by Erin Green
He’s right – you can see the ice crystals amongst the raspberries, but what’s a bit of frozen water? I’m about to make my second cut when I decide to swing the knife wider for a larger portion. If I’m having this to myself, I might as well indulge!
Silence descends as we each chew, ooh and aah and seek additional cream from a second opened tub.
I glance around the table at my family.
Cody scrapes his dish clean, Fraser follows suit and the two girls politely pick at their ice cream. My mother heartily consumes hers, and Helen and Marc eat, their hands now conjoined on top of the tablecloth.
Is that really necessary whilst eating your dessert? Can’t they be detached from each other for a moment? I’d noticed earlier that their hand-holding continued beneath the table and they only separated when they both needed a fork and serrated knife for the beef!
If I held Fraser’s hand right now, he’d stare at me confounded, the entire table would be alerted to his confusion.
Honestly, Helen, the guy’s busy trying to scrape the remains of some chocolate swirls from a fluted glass dish. Surely Marc can eat his dessert before the hand-holding resumes under the table and not above for all to see?
Or maybe it’s Marc. Is Helen forced to participate in their endeavour to maintain this image of ‘being as one’ due to his deep-rooted insecurities? Surely after twenty-six years together she can be trusted to eat her ice cream, within his sight, without the risk of abandoning him?
I want to giggle, but take another bite of my pavlova, the edge of which has melted to a puree as it should be while the centre remains solid.
I suddenly get brain freeze but continue to chew as if fighting my own resilient corner.
Maybe my parents’ bitter divorce battle – not over the custody of us, given we were sixteen and twenty-three, but rather concerning their possessions – affected Helen and Marc more than I’d realised. Whereas Fraser and I took it in our stride, assuming that they would make their own decisions regardless of having grown-up daughters. Although, if I’m honest, my decision to not get married does relate directly to having witnessed the damage caused by their battles over an elderly dog and a canteen of silver cutlery.
Helen swiftly moves their conjoined hands from the tablecloth, causing me to look up. She stares at me and I shake my head in response; I hadn’t realised I’d been staring at their entwined digits whilst lost inside my head.
‘How’s your dessert, Mum?’ asks Cody, scouring the table for unwanted goodies.
‘Fine, though slightly cold and crunchy towards the middle – the meringue’s gorgeous.’
‘Anyone else having any?’ asks Cody, pointing towards the remaining pavlova.
After a circle of grimaces, wincing and headshakes, Cody grabs the pavlova plate and cuts himself a huge portion.
Good lad, that’s my boy!
Fraser looks on; he’s never been outwardly affectionate towards our son, which is probably his male instinct, but as Cody’s grown older the bond between them is definitely growing. There’s a maturity to their interaction, almost a silent understanding between them that not everything has to be verbalised, which, in my case, it does. Instead, I’ve notice my two males have adopted a sequence of fleeting glances, the flicker of a smirk between them as they get each other’s meaning. Their bond has strengthened, their relationship deepened. It reminds me of my instinctive ability to know from my baby’s cry his current need: food, nappy change, sleep or love, even from the next room. I see such a bond reflected in Fraser’s eyes as he watches our son dish himself up pavlova.
I smile, my gaze resting briefly upon Marc, who is also watching Cody hungrily eat his second dessert, but in a different manner to Fraser. Marc is studying Cody closely. Did he long for a lad? Want more children? Helen has never said, but Marc’s look lingers.
Cody’s mobile rings aloud, disturbing the end of our meal.
‘I asked you to switch that off,’ I say, annoyed that he hadn’t bothered.
Down goes his dessertspoon, as out comes my screaming annoyance. I see a flicker of confusion cross his brow before he looks up at me, almost guiltily.
Lola? What she doing calling him?
‘I’ll just take this,’ says Cody, moving from his seat and heading into the hallway.
I stare at Fraser as if I can hold an entire conversation telepathically, informing him in one look about Lola.
‘What?’ says Fraser, baffled by my expression.
‘Nothing,’ I mutter, his question and my tone alerting only my mother and sister, who stare in a questioning manner in my direction. I give them each a weak smile and begin clearing the table of dessert dishes. ‘Coffee?’
Carmen
I sit with my headphones on watching the ‘best of the best’ proposal clips on YouTube, while Elliot watches the afternoon’s football match. I’m unsure what I’m looking for exactly, so I’m browsing for inspirational ideas from which I can craft my own perfect proposal. For the next thirty minutes, I squirm and cringe at cheesy, word-stuttering proposals, stifle my laugh at a prank proposal and tearfully well up, attempting to hide my unexpected reaction, numerous times to heartfelt declarations of love. After my YouTube stint, I’m still baffled by the down-on-one-knee tradition of some proposals, but I now know what I’m planning for mine. I want a simple, honest and heartfelt declaration of my love and a short speech proposing marriage.
I feel deceitful hiding behind my laptop, avidly watching all this with my earphones plugged in, but Elliot doesn’t seem to notice – he is engrossed in his footie match. I’ve made a few notes: location, location, location is a priority, closely followed by sentiment and honesty. I’m no nearer writing my own proposal speech but I’m certain of what I don’t want my special moment to look like. There is no way I’ll be recalling for the rest of my life a bodge-it job, with cheesy lines and no planning. If this proposal-fest session has proved one thing to me, it’s that planning is key. I might not have a final list of what I truly want but I have a definite list of what not to do come next Saturday evening.
