by Erin Green
‘How are you getting home?’ I ask. I can’t leave a young woman alone to find her way home, despite being so angry with her.
‘I’ll walk.’
‘Oh no you won’t. You stay there. I’ll ask reception to call you a cab.’ I leave her perched on the wall and head towards reception.
I’m fuming.
Fuming on two counts. First, because of her stunt with Cody. Second, because she had the audacity to call me out on misinformation which she thinks defines our relationship. Cheeky minx!
‘Polly!’
I turn back to look at Lola. She’s standing where I left her: alone. She looks incredibly sad for one so young.
‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry,’ she says, her head tilted and staring at me. ‘That’s all.’
I watch as she turns away and settles herself down on the car park’s low wall to await the taxi I’m about to order.
I regress in years: Lola looks how I felt, still feel, every time Olive ignores me. A flicker of guilt ignites. Am I Lola’s Olive? Do I make her feel incomplete as a person? Inferior to our family?
‘Lola.’
She looks up.
‘I’m sorry too,’ I say, adding, ‘I could have been kinder. I simply want Cody to be the happiest he can be. I’m probably a little too protective. That’s my issue, not yours.’
Lola gives a brief smile before turning away.
Carmen
Did Elliot say ‘non’?
Did I mix up my French and inadvertently ask him something entirely different? To which ‘non’ is a sensible and fitting answer!
I am frozen in time, holding hands with a man who just answered ‘non’ to the biggest question of my life.
I’m rubbish with languages. Totally useless, but even I know that ‘non’ is not ‘yes’ in French . . . he’s supposed to say ‘oui’!’
My brain is stuck in a loop.
Oui to marrying me.
Oui to spending the rest of his life with me.
Oui to creating babies.
Oui to sharing my life.
Oui to . . . oh my god, he didn’t say ‘oui’!
I drop both his hands as if burnt by his skin and step back from him.
‘Carmen . . . please.’
I raise both my hands to signal for him to stop talking. I can’t hear anything at the moment other than the single syllable which is marching about my head, much like I’d confidently paced around the base of the Eifel tower some ten minutes ago before asking a ridiculously stupid question in French of my lover of eight years.
I turn my back and walk away.
Instantly my iconic Eiffel Tower blessed with memories of love crumbles to dust; it exists no more. From this moment forth, I know I will cringe each time it is mentioned.
I don’t care that he can’t bend down to retrieve his crutches, I need to focus on me at this moment in time. I need to breathe. I need to walk. I need to cry. I need to holler and scream into the night sky and ask why, oh why and somehow delete the word ‘non’ which is circling my mind like a Formula one racing car from my memories.
He said ‘non’.
Why?
Does he not love me?
Doesn’t he want me?
Doesn’t he want children with me?
I walk. I’m blind to the people around me – suddenly everyone is a backdrop of actors and we are the only couple in Paris. God forbid that I should bump into another couple proposing at this very moment. Please save me the humiliation of seeing a traditional proposal where she says ‘yes’ or ‘oui’, worse still if he accepts her proposal! I won’t be able to hold back the tears. And I, Carmen Smith, can’t lose the plot by wailing and retching my insides out beside the Eiffel Tower on a crisp Parisian night. This was not my plan. In my plan, Elliot answered ‘oui’.
I look up to stare blankly at the expanse of gardens in front of me. I have no idea in which direction I should walk. I didn’t wait for Elliot so have no idea where I am. Or where he is for that matter.
‘Carmen!’ I hear the emotion in his voice before I actually spot him way behind me, amongst the crowd. He’s frantically hobbling along in an awkward yet rhythmical manner, smooth-clunk, smooth-clunk, as his weight falls heavily on his lame side.
I wait. I can’t bear to look at him as he approaches but stare about me, fighting back the fresh flood of tears that threatens to burst forth at any second.
He said no to my proposal.
Why would he do that to me? To us?
‘Carmen . . .’ He finally reaches me. I lower my head unable to look into his face, for fear that he’ll see how upset I truly am. ‘Carmen, please stop and listen to me.’
‘I’m listening.’ My voice has edge, my eyes have more tears.
‘Look, I get that you’re upset, and rightly so . . . but I can’t agree to marry you just to make you happy, Carmen . . . I just can’t.’
‘But why?’ I look up to see him sigh, look around and return his gaze to my staring face. I’m waiting. However hurtful his next few sentences, I want to know. I need to know why.
‘Look, we can’t talk here . . . Can’t we go somewhere?’
Getting away from here is what I want.
‘The hotel?’
I wince at his suggestion.
‘OK, point taken.’
‘Can’t we just walk until we find a café bar?’
We walk like the blind leading the lame. There’s no touching, no eye contact, no direction, no consolation; we simply walk through the park, hoping that a suitable venue will appear.
Dana
Seeing his face approaching the large glass doors, accompanied by Jennifer and the cameras presenting live, my face breaks into a huge smile. Initially I had my doubts – he wasn’t my first choice, my gut reaction choice – but still I’m delighted that he agreed to attend our second date live on air.
‘Good evening, Dana – you look utterly fabulous,’ says Connor, his hand reaching for mine before he masterfully kisses the back of my hand.
‘Thank you, Connor – I’m so glad you agreed to join me. Shall we?’
Tamzin’s mouth is agape, her eyes wide and staring as we enter the lift, heading for pre-dinner cocktails.
Jennifer and the roving camera crew squeeze in beside us too.
‘Were you surprised when they contacted you?’ I ask, once we’re settled before a panoramic view of the city skyline, sipping an espresso martini and a whisky on the rocks.
‘Not really. I figured we’d had a good night and enjoyed ourselves, but . . .’ He pauses, then continues after taking a sip of his drink, ‘I wasn’t convinced that you were going to contact me.’
‘Why not?’
Connor hesitates and pulls a comedic face. The camera crew circle our table but I ignore their intrusion and focus on Connor.
‘You can be honest . . . Jennifer says that honesty and trust is the best policy when discussing relationships, so please feel free to say.’ I notice Jennifer quickly delivers a piece to camera.
Connor gives a huge sigh. ‘I’ve watched your previous dates – I was told not to but I did. Look, you are beautiful, and I had a really great time doing the quad bikes and then enjoying such a relaxing massage but, well, it got me thinking . . . sometimes there’s an instant connection, isn’t there?’
I take a sip of my drink; I’m watching his every move and listening intently. It’s so refreshing that he talks so openly, that there’s no trickery. He appears to speak from the heart.
‘Go on.’
‘Do you remember that I mentioned a previous partner when you asked me about the massage? Well, I hadn’t thought about her for years, a decade maybe, and yet since last night . . . well, she’s all I can think about. Sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, sitting here on our second date, but
I now realise I might have made a mistake in letting her go from my life.’
‘Are you serious?’
He smiles and slowly nods his head.
I begin to laugh.
Jennifer turns white in horror, Jez begins frantically gesturing off screen, while Tamzin has both hands clapsed across her mouth. This is going to bugger up the live finale, for sure.
‘Can you believe it? How ridiculous am I?’ he asks, raking a hand through his hair.
‘You’ve been chosen by me to come on a second date and yet you actually want to be elsewhere with a woman you broke up with a decade ago?’
‘Yep, utterly stupid, isn’t it? I don’t even know where she is or what her circumstances are now, but there you have it. I’m Connor and in the last twenty-four hours I do believe I might have matured!’
I continue to giggle – the situation is completely absurd.
Jez is about to have a coronary. Jennifer is deep breathing at the thought of adlibing until the close of the finale’s live feed.
‘Connor?’
‘Yep?’
The camera crew descend upon or tiny table. The silence is deafening. You could hear a pin drop.
‘What the hell are we doing here? You need to find your lady and I, well . . . I should really have asked for Brett to join me, but I was so frightened of him rejecting my offer of a second date that I bailed.’
‘You’re kidding!’
I shake my head. ‘No. I enjoyed my date with you, honestly I did, but I felt something special when I was with Brett . . . before he dashed off during our kiss.’
Connor can’t stop laughing now.
‘Connor, would you be offended if I leave our date? I think I need to talk to Jez and find out where Brett is!’
‘No offence taken, Dana – maybe I could get my act together and find out where my ex is, maybe even give her a call.’
‘Jez,’ I say into my mic, ‘I’m about to disconnect my microphone but first can I ask if you could get your horde of experts to locate Brett? I need to ask him a question about the other night.’
In one swipe, my microphone is separated from my gown. I give Connor a peck on the cheek and go. As I take my leave, Connor reaches for his mobile and begins swiping through his contacts.
Polly
I watch as Fraser takes the microphone offered by the DJ and the lights are raised a little, allowing our guests to see him clearly.
Fraser taps the mic head twice to check it’s working and then begins.
‘In a moment, I’d like to say a few words but first, I believe my son has a gift of appreciation for his mum. Cody?’
I gasp as Cody strides across the dance floor carrying a huge bouquet of white roses, wrapped in cellophane and completed with a satin bow.
‘Cheers, Mum, thanks for this and . . . for everything,’ he says, handing me the bouquet and delivering a hasty kiss to my cheek.
I blush profusely as our guests clap and cheer.
‘You’re welcome, son,’ is all I can muster before I’m too choked to speak. I know Cody appreciates everything, the entire family do, but to have it acknowledged so publicly is a little overwhelming for me. I do what I do through love.
‘Can I thank you all for your company this evening, helping me and Polly celebrate our son’s birthday. It’s not every year we get to enjoy his celebrations, given that Polly ignored my coaching talk on how to push an eight-pounder down a birth canal. But, hey, she managed it eleven minutes later, didn’t you, sweet?’
There’s a titter of laughter around the room as all eyes rest on me. I smile, unable to think of a fitting retort in front of such an audience.
Fraser continues.
‘We’ve done what we felt was best by him, made him go to Scouts when he wanted to play computer games, talked him into being a striker when he’d have happily been in goal and steered him away from motorbikes when he was too eager to gain his independence. We’ve given him Calpol whether it was needed or not, made him believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy but then lectured him on stranger danger about everyone else. I’ve stayed quiet when he’s worn bright pink shirts, aired my opinion on some very dodgy haircuts and opened all the windows once he’s gone out in an effort to rid the house of the stink of so-called designer aftershaves, which smell no better than my good old Hai Karate.’
I look over at Cody as our guests begin to laugh. His face is reddening, his head is lowered, but he’s laughing too, taking it in the good spirit in which it’s meant.
‘So it only goes to show that, with love, care and lots of attention, which are the three things we promised him as a tiny baby . . . I suppