by Erin Green
I open the passenger’s door and draw the seat forward to try to take hold of Fido’s lead, attempting to coax the poodle from the confines of the back seat. He’s huddled in the corner, inches out of my grasp. With the driver’s side wedged close to the neighbouring car, I daren’t risk trying from my side.
‘Fido, baby . . . Come on, sweetie . . . you know we have to go,’ I urge, through gritted teeth; we have just minutes to spare to get to his grooming appointment on time. The dog bares his teeth and growls deeply. At home he’s the sweetest thing, but not today, not inside my car.
I should have brought treats to entice him. I should have brought Dad; he wouldn’t have done this if Dad were here.
He’s not an aggressive animal but how do you explain to a dog that he’s going to the groomers and not the vets? Both tend to focus on his rear end but with rather different emphasis.
It’s been fifteen-odd years since I’ve needed to drag anything from the rear seats – namely Cody – and I’m not sure if I can squeeze back there without getting stuck . . .
I pull the seat’s back forward, easing my hips past the upholstery as I step into the rear foot well, half bent, head low and reaching for Fido.
‘Here, Fido, I know, I know . . .’ I reach for the tiniest bit of looped leather lead which the dog has cleverly hidden beneath himself.
Clunk!
The passenger door closes on its own.
Thump!
The back of the passenger seat springs bolt upright, bumping me on the arse.
Great!
I try to turn around: nope. I manage to sink down to reach between the seat and the doorframe for the door handle.
Bloody great! Today of all days the seat catch decides to jam.
If Fraser has to come and rescue me from my own car, he will not be impressed, Cody even less so. Though given that he is only at the end of the High Street, he might be a better shout.
I begin to wiggle backwards over the front seats, pushing myself off the rear upholstery, much to the dog’s surprise.
‘I’m not doing this again,’ I rant to myself, awkwardly bending my body to avoid the gearstick. ‘Right now I’m supposed to be enjoying a nice relaxing coffee while Fido is being beautified and yet, here I am . . .’
That’s when I suddenly remember that I have windows in my car, and they aren’t tinted.
Lola is standing stock still, staring open-mouthed at her ex-boyfriend’s mother crawling all over the upholstery of her own car seats in the middle of the multi-storey car park.
Doesn’t she have anything to do other than wander around town every day?
I cease struggling and give a little wave, as if this my normal activity on Wednesday afternoons. Instantly I regret it, seeing the surprised look on her face. I never wave as she saunters past the travel agents, and yet when I’m in a compromising position I do so warmly.
How ridiculous am I?
Lola continues to stare. I freeze, like a tableaux from my school drama days, with a fake smile in place.
Go away, Lola! Ah, my usual sentiment returns within a heartbeat.
I remain in situ and smile.
Lola’s big-booted feet turn and she slowly continues on her way across the car park. I resume my frantic struggle to ease my hips between the bulky headrests and twist flopping into the passenger seat as gracefully as a woman can with her boots in the air. My temple hits the door, my eye missing the handle by inches.
My passenger door is suddenly wrenched open and fresh air breezes down my collar.
‘Polly, are you OK?’
I view Lola’s smudged kohl eyeliner and frizzy dyed hair from upside down.
‘Fine, fine, and you?’ What else can I say, given the situation and our relationship?
‘I was helping my mum with her weekly errands and just happened to see you . . . Are you sure?’
‘Thank you, Lola.’ I swing my feet around and sit upright in my own passenger seat, a place I wouldn’t usually sit. ‘Come on, Fido – we’ve got a date to keep.’ I reach between the gap in the seats and take hold of his lead. And he lets me. I climb from the seat, spring the passenger seat forward and Fido trots from my car like a dream.
Little bugger!
I nonchalantly collect my handbag, slam the door and lock my car – return of the ‘ordinary woman’ being the act I am aiming for. I can see the confusion etched on Lola’s face. She’s probably wondering if she’s helped in any way or debating whether my antics need to be posted on her social media at the earliest opportunity.
She stares, not sure what she has just witnessed, and I bid her goodbye, not sure what the hell I just did.
‘Must dash, we’re slightly late,’ I say cheerily. As I speed along the pavement I silently promise to perform an act of kindness towards a stranger in the next twenty-four hours as a thank you to the gods.
I scurry along towards the car park’s exit, Fido running to keep pace. We’ve cut it fine, too fine for my liking. I’ve been present when they’ve refused a latecomer and demanded part payment for a lost booking, which seems fair compensation for lost income, but not when it’s potentially me.
‘I’m sorry, so sorry . . . we had problems . . . parking,’ I say, as we dash into the dog groomers, to be met with a tired smile from the young man. ‘Fido Willis, for a shampoo and trim.’
‘No worries, you’ve just made it,’ he says, ticking us off in the appointment book.
I sigh with relief.
‘This way, Fido, we’ll see Mummy in a while,’ he says, taking the lead from my hand. I want to laugh and correct him but decide not to – he can call me what he likes as long as he honours the appointment to shampoo and trim Fido’s overgrown coat.
‘Do you mind if I wait?’ I ask, indicating the sofa area.