I glance at the clock: 2.30 p.m.
‘Is there football on all day?’ I ask, interrupting Elliot’s zone.
‘Pretty much. Why? Is there something you want to watch?’
‘Nope. I might nip out for a while and go shopping.’ I know he won’t argue or offer to join me, so it feels less deceitful. One detail confirmed during my proposal viewings is my need to purchase an engagement ring.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the young woman, her wide smile filling her face.
Here goes!
I sidle along the front of the glass countertop towards her.
‘I’d like to view a ring suitable as a man’s engagement ring,’ I say, watching for her reaction.
‘Have you anything in mind?’ she asks automatically, unlocking the counter cabinet from her side and browsing the numerous rings displayed on cushioned pads from above.
‘Not really. I’m expecting it to be a band of some description but I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything which I’d class as suitable.’
‘In some cultures, men always have an engagement ring which they later use as their actual wedding ring, but it isn’t common. If it isn’t to be their actual wedding band, quite often they choose a band with a decorative stone inlay or an engraved pattern. Many of these would be suitable.’ She withdraws a velvet pad on which an array of gold rings are nestled. ‘It does come down to personal preference whether it’s gold, silver or platinum.’
‘I have no idea what he’d choose: he doesn’t do jewellery as such.’
‘Oh, a surprise, is it?’ Her eyes widen and her smile beams a little wider, if that is at all possible.
‘Mm-hmm, I’m planning on proposing next Saturday, so I’ll need a ring to present to him.’
‘I love that! A leap-year proposal. So few
women actually do it though, do they?’
‘I’m not certain I’ll be able to pull it off with confidence, but I’ve made my mind up to try, so I’m just going for it.’
I pick up a gold band with a small diamond detail nestled in its middle and bring it closer to my eye for inspection. I select a second, a similar design in platinum, and compare the two. I have absolutely no idea what Elliot will say or do when he sees my offering.
‘Do you know his size?’ she asks.
Now is my moment to feel utterly foolish.
‘I only have this piece of thread, which I measured around his finger and knotted.’
I present the loop as she grabs for a sliding ring measure; she gently rolls the thread along the length and reads off where it settles.
‘Size S. I’ll go and see what else we have in that size,’ she says, catching the eye of her colleague as she departs. I continue to compare the two rings.
I suppose you can never be too careful with customers and jewellery.
It takes minutes but she returns with another velvet pad of rings, each one a band with a slight variation in decoration and pattern.
It takes me a further ten minutes to select what I believe is the safest bet – the first ring I’d inspected. Call it fate, call it whatever, but it fits the brief perfectly.
‘I think it’s that one,’ I say, offering the band back to the sales assistant.
‘Super,’ she says, replacing all the ring pads back inside the counter display before locking the back section. ‘And is there to be anything for you?’
‘Me?’
‘Well, he’ll have his engagement ring . . . will you be having one too?’
I haven’t given it a thought and yet I like her suggestion. A smile dawns upon my face.
‘Well, it would be rude not to have a little browse, wouldn’t it?’ I tease, convincing myself that it wouldn’t do any harm.
‘It certainly would . . . and the added benefit is that you get to choose.’
Within minutes I am manoeuvred across the jewellers towards a different counter inside which the sparkles are much bigger than in the previous display. The price tabs have also increased considerably.
‘Do you know your ring size?’
This is the first of twenty questions regarding colour, clarity, caret and cut.
Her twenty-first question, asked as I stand admiring a decent-sized rock on my third finger, left hand, is simple to answer.
‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it!’ I exclaim, moving my hand back and forth under the nearest light to watch the rainbow of refraction sparkle. ‘This is the one.’
I am on cloud nine as she totals up the price of two engagement rings, boxes each and ties a bow to secure the neck of my petite jeweller’s bag.
‘That’s a total of three thousand, six hundred and seventy-five pounds to pay’
I wasn’t quite expecting to spend that amount today but, hey ho, needs must if I’m going to do the job properly.
I fight the urge to fish my own ring from the beautified bag and wear it on the drive home. I know I’ll be cheating myself if I do such a thing. And how bad would it be if I forgot I had it on, entered the house and Elliot noticed it? It would be game over, surprise ruined.
Dana
My back is killing me. All I want to do is collect Luke and have a long snuggle with him on our sofa before it is bath and bedtime for both of us. There are nights when a seven-thirty lights-out feels like luxury in this busy world. Ridiculous for a grown adult but real-life bliss.
As I pull up in front of my parents’ house, my head is spinning. I’m bamboozled by the very idea of my week ahead. I visualise our kitchen wall calendar. I have a meeting next Friday to discuss a new venture at the bridal shop, I have a parents’ evening booked for Thursday, plus my usual daily flower deliveries . . . but now, I also need to juggle tasks and be available for dating.
I look up to see Luke standing in my parent’s lounge bay window, banging the glass and smiling. I imagine he’s yelling instructions for me to hurry up. My dad stands behind him, holding him in place on the window ledge. I was never allowed to stand on the window ledge in case I scratched the stained woodwork. How things have changed!
Luke’s chubby legs entwine with mine as we lie on the sofa. The TV is showing a Winnie-the-Pooh animation, which I think is a little young for him these days but Luke is transfixed by their colourful antics. Likewise, I am mesmerised by Luke. I gently brush his dark fringe aside. I play with his dimpled fingers as his little body frequently jumps and starts at the excitement of the characters on TV. He’s beautiful. Truly beautiful. A squashed button nose, slightly shorter than most. Tiny, slanting, yet sparkling dark eyes. A broad, stocky body, which I know will always need to be exercised and have a tendency towards cuddliness. My hand drops from his temple to his chest. A heart as big as a bucket beats strong within this tiny little being.
A wave of sadness floods over me.
I want to tell his father what a beautiful little boy he’s missing out on. To make Andrew see that his little boy is just like every other child who wants to chase wild birds, kick a football around the garden and cries when he scraps his knees. But I know wherever Andrew – the selfish son of a bitch – is, he hasn’t the heart or understanding to recognise what he did when he was the first to reject our boy.
I can’t let myself think back to those days. The pain, the hurt of his words, crash about my mind if I allow them to. So I won’t. I’ll block Andrew out for another day.
My mind runs wild with scenarios which Luke may encounter in life – some he might have encountered already when I wasn’t there – when others don’t accept Luke as he is. When others may be unkind, cruel or rude towards the little boy with a giant heart.
I want to cry.
Cry for the hurt he may encounter.
For the pain he might endure.
Shed tears for those people he’ll never get to know, enjoy or love because of their lack of knowledge or acceptance.
And my heart breaks a little more for their loss.
Polly
‘Cody, how many of your friends have you mentioned the party to?’ I ask, whilst applying my night cream in the bathroom mirror.
‘None, why?’ calls Cody, coming up the staircase, heading towards his bedroom.
‘What did you say?’ I say, straining to hear his reply.
‘None, I haven’t seen anyone to speak to.’
‘You’ve just spent the evening with them! What could have been easier than asking them?’
‘I didn’t see the crowd actually . . . I haven’t been to the pub tonight.’
Someone save me, please. The lad asks for a party, with just one week to go until the event, then fails to invite anyone.
‘How can I arrange a party when you have no idea who is coming?’
‘Mum, stop panicking. They’ll be there, OK? We’re not like old people who have to plan everything three weeks in advance.’
‘Oi, us “old people”, as you rudely call us, have to make arrangements three weeks in advance because we made the foolish decision to fill our lives with offspring like you. Before we say yes to an invite, we have to take into account our kids’ every need, foreseeing dramas and it’s mayhem if we don’t. So please don’t knock us for refusing invites because we need to feed you kids – we’d love to swing by the seat of our pants with a carefree attitude but that all ceased once us “old people” had you lot.’
‘Okaaaaay!’ comes his sarcastic tone from the landing. ‘We’re meeting up tomorrow so I’ll mention it then, but the usual crowd is about twenty or so, if that makes you feel better.’
‘You’ve got a cheek.’ Twenty or so! Just hearing a rough amount has made me feel slightly better, though I wasn’t about to admit it to Cody, given his ‘old people’ refe
rence. With our immediate family and our close family friends we’ll be nearing sixty bodies. Sixty people is more than enough to celebrate and have a good catch-up with. Too many and you never get around the room to chat with everyone. Too few and the party never gets underway. ‘I’ll pick up a couple of packs of invites tomorrow, address and post them on my way home, then the written invites will arrive by Wednesday at the latest. Though given the short notice, maybe I should send a quick text message first to let people know.’
‘Mum, do whatever . . . but without three weeks’ notice, I doubt anyone from your generation will be free to make it.’
‘Cody, I swear you’ll be for it if you carry on!’ I tease, knowing he’s got a point even if it makes me feel so much older than I want to admit.
I stare at my reflection. I don’t look too bad for my age; yes, my skin isn’t as bright as it once was and my cheekbones aren’t as prominent but I haven’t got as many wrinkles as some. I look positively youthful compared to others I know.
Cody crosses the landing and heads towards his room.
A delayed reaction but suddenly my interest is ignited.
‘Cody?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your crowd always heads for the pub on Sunday nights . . . why didn’t you?’
‘I . . . I took a date to the cinema, so gave the pub a miss.’
‘Oh.’
I can hear the hesitation in his voice.
Dare I ask who?
The floorboard outside his bedroom door creaks; he’s waiting, anticipating my next question.
Is that why she called him earlier, forcing him to leave the dinner table? Please don’t say he’s chancing his luck with Lola again.
Dare I ask and start a row right before bed?
I hear his bedroom door softly close.
Good decision, Cody, especially if that young lady is wheedling her way back into your life.
Chapter Five
Monday 24 February
Carmen
‘Look what I have!’ I announce, rattling a ring box in my palm as Trish makes our morning coffee. I’d intended to do my usual inspection of the boutique before showing her but my excitement got the better of me.