by Erin Green
Carmen
I spend time moving around the group, conversing with everyone, even Haughty Hannah who, after delivering two children in four years, acts like a mother hen to the rest of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if at any moment she whips out a tissue, licks the corner and wipes something from one of our faces whilst muttering, ‘It’s clean, honest.’ Hannah’s never been overly keen on me, but it’s not my fault that I was around when Andrew had a previous partner. I witnessed their happiness and dramatic break-up, which none of the other WAGs did, and I’m not prepared to badmouth Andrew’s ex, much to Hannah’s disgust, because I think Dana was a decent woman. She did the right thing in my opinion.
I’m happy, content and slightly woozy – this is now my third white wine on a virtually empty stomach. The minute I settle next to Haughty Hannah, I sense she’s going to ask the one question I’ve been dreading all evening. The question that the other women have probably considered asking me but thought better of it, knowing how they’d felt in my position. For, despite the fact that these five guys happily reached thirty-five years of age before Andrew introduced a wedding band into the merry mix, it goes without saying that from 7 March Elliot will be the only bachelor remaining.
‘Any sound of wedding bells yet?’ Hannah gives me an instant head tilt and simpering smile. I’m not overly sensitive, but if Nicole or Michelle had asked, I’d have known they were taking a caring interest in my relationship with Elliot. Haughty Hannah only ever thinks about herself and Andrew, so I know this is her killer putdown. Great, I now wish I’d spent longer chatting to Michelle about her wedding plans, even though her final fitting is at my boutique next week.
The woozy effect of my wine suddenly disappears.
‘Actually, no, not yet, Hannah.’ I go with my usual line and place the blame firmly at Elliot’s door, as if suggesting she goes and asks him and not me. ‘You know what Elliot’s like, there’s no rushing him, is there?’
‘Pity. Because you know you need to get a move on, right? None of us are getting any younger, are we? If you know what I mean . . .’ She whispers the final few words.
We always know what you mean, Hannah, and if we don’t, you’ll repeat it, often with added depth of explanation to ensure everyone in the frigging pub gets the gist of your insinuations.
Blast it! Try as I might to ignore it, her comment hits the bull’s eye like an emotional stomach punch.
‘Mmmm, I get your drift . . .’ I pause and ponder. I fight the urge to retaliate. I so badly want to ask her how many couples get divorced nowadays? Or even how many stitches she had during her last Mother Earth all-natural birth? Or, worse, remind her oh-so-subtly of Andrew’s drunken and uncouth remark whilst wetting the baby’s head when he announced to his best mates that her ‘nether regions’ looked like ‘a ripped-out fireplace’! I know boys will be boys but surely to God the man can be respectful towards the mother of his child, rather than insult her for a cheap laugh.
But I don’t say any of this, because I’m not as unkind as Haughty Hannah. I can think it but refrain from saying it. Damn my mother for raising me with good manners! I wouldn’t lower myself to her level and I certainly wouldn’t take a cheap shot of emotional enjoyment by aiming the dreaded question to the soon-to-be only unmarried female in our group.
She pats my hand and gives it a squeeze as if I were her tearful three year old; she’s silent but her implied ‘There, there, never mind’ comes across loud and clear.
That is the moment. My moment of decision-making. It might be very wrong of me that my undying devotion towards Elliot isn’t my prime motivation, nor the sheer beauty of the life we have created together, but, instead, Haughty Hannah and her incredibly patronising hand pat and squeeze seals the deal. The deal that, by this time next week, I will have proposed marriage to Elliot Cole.
I’m going to push aside all my hang-ups regarding females proposing. I’ll be open-minded regarding my ability to exercise equality in such a traditionally male task and fully embrace the leap-year tradition. I, Carmen Smith, will ask my boyfriend, partner, lover, best friend and backbone to my life if he will marry me.
