.’
‘Fraser can collect you as we drive by, Dad. There’s no need for a taxi.’
‘But I don’t want to stay out late. I don’t like the loud music these kids play – it gives me a ringing in my ears even when I’m back home.’
‘We’ll find you somewhere away from the DJ to sit and enjoy yourself.’
‘A DJ, not a band?’
‘No, not a band – if we had a band, there’d be only one type of music all night, and with a mixture of friends, family and Cody’s mates we need a bit of variety.’
‘Boom, boom, boom then?’ mutters Dad, as I unpack his shopping and he makes the cuppa.
‘I’ll request Louis Armstrong partway through the night if that makes you happier,’ I say, emptying the plastic bags for life for another week.
‘And how’s your mother going to get there?’
He never ceases to think about her, does he?
‘Don’t worry about Mum, Dad. I’ve asked Fraser’s parents to drop by as they pass – it’s all wo
rked out to ensure everyone is where they should be on the night.’
‘Is her friend Derek too busy?’
‘Her friend Derek isn’t invited, Dad. I’m trying to discourage that acquaintance, not strengthen it.’
‘And Helen?’
‘Yes, Helen, though she’s none too keen on the idea. She fancied a weekend break without the girls, though as I said, they can always go the weekend after – we’re free to have the girls at ours. Which reminds me, she hasn’t asked me to keep that free now she knows our plans. I’ll phone her later.’
‘And Marc?’
‘Yes, Marc too.’
I settle at his small Formica table, with Fido fussing about my feet, and Dad passes over my drink.
‘I can’t invite my sister without her husband, surely!’ I tease, knowing Dad’s always been a bit nonplussed by Marc, unlike Fraser, who Dad treats as the son he never had.
‘He’ll make an excuse not to attend, you watch. He always has something better to do. Long hours at work, an emergency call from his own parents or . . . what was it that he said that one time?’
I feign boredom by fussing over the aged cream poodle but it’s no good, Dad’s going to continue.
‘Your sister’s fortieth, wasn’t it? His mate was stranded on the M103 motorway . . . M103, I ask you! It doesn’t bloody exist! Who the hell does he think he’s kidding?’
‘Dad, you don’t know that – he might have said it wrong. He might have meant to say . . .’
‘Ask your Fraser. Both he and I clocked it straightaway, as soon as Marc said it. We all know what he was trying not to say, don’t we? Marc thinks we’re all as bloody blindly loved-up as our Helen. Well, we’re not. How do you miss your own wife’s fortieth party when it’s being held at your own bloody house?’
I’ve listened to this tirade countless times and Dad’s patter never changes. He is correct though: it had been the first thing Fraser had said once we’d waved our goodbyes and climbed into the car that night.
‘Bloody M103 doesn’t exist . . . he’s playing away.’
‘Fraser! Little piggies have big ears,’ I’d shushed him, because Cody was present on the rear seat.
‘Like he knows what playing away means,’ had been Fraser’s final remark.
I sip my tea and stare at Dad over the rim of my mug as he settles.
‘Is there anything you want me to pick up for Cody as a small gift?’ I ask, knowing the week will fly past and already my days are being filled what with the party, Fraser’s plans and my mother’s social life.
‘No, I’m sorted.’
‘You are?’ I’m surprised because for countless years I’ve picked up the Action Man boxed figure, the football, the latest games controller, and wrapped them in beautiful paper before attaching a name tag for my father to sign and give to his only grandson. Even once Cody hit puberty and all he ever asked for was vouchers, I was the one who’d queue and deliver them to Dad, complete with the mini card and envelope. It was safer and easier than him walking his legs off around town, wasting his money on the wrong gift, only to provide me with another job: returning them to customer services for a credit voucher. ‘How?’
My dad gulps, his head giving the slightest nod – with which he covers a multitude of emotions.
‘Dad?’
‘He’s old enough for my watch . . . He’ll take good care of it, I know.’
‘Oh Dad . . . are you sure?’
I watch as he continues to gulp, his eyes moist as he focuses on his mug of tea.
I reach for his hand and squeeze.
‘Thank you. I know how much that means to you.’
‘It was my dad’s before mine,’ he says, before breaking the moment by gulping his tea noisily.
We sit in silence and an image of the gold watch fills my mind. I know Cody will look after it; it was never destined to be anyone else’s but his from birth. But still, I know how long Dad has waited to gift his watch to my son.
Carmen
‘Would you propose, Trish?’ I ask, as I perch on reception, quickly swallowing my lunch before our next bridal party arrives at two o’clock.
‘Nah. I mentioned Victoria earlier but still I think it’s romantic when a man finally makes up his mind and takes action.’ She eyes me closely as Anna hands her several Mori Lee gowns, heavily decorated with crystal droplets. ‘Are you seriously thinking of . . . you know?’
I purse my lips and avoid looking at her.
