by Erin Green
The two men dive from our car and are greeted by the sales team, all smiles and arm-pumping handshakes. I stand back and watch. The memory lodges in my heart, like the other milestone birthdays when Cody’s excitement overflowed: his first true birthday, the big bike birthday, the first football match birthday, and now today. Emotionally, I hold on tight to scenes such as this because I expect that one day soon my only part in his birthday day will be a hasty phone call, a hasty invite to share a meal with his family and a tiny slither of his birthday experience every four years. Right now, Cody remains ours – Fraser’s and mine.
Carmen
As the concierge unlocks the door of our Parisian suite, I’m struck by an attack of nerves again. At every stage of our journey, my stomach has been jittery, then settled only to be reignited in a short time. Elliot arrived home from Cardiff slightly later than expected, cutting our dash to Heathrow Airport incredibly fine, arriving with just moments to spare before the gate closed, Elliot struggling along due to the knee brace and crutches. I hadn’t thought to phone ahead and request assistance. When we eventually got on the plane, the lack of legroom proved uncomfortable for him, but thankfully the crew were obliging, stashing his crutches in the overhead storage. Thankfully, the flight left on time and was incredibly short.
I’d envisaged our hotel suite from the computer images I browsed whilst booking but when we step inside and I’m met with the reality of the vast amount of space, tastefully decorated in calming cream and beige, for just two people, I am overwhelmed and feel slightly greedy. And I’m slightly embarrassed that a uniformed man is carrying our baggage.
Elliot hobbles inside, does a double-take and simply stares at me before addressing the concierge.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he says, tipping him with a folded note.
I dump my handbag on the nearest chair and survey our beautiful rooms, following Elliot’s lead. It’s a three-roomed suite, consisting of lounge, bedroom and bathroom; every piece of furniture is larger than life, made for two bodies with room to spare, and is tastefully angled denoting areas within each room. Plush lighting and huge mirrors highlight and reflect every view from every angle. In brief, it meets all my expectations of a honeymoon suite for those not on honeymoon.
‘Are you going to tell me what the plans are, or is that a surprise too?’ asks Elliot, throwing down his crutches and flopping on to the ginormous bed, disrupting the plethora of tiny satin cushions. ‘This bed is huge!’
‘Tonight, we have a city tour by limousine and a late dinner booking at a seafood restaurant. On Saturday, I’ve booked a visit to the Louvre, a guided tour of the Arc de Triomphe, a wine-and-dine river cruise along the Seine . . . then a hosted tour of the Eiffel Tower before we go to the Moulin Rouge. I’ve left Sunday free for chilling. How does that sound?’
‘Carmen, it sounds bloody amazing but what’s the occasion? It’s not our anniversary, is it?’ He eyes me suspiciously.
‘Don’t worry, you haven’t forgotten anything. I just thought we needed a break from the normal routine and when I visited the travel agents . . . this was my choice.’
‘I’m impressed. But you usually opt for long haul.’
I shrug. Having got this far this week, I don’t trust myself to fake an answer. I need to stay safe from this point on, no dramas, no issues and no false answers.
‘OK, keep your little secrets . . . but thank you – I appreciate the treat. Cardiff with the guys was fun, despite doing this.’ He points to his knee. ‘But now we’ve got an entire weekend to focus on us without distractions. How fabulous!’
‘What distractions?’ I leap on his comment, my insecurities instantly resurfacing.
‘The daily running of the boutique, your new wedding venture, Monty’s wedding, then there was Christmas before that, and before that your parents moving house . . . There is constantly something going on in the background that gets in the way of us just being us.’ He counts each item on his fingers, reinforcing his point. ‘Next weekend is Monty’s wedding and then we’re free of any obligations.’
He’s right. Elliot has just summed up the last eight months of our lives and I know that if he wanted to he could recall the previous eight months, which were similarly incredibly busy, filled with other events and other family members.