Of course, should anyone ever ask me in the future when I made my mind up to propose, I will lie. If my potentially wide-eyed daughters want to know ‘how come Mummy proposed to Daddy?’, I’ll concoct a beautiful story about the depth of our love and an overwhelming connection one romantic evening, when the moon was high and nightingales sang. I will eliminate Haughty Hannah altogether.
My mind is suddenly awash with necessary plans; I have so much to organise if I am to pull off such a huge life event at such short notice. I don’t want to talk to Haughty Hannah any more, especially now she’s stung me with her barbed comment. I’d much prefer to be at home, making lists and planning so that I do the very best job of proposing I can, given my initial lack of enthusiasm or interest.
I might even be able to plan the proposal of my dreams: a romantic location, a pitch-perfect speech – the only difference will be a slight twist on who answers ‘yes’ in the final scene. What’s so controversial about a woman organising her own proposal in this day and age? Hardly a huge sacrifice really, or not as much as I originally imagined, but a sure way to guarantee that it’ll be the proposal of my dreams.
I glance over at Elliot, absorbed in his conversation with Magoo.
This time next week, we will be engaged. We will be en route towards becoming Mr and Mrs Cole. I no longer care that it isn’t the traditional version of all the fairytales . . . I am an independent, modern woman who established her own wedding business from a mere two hundred pounds of savings kept in a Post Office account. If I can do that, I can do anything!
I can feel my inner goddess rising from deep within. If I wanted or wished to, I could propose to Elliot right here, right now! But I choose not to; the Cross Keys pub is the last place that I imagined him proposing to me. I also hadn’t planned on his best mates having front-row seats. Plus I wouldn’t give Haughty Hannah the satisfaction of seeing my knee-jerk reaction to her insensitive comment.
‘Lovely chatting with you, Hannah. We’ll have to make a date soon for a visit to ours,’ I quickly say, patting her on the hand before collecting my drink and leaving her side. Once standing, I quickly seek refuge elsewhere. My options are limited: I can sit with Judy, who is currently baring one breast and feeding her son in the middle of the crowded pub. Or I could return to Nicole, who appears very involved in a conversation with bride-to-be Michelle, with whom I have very little in common, but wedding chat is always a safe bet.
‘Hi, you two look deep in conversation,’ I say, sidling up to them, only to realise my social faux pas as they abruptly cease talking and jump apart. In my desperation to escape Haughty Hannah, I’ve landed myself in the middle of a situation. Both pairs of eyes widen and the women stare at me in silence as I read their body language. Clearly whatever the topic of their conversation, it isn’t about to include me.
‘Catch you later,’ I whisper and back away.
I have three choices: return to Haughty Hannah for round two, join Judy and study breastfeeding for the next ten minutes or join the men.
I join the men.
I slide in beside Elliot and receive a fleeting glance of confusion as he spies the other women seated and standing on the far side of the table and tries to read my expression. Our table now looks like a teenage disco, boys one side, girls the other . . . and I am the rebel girl who has dared to cross the invisible line.
‘You all right?’ he whispers, unnerved by my return.
‘Yeah, fine.’
I can see by his continued observation of Hannah, Judy, Nicole and Michelle, he isn’t convinced.
‘Is she feeding?’ he suddenly asks, nodding towards Judy.
I give a quick nod, not wishing to have Elliot linger on Judy or the topic of breastfeeding given his earlier reaction to her mummy talk.
‘Elliot, it’s natural.’
‘So is having a crap but I don’t do that in public. You won’t be doing that, will you?’
I suck in a hurried breath. This is the first time that Elliot has acknowledged that at some time, in the future, we – he and I – might actually have a baby.
I need to play it smart and keep my cards close to my chest. I need to assert my desire for potential motherhood in this conversation.
‘I may, I may not . . . we’ll decide when the time comes, won’t we?’ I bluff.
I give his thigh a gentle pat.
Elliot gives a nod of acceptance.
Wow, maybe the universe is suddenly playing ball with my desires and aligning itself in my favour! Maybe my proactive decision in light of Haughty Hannah’s question has unlocked a psychic gateway enabling me to take charge of our situation.
I snuggle beneath Elliot’s left arm, picking a piece of cotton from his jumper sleeve. I wind the single thread back and forth through my fingers, like a bored child feigning interest in adult talk. Elliot switches conversations and is totally engrossed by Monty’s detailed explanation about his engineering work but I was lost a long time ago by such a mind-blowing topic. Now might be a good time to begin playing with Elliot’s fingers, sizing them against mine, reckoning his digits against my index finger, middle finger, ring finger.
I gently ease the length of cotton around his ring finger, noting the circumference by carefully withdrawing the thread and tying a simple knot to mark the length. Purely as a precaution, almost reinforcing the game, I move on and measure his middle finger, before repeating the exercise with his index finger. Elliot doesn’t seem to notice. He remains enthralled by Monty’s description of a newly acquired operating system installed at his work.
Polly
The charity quiz ends just after eleven o’clock; we didn’t win but we didn’t collect the booby prize either. I’m grateful that I only suggested two utterly stupid answers to our team of four, though realistically it’s a team of three with an ignorant plus one. Fraser attended the local grammar school; sadly, my secondary education left a lot to be desired. But hey, it wouldn’t do for us all to be the same, would it? Kindness is my strength and the world needs that too. The event helped to raise a fair sum for the Gloucester and District Samaritans, which is the main aim of the evening, so I take comfort in that fact.
Fraser ushers us towards the exit.
‘Careful that you don’t trip, Mum,’ he warns, his arm outstretched, pretending not to steer her away from the dodgy step now she’s consumed three large sherries and is slightly unsteady.
I smile. It’s behaviour such as this which reminds me that Olive really is human and not the uptight matriarch she pretends to be every other hour I’m in her presence.
I also love Fraser a little bit more for showing he cares; he never complains, he’s always attentive and dutiful . . . unlike me who performs some tasks begrudgingly as it pinches time out of my free day.
‘I take it you’re picking her up on Thursday?’ whispers Malcolm, linking his arm in mine and giving it a squeeze. I give him a smile. ‘Thank you, you are a good girl.’
Malcolm regularly praises me with ‘good girl’ despite my age; my sister says it’s an endearment you’d use for a dog but I willingly accept it as his way of expressing affection. He’s used to three boys and Olive’s harsh manner, and this is his special phrase for me. It gives me a warm fuzzy feel inside to know he appreciates what I do.
Chapter Four
Sunday 23 February
Carmen
‘Have you got any holiday days still to take?’ I ask, as Elliot and I lounge sleepily in bed following a late night of drinking and an early morning of tender loving.
‘A few days, but I was planning on using those for the fishing trip my brother wants to take at Easter. Why?’
This is the moment when I need to hold my own without Elliot suspecting or questioning me about anything.
‘I was thinking we could do with a mini break, that’s all.’
Silence.
I wait patiently, snuggling into the crook of his arm. I’m determined not to start an argument; I can do without any upheaval occurring while I plan for next Saturday. So I wait.
And wait.
The silence lingers, then lengthens uncomfortably.
Elliot repositions his arms, putting his hands behind his head, which causes me to have to move from my comfy position. I can see from the corner of my eye that he is staring at the ceiling.
Is he thinking?
Ignoring me?
‘When?’ asks Elliot suddenly, just when I am convinced he is asleep.
‘Next weekend.’
Silence.
‘Where to?’
‘I was thinking of a weekend in Paris . . . neither of us have been there before.’
I’m waiting for a simple ‘yes’ – but nothing.
‘Are we busy next weekend?’ I ask finally, for fear that I am about to fail at the first step in arranging our marriage proposal.
‘Nope, but I wasn’t planning on a weekend trip away either. We’ve only had two free weekends since the Christmas break and next weekend’s the only free weekend until Monty’s wedding.’