‘No, well, not exactly . . . possibly . . . maybe.’
‘Bloody hell, you need to be more certain than that!’ she laughs.
‘It shouldn’t be such a big deal . . . but it is! In my opinion, Elliot should have asked me three years ago. And now I’m thinking of doing the one thing that had never popped into my head until yesterday’s bride-to-be told her story.’
‘I thought she sounded a bit desperate.’
‘Well, isn’t that exactly what I am? Desperate to get married, start a family, create our future together. But I don’t want it to look like a desperate act.’
Trish raises her eyebrows at my torrent of words.
‘I even sound desperate, don’t I?’
‘You did just then.’
‘Why can’t life be easy and follow the natural course of events?’
‘Because that would be too simple, Carmen. And what’s the natural course of events any more? Times have changed.’
There’s a lengthy silence as they finish arranging the gowns.
‘So, you have just one week to organise a proposal,’ says Trish.
‘Mmmm, one week,’ I say, my mind spinning faster than a wannabe bride planning a fake wedding.
‘Are you not sure?’
‘I’m sure. I can’t wait forever. I just have to let go of the dream in my head where Elliot proposes to me. There needs to be a whole change of scene, the same characters but a role reversal and it has to be me that comes up with a proposal speech.’
‘You’ll be fine, Carmen.’
‘Says she who is already married and received the perfect proposal,’ I tease.
‘Ah, it was wonderful . . . he’d thought it through properly, knew the exact location, time of day and had a ring.’
My mouth falls open.
‘Do I need a ring to offer Elliot?’
‘I’d imagine so.’
‘What bloke wears an engagement ring?’
‘Carmen, you can’t make a proposal without one, surely?’
‘Plenty of men do.’
‘Yeah, but I always assume those are the spontaneous proposals, that the suggestion spilled from his lips on impulse. If you’re planning a proposal, you’ll need a ring.’
‘Couldn’t I buy him a nice pair of gold cufflinks or a diamond tie pin?’ I ask, trying to avoid obstacles.
‘Would you have liked a nice pair of engagement earrings instead of an engagement ring?’ teases Trish. ‘Or an engagement brooch?’
I grimace at the very thought.
‘Exactly.’
‘And how do you propose I do that without knowing his ring size?’ I moan, as Trish smugly gloats.
‘Easy . . . simply measure his finger with one of your rings.’
‘Are you joking? Elliot would never fall for something as obvious and, may I say, as tacky as that trick . . . “Hi, Elliot, please come here a minute, I’d like you to try one of my rings on but if it doesn’t fit I’ll try another and another and maybe . . .” Honestly, Trish, can you see that happening?’
‘Even I can’t see that happening and I’ve never met him,’ pipes up Anna.
‘OK, so stick with the principle. How else could you measure his finger?’
‘Trish, if I knew that I wouldn’t be asking for ideas!’ I chunter. ‘I’ll simply have to forget the idea of presenting
him with a ring at the proposal.’
Trish purses her lips tightly and shakes her head.
‘I know, but without an accurate fit what’s the point?’ I say, adding, ‘Or I could buy any ring as a token gesture and get it fitted, stretched or made smaller when we arrive back home?’
‘Not ideal, if you’re going to do it properly,’ says Anna.
‘Quack, quack, oops! You pair are officially as useless as me,’ I joke. ‘Back to the drawing board.’
‘If I think of anything, I’ll text you,’ offers Anna.
‘Cheers, babe, but maybe it’s a sign.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s simply another obstacle which you’ve got to get overcome to achieve what you want,’ says Trish, straightening the chaise longue. ‘You’ll find a way.’
‘So, a ring, a location and a speech?’
Trish nods tentatively.
The boutique’s door chime interrupts our conversation as a party of four females bustles in.
I quickly hide my empty lunch box under the countertop.
‘I’ve got plenty to plan then, haven’t I?’ I mutter, before my professional smile is in place and I greet my new clients. ‘Welcome, can I take your coats?’ And I usher them towards the seating area.
Dana
It’s five o’clock and I’m dashing along my parents’ pathway to collect Luke. I’m practising my apology as I stagger under the mental exhaustion of question after question, quickly fired at me by what seems like every professional in the United Kingdom. At one point, roughly two hours in, one of the experts actually phoned some else who asked me yet more questions via her hands-free mobile. In the last four and a half hours I have completed numerous questionnaires, undertaken isometric tests, intelligence and personality tests, and I have been asked every question that can possibly exist. What’s my dream holiday destination? What’s my family background? What qualities does my ideal man possess? What’s my view on religion? Culture? Politics? Would I like more children? Do I neatly fold or scrunch toilet paper before using it? Even what’s my favoured sexual position? I was damned if I was answering that one to a panel of complete strangers on a Saturday afternoon! Though, upon my refusal to answer, I did notice several of them instantly scribble a lengthy note on their writing pads.