‘We need to start saying no a little more often and making time for us, don’t we?’ I say, feeling slightly guilty that I’ve judged him so badly since Nicole’s remarks when he’s totally right about our busy lifestyle . . . which may explain why we are where we are in our relationship.
‘We need to let others pick up the slack for a while – your four brothers do very little for your parents, my older brother does even less for mine. Everyone stands back and relies on us jumping in and offering before they even think about putting themselves forward with an offer. That needs to stop.’
‘I agree. Can we make a pact that we’ll address the issue once we get back home?’
‘We sure can, Carmen . . . It’ll sound selfish to others but still, they can start sharing the load a little more.’
‘And we can spend more time together enjoying ourselves – like we did in the beginning.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Deal?’ I ask, a sense of relief washing over me.
‘Deal,’ repeats Elliot, before whispering, ‘Come here.’
He beckons me towards the bed.
‘What?’ I say coyly.
‘You know what!’
I’m contentedly dozing in Elliot’s arms when the suite’s phone rings beside the bed. Slowly opening my eyes, I see Elliot leisurely stretching over me to answer it.
‘Hello?’
Silence as he listens. I stare at his bare torso and dark chest hair as my brain sluggishly catches up with the time, date and location.
‘Thank you, tell them we’ll be down in ten minutes,’ mutters Elliot, smirking at me beneath his tousled fringe.
‘The limo is here.’
My brain suddenly registers what’s happening and I leap from beneath the duvet.
‘Bloody hell, Elliot,’ I scream, frantically collecting my strewn clothes from the carpet. ‘And now we’re late!’
‘Shush, the car can wait. What’s the rush?’
‘You can hardly walk and . . . we need to shower.’
‘Yeah, like walking’s my issue given the tumble we’ve just had . . . are you serious?’ he says, pulling a face. ‘I think I’ve just proved my mobility is fine.’
I stop mid-clothes collection and laugh out loud.
He has a valid point. If anything, his spontaneous request for me to join him has proven a torn ligament is going to be the least of my worries this weekend.
‘And a shower?’
‘Mmmm, well, as polite as that might be towards our fellow diners, I’m actually not that fussed about a shower.’
‘Elliot!’ I screech, taken aback by his slovenly ways.
‘Like we always showered afterwards when we first met! I don’t think so . . . how many times did we just head down to the corner café for coffee and croissants afterwards?’
‘Stop! Stop! Stop! Fair point, in the beginning we did, but . . .’ I giggle; I can’t argue with him. ‘At least have a cat-lick wash, if nothing else.’
He flings back the duvet and heads for the bathroom.
Naked, he dashes past me, albeit with a newly attained hobble, and I stand and admire his arse before it disappears behind a closed door. He does make me laugh when he recalls our early days. We couldn’t get enough of each other; we showed respect towards other people, of course we did, but we didn’t care if we spent all afternoon in bed and then, as Elliot said, nipped down to the corner café for coffee.
I swiftly dump my pile of spent clothes and unlock my suitcase, searching for a suitable outfit whilst the bathroom is in use.
When did
those days stop? When did we go from lounging about in bed to living our life at ninety miles an hour to please family and friends and meet work commitments? Is that where we went wrong? Should we have spent more time doing the things we did in the very beginning? Those days when I was obsessed with the size of his hands and would sit tenderly outlining the shape of each finger with mine, pressing palm to palm to measure the difference and taking delight in everything which was Elliot.
I smile at the memories.
The bathroom door opens and Elliot reappears, a towel wrapped about his waist. He knows very well what reaction ‘that look’ provokes in me, but ignore him I must – we have a limo waiting.
‘I’ll be two minutes,’ I say, scurrying with my armful of fresh clothing into the bathroom.
‘You’ve paid for a set duration; he’ll wait, if only for an additional tip,’ comes Elliot’s voice.
He’s right, but I wanted everything to be perfect this weekend. Though I can’t complain about our antics during the last hour.
Dana
‘I can’t believe you’re late! Of all the days, Dana!’ snaps Tamzin. Jez is stomping around, spitting feathers. He wanted you dressed and done thirty minutes ago; now the whole crew are hanging around waiting.’
I daren’t speak, because I know I’ll rant at the first person who upsets me after my meeting at the school. I wanted to phone my parents for moral support but daren’t because I knew once I started crying the floodgates wouldn’t close. I am livid at the injustice in this world. Disgusted that some adults can be so small-minded towards others. That . . .
‘Dana!’ shouts Jez, striding through the hotel foyer. ‘We’re running late and this is supposed to be—’ He stops, peering at my fixed expression before asking, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine!’
He stares intently at me.
‘Good to go?’
‘Yep.’
‘OK, let’s do it.’ He leads the way through the hotel exit to our waiting vehicles. I climb in, belt up and sit back. I’m happy to go along with whatever plans Male C has requested but everyone needs to step back and give me space because I’m not in the mood for being messed about. Not today.
‘Quads Are Us?’ I whisper, as the car turns from the main road down a winding mud track. Tamzin gives a weak smile; she’s got the measure of me today so has remained silent throughout the short journey. ‘Am I dressed appropriately?’ I gesture down at my cream blouse, skinny jeans and sturdy boots.
‘Apparently they’re providing you with a boilersuit because of the amount of mud that splatters up.’
‘Great,’ is all I muster.
Instantly I feel bad for Male C. He’s obviously requested a fun date and I’m turning up as miserable as hell. I need to change my face and mood quickly, otherwise the camera crew will capture it and no amount of editing will alter the image he’ll be greeted with.
I need to leave my troubles behind, mentally stash them on a shelf inside my head and enjoy the next three hours. Before I know it, I’ll be home cuddling my one true love as I read him a bedtime story.
The orange boilersuit does nothing for my figure. It billows around my body like a deflated balloon joined in the middle with a large zipper. I’m given a crash hat and plastic goggles to enhance my appearance even further.
‘This way, please,’ instructs Jez, his faithful cameraman chasing his leggy strides. ‘Now, Dana, we need you to climb on to this quad bike. The man will give you a few brief instructions and then you’re to head on out over that hill there, and just on the other side you’ll see we’ve positioned Male C.’
‘Also on a quad bike?’ I ask, unsure about the first impression this stranger will have of me zooming across the muddy landscape.
‘Of course,’ replies Jez, frowning at my idiotic question.
I struggle to climb up, and I struggle to master the controls after detailed instruction, even though it appears to be a simple lever mechanism, like a lawn mower.
‘You ready?’ asks Jez, pulling my goggles into place.
I nod.
‘Go!’ Jez slaps my back as I depress the lever and shoot forward at a fairly rapid pace. An arc of mud splashes up from each wheel as the quad bike makes easy work of the terrain and I find myself climbing up and over the nearest hill as instructed by Jez. I see that a single cameraman is alongside me, piggy-backed on another quad bike. But I instantly forget the camera; I’m past caring if the truth be known.
Having completed my mission of up and over, I spy the red boilersuit astride another quad bike on the far side; he also has an accompanying cameraman on another chauffeured quad bike to capture his every move. I head over and attempt to pull up alongside Male C. I fail miserably to stop in time but still, we are within speaking distance.
I remove my goggles, which are speckled with mud, so I assume my face and hair are too – a waste of the beauty professionals’ time and effort back at the hotel.
Male C jumps down from his quad bike, extends a huge hand and delivers a firm handshake.
‘Hi, Dana, I’m Connor . . . Sorry about all this but I’m a thrill-and-chill kind of guy, so I’m hoping we can have a laugh together.’
‘Nice to meet you, Connor. Wow, thrill and chill – that sounds interesting,’ I stammer. I can’t make out much of his appearance: his crash helmet covers most of his blonde hair and his face is mud splattered too, but he does have a wide smile, which eases my nerves.
‘OK, follow me.’ He jumps back on to his quad and away he shoots. I try my hardest to keep up with him but Connor nips up and over all the obstacles littered about the landscape. Muddy water is flying everywhere, my body is bumping up and down on the wide seat at regular intervals and my face is collecting the purest of mud packs that I’ve ever used as I pursue my date.
Carmen
‘To us,’ whispers Elliot, as we snuggle up on the back seat of the limousine, each with a glass of chilled champagne in hand. As the limousine smoothly pulls away from the hotel, we clink glasses and passionately kiss before sipping our drinks.
Despite the familiarity of the bubbles dancing upon my tongue, the moment is perfect. This is what I’ve been dreaming of. Just the two of us together, with time on our hands to be us. A weekend of simply laughing, talking and enjoying each other’s company. I’m hoping that by tomorrow night we’ll feel reconnected and reenergised so when I pop the question, we can enter the next phase of our relationship together having been reminded of our foundations as a couple.
Our driver ignores us behind his screen of glass. I watch his peaked cap bob this way and that as he navigates the busy traffic, avoiding the nimble motorcycles cutting through the traffic, the stream of pedestrians on the numerous zebra crossings and the wayward traffic that appears from every angle to join the flow.
I snuggle beneath the crook of Elliot’s arm, my head resting back, as the beautiful city flashes past the car window. In every direction, a festoon of fairy lights in red, neon blue and yellow decorates the skyline and I pretend they were hung earlier today and illuminated especially for us. The traffic lights, the brilliant billboards and the street lamps all shine with an additional twinkle, creating a star-like effect for me and Elliot. The vehicle drives along the Champs-Elysées towards the Arc de Triomphe; we decline the offer to park, get out and mingle with the milling crowds taking photographs as we have a tour booked for tomorrow, so the driver circles several times, enabling us to view the mighty structure illuminated in gold spotlights up close.
‘Elliot,’ I say, looking up into the underneath of his chin. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For agreeing to come along. We’ve been busy, and you’re right to complain and bring it to my attention, but I wouldn’t want to be here, right now, with anyone but you!’
He gently kisses the top of my head and I relax into his body, realising that m
y last sentence is probably the most honest moment I’ve shared with Elliot in a while. So often I hide what I feel, swallow the emotion as something that he wouldn’t understand or want to share, when the reality is that that could actually be something very special which I should be sharing with him. And if I can’t share my feelings with him, what’s the bloody point in us being together? Surely life isn’t supposed to be about self-censorship when it comes to the ones that we love?
Our car drifts back along the Champs-Elysées towards the Place de la Concorde with its huddle of street artists beneath the watchful gaze of the statues of the Fontaine des Mers. In the background, the Eiffel Tower dominates the Parisian skyline and my stomach flips at the very thought of tomorrow evening. I’ve written two proposals: one is slightly more serious than the other. I’ve learnt both off by heart, so I won’t need a prompt card.
‘Can you imagine the view from up there?’ whispers Elliot, his mouth gaping open.
‘We’ve a tour booked for tomorrow.’
‘OK, let’s do it.’
His voice has an excited buzz and I know I have done the right thing. It might have taken me all week to get my head around my plans but it was the right decision.
‘London is busy but Paris seems so alive in comparison,’ says Elliot, gawping through the tinted window. ‘There’s a different vibe amongst the crowds. Do you get what I mean?’
‘I do,’ I say, grateful that he seems to be in the same headspace as me. I don’t care if it’s the champagne working on our empty stomachs or the wonder of the city, being on the same page is all that matters.
Finally, our limousine glides along a boulevard towards the Eiffel Tower. It looms ahead of us, like a Christmas tree covered in yellow-gold lights, or a lighthouse for the city with its blue-white strobe light sweeping back and forth through the darkness, keeping us safe and secure until morning.
‘How beautiful is that?’ I exclaim, as my stomach continues to somersault.