‘I get you’re tired, Elliot – you’re right, we have been pretty busy, non-stop since New Year. Maybe we can have a stay-at-home duvet weekend on the weekend after the wedding?’
‘A stay-at-home duvet weekend?’
‘Yeah, a whole weekend filled with films, with music, takeaways, chilling out at home.’
‘Promise?’ He eyes me cautiously, as if I’m tricking him.
‘I promise.’
‘Not the typical Carmen promise where you say it but then our plans keep changing ever so slightly and end up nothing like the original promise?’
‘Elliot!’
‘What? Are you denying that you change our plans all the time?’
‘Things happen, plans change. I believe you swiftly changed our plans last night the minute Monty called you. Did I moan? No, because that’s life.’ I can hear that my tone has an edge but I am doing all I can to remain snuggled beneath a warm duvet and not throw a hissy fit that Elliot isn’t jumping on board at the suggestion of our mini break. If it had been the other way around and he’d suggested a weekend break to Paris, I’d have been thrilled to bits. But no, Elliot is cautiously staring at me as if I’ve just asked if he’d like round two of some loving.
‘So, Paris it is, then?’ I ask, hoping to ignite a spark of interest.
‘But the weekend of the fourteenth we stay at home, just us two, and chill out, yeah?’
‘Yeah. I’ve already promised.’
‘OK. I’d asked for overtime on Saturday morning, given that I’ll be away from work on the stag do Wednesday to Friday, but I’ll take my name off the rota on Monday morning.’
‘So you were planning to be at work anyway on Saturday morning and not chilling at home?’
‘Yeah, you work every Saturday at the boutique so why not?’
‘I’m not at work next Saturday, which is why I want us to make the most of going away on a mini break.’
‘OK, let’s do it then.’
I fall silent. The conversation hasn’t flowed as I’d hoped, or maybe I’m being too harsh? Surely I can class it as a success, given that he has agreed, even if it feels like an arm-twisted-up-his-back kind of agreement. I silently replay the exchange, wavering between rejoicing and full-blown annoyance that he didn’t jump at the chance to spend a romantic weekend in Paris. I know men who would be chuffed to bits to be invited for some fun-filled days away. As I lie here, I can’t actually name any at the moment – it’s been a while since I met up with my male friends who are just my friends and not ours jointly, but still, I know they exist, somewhere. Elliot could a
ctually do with a reminder that my men friends aren’t extinct. I could give one a call for a catch-up and a coffee anytime I like. Which I haven’t done for a fair while, given that I’m juggling Elliot, home, business and life in general . . . but I could, if I wanted to.
I decide to keep the peace and not air my grievance. Experience has taught me that we rarely see situations the same way. I can predict if I backtrack, mentioning my surprise at his reluctance, we will disagree on how our conversation actually played out. Within a matter of minutes, one of us, usually me, will say the wrong thing and we’ll have the makings of a full-blown argument. An argument which I know will ruin Sunday, result in him withdrawing into his shell, like he always does, while I begin to cry, frustrated that he’s not listening to me. All of which will taint our memories of the next seven days: seven days of planning, seven days paving the way to our engagement.
Dana
I am drowning in guilt as I unpack the boot of my car and make the umpteenth trip into the Castle Hotel’s function room carrying my flower boxes. I rarely drop Luke at Mum and Dad’s two days on the trot, and today he threw the clingy tantrum I had expected yesterday.
‘Mummy . . . no!’ cried Luke, lying on their hallway floor whilst hanging on to my leg for dear life.
‘The billy-birds are waiting for their breakfast,’ called my dad from the back door, attempting to distract him.
‘Mummmmmm-y!’
I bent down to comfort him; it breaks my heart every time this happens. I know it’s what every child does at some point but when my Luke does this, I simply want to cancel everything, hug him tight and tell him I understand. Part of me always blames his condition for such outbursts; I figure his affectionate nature can’t bear the separation. Or am I simply using it as an emotional excuse?