‘Sure, take a seat . . . He’ll be the whole hour.’
I quickly settle, fishing my mobile and my to-do list from my handbag.
‘Hello, I’m calling about a DJ booking for Saturday night. I was told that someone would call me back but that hasn’t happened yet, and I’m getting slightly concerned,’ I explain in one garbled breath.
‘Ah yeah, Saturday . . . I need to check. If you could hold the line a minute . . .’
I don’t answer, given that I’d called earlier in the week, but the line goes silent. All I seem to do concerning this party is hold the line and wait. I should be grateful that I haven’t got ‘Greensleeves’ being played to soothe my nerves.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, we can’t do that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, we can’t do that . . . we’re already booked.’
‘I asked the question several days ago and was told someone would get back to me and now I’m being told it’s definitely “no” with just three full days to go to find a DJ,’ I say, my nerves instantly fraught.
‘Yeah.’
I don’t know what to say. I feel like wrenching someone’s head from up their own arse and giving them a lesson on manners and business etiquette, regardless of whether they’re a multimillion-pound enterprise or a solo DJ.
Why can’t people get their act together when showcasing their services?
If I’d been them, I’d have called me back the same day to confirm Saturday wasn’t possible. But no, instead, the customer – me – has to chase about when that’s really is the last thing I need to be doing.
‘Can you suggest any other DJs that I could phone?’ seems the only sensible thing to ask.
‘Mmmm, there’s Milo, or maybe Trev’s available . . .’
My mind instantly makes defining judgements about the age and possible talent of each of them, based on the names alone.
‘Milo? Have you got his number?’
‘Hang on a minute.’
The line goes silent.
Within a few minutes, she returns with a mobile number and I’m back on a mission in search of a DJ.
‘Hi, is that Milo?’ I ask tentatively, fingers crossed that the guy is talented, an expert in his field and yet also available for this coming Saturday. It doesn’t bode well if he is, because it suggests that he isn’t either of the former.
‘That’s me, Milo of Musicland. How can I help?’
‘Milo, I’ve been given your number about DJing. I was wondering if you’re available on Saturday from seven thirty onwards?’
‘Yep, I can do that . . . what kind of gig is it?’
Gig?
‘My son’s twentieth birthday at the Red Lion,’ I explain.
‘In the wedding room?’
‘Yes, the events room at the rear . . .’
‘I know it.’
I exhale deeply, unaware that I’m so uptight over such a detail.
Within five minutes, we’ve agreed a price, a time for him to come to set up his equipment and even ‘yes, of course you can help yourself to a plate of buffet food’ before I end the call, relieved that another task is complete.
‘Here we are . . .’ I hear the young man as he comes through the stable-door gateway before I see the dog.
‘That’s Fido?’ I point in horror at the pom-pommed cream poodle that stares up at me. He wouldn’t look out of place at Cruft’s.
‘Doesn’t he look lovely?’
‘Oh no! My dad will go spare . . . Fido usually has that fluffy, cuddly . . .’ My hands billow and circle before me.
‘Oh, the teddy-bear cut . . . Oh!’
‘Exactly – oh!’
‘Nobody said,’ he mutters, staring dolefully at the dog.
‘Surely my dad said when he booked the appointment?’
The groomer checks the appointment book, his index finger running down the details.
‘No, it just says name and mobile number . . . I’m sorry, I should have checked, but when you were late and . . . I assumed . . . Can we come to an arrangement on the price?’
‘He’s my father’s dog . . . I don’t know what to say, but I know what he’ll say when I take Fido back home looking like this.’
‘I can only apologise.’
The door opens, admitting a large Saint Bernard and a harassed owner, doing battle with the door and his dog.
‘Can we say a fifty per cent discount?’
‘Deal.’ I haven’t time to haggle. I know my biggest argument will be with my father so I may as well save my energy for that conversation.
Carmen
I leave my car parked behind the boutique and hastily make my way along the High Street to Skin and Tonic, the beauty salon.
My fraught nerves are instantly soothed on entering: the tranquil atmosphere and the heady smell of essential oils is a welcoming delight.
‘Hi, I have an appointment with Hollie for six o’clock,’ I quietly announce to the reception lady, who indicates that I should take a seat for a moment.
My aching body sinks into the plush leather sofa; I rest my head back and close my eyes. I’m happy to just stay here in such comfort – never mind my session. I have nothing to think about, nothing to plan – nothing that’s within my control anyway – so I can simply sit here and . . .
My drifting thoughts are interrupted by a gentle tap on the shoulder.
I snap my eyes open, startled to see a kindly face with a glowing complexion peering at me.
‘Hi, I’m Hollie . . . Would you like to come this way?’
Did I fall asleep? How long was I there for?
I daren’t ask, but instead jump up and trot after the slender figure dressed in a pastel grey and pink tunic. I watch as her pretty feet flip-flop in front of me in sparkly mules.
We weave our way through the salon, amidst nail stations with ladies busily chatting to their clients, whose nails are being sealed under strange lights, past a spectrum of nail varnishes challenging any rainbow to sparkle brighter, and finally we enter a tiny room, where the warmth and muted lighting envelops my tired body. The hypnotic sound of raindrops gently falling fills the air and a sense of calm washes over me.
‘If you undress down to your briefs, lie face down upon the couch and cover yourself with both towels, I’ll be back in a little while,’ says Hollie, indicating the door as she speaks.
Hollie exits, closing the door tightly behind her.
I don’t need telling twice.
I whip off my clothing, my boots and am down to my briefs in seconds. I carefully fold my clothes and place them on the nearest chair.
I spy the large brown bottles of carrier oils, to which I’ve requested that bergamot and lavender be added to aid my relaxation. I clamber on to the massage table, lie face down and cover myself with the large white fluffy towels, as instructed. My forehead presses against the padded hole in the base of the table, and my shoulders naturally fall forward and sink into the towel and paper lining sheet beneath me.
This is exactly what I need. Tomorrow, I will thank Trish for the suggestion – or nagging – which she gave me. This type of self-care has fallen by the wayside for me in recent years. I’ve allowed my ‘me’ time to be lost to an extra hour of boutique admin or an extra hour in front of the TV watching something which I don’t care for but which interests Elliot’s inquisitive mind.
I should stop those negative habits, allow him space to enjoy what he likes and for me to take time out for the things I need, such as this. It would be a more productive and positive way to use our spare time, rather than me wasting time following his pursuits and neglecting myself. Working in the evening needs to stop too – that isn’t a smart move in anyone’s world: all work and no, or very little, play makes Carmen a bore.
Knock, knock. I look up towards the door.
‘Can I come in?’ asks Hollie, returning to the massage room.
‘I’m ready,’ I whisper.
She manoeuvres the towel covering my upper body away from my shoulder blades and positions it below my waist, exposing my entire back. I reposition my forehead into the face hole and watch her feet move about the room. I can hear the gulp of the oil into the bowl, and imagine her adding my essential oils, drop by drop, to the mix.
The gentle rain continues to pitter-patter as Hollie’s pretty feet return to the table and her warm hands smooth my back in long delicious strokes.
‘How does that feel?’ asks Hollie after the hour-long massage.
‘Thank you so much,’ I answer dreamily, as my mind floods with positive and re-energised thoughts. My eyes remain closed, but I’m sure my contented smile reinforces my answer. It had taken a whole hour but it’s been time well spent, given my instant feeling of wellbeing.
‘I’ve left a glass of cold water on the side. Please be careful as you get up, in case you feel light headed. I’ll be waiting at the desk when you are ready.’ She quickly exits and leaves me to dress.
I lie in situ for another few minutes, enjoying my relaxed state until I feel it would be rude for me to linger any longer. I’d hate to cause Hollie to run late for the next client in need of her healing hands.
A gentle aroma of lavender wafts as I lift each limb to dress. I quickly drink my glass of water, vowing to drink a second as soon as I arrive home to flush my lymphatic system.
I switch my mobile back on and instantly six missed calls from Elliot buzz on to the screen.
My heart stops.
I find my way back to reception, thank Hollie and pay before dashing back along the High Street. All sense of tranquillity is snatched from my world as I clutch my mobile to my ear, willing Elliot to pick up.
‘Hello,’ hollers a male voice; it’s not Elliot’s.
‘Hi . . . who’s that?’
I stop dead on the High Street, unable to move.
‘Monty . . . Elliot can’t speak at the minute; he’s talking to a doctor . . . The prat has done his knee in by falling off his sodding bike so we’re all sitting in A&E awaiting his grand entrance wearing one of those bloody knee-brace things. Carmen, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here . . . just taking in the details. Can he walk?’
‘Who knows? The idiot shot down a track without checking what was at the end of it.’
‘And what was at the end?’
‘A sodding twenty-foot drop . . . which he plunged over, and then he landed badly because he tried to hold on to the bike!’
‘But he’s OK, apart from his knee?’
‘Mmmm, his front tooth is slightly wobbly but nothing major – bloody lucky, if you ask me. But he won’t be if we have to spend all night sitting around this place. We’re supposed to have had a skinful of scotch in the middle of Cardiff by now.’
Oh great!
‘That’s a relief. Can you tell him to call me when he is done? I’ll be at home.’
‘Sure will, see ya.’
In an instant, Monty is gone.
I slowly make my way to my car, unlock it and settle in before turning the key in the ignition.
Another day done. One day less before we head to our weekend in Paris. Which in all likelihood will now include Elliot hobbling around and swallowing painkillers every four hours.
I sigh.
Not quite the romantic mini-break I’d imagined.
Dana
My lounge clock reads 8.30 p.m. as I flop on to the sofa, clutching the TV remote control. After his busy day at school and after-school fun with Grandpops, Luke swiftly fell asleep just three pages into his bedtime story and so I snuck from his room to take up my position here on the couch.
I survey the silent room. Nothing has changed since breakfast time: the pile of clean folded washing still needs putting away, the large cobweb hanging from the light fitting survives another day and an invite to a parental networking session with the Down’s Syndrome Research Foundation still awaits my acceptance on the mantelpiece.
And yet something has changed.
Something inside me may have changed. I sense that today I am slightly different from yesterday. Different from breakfast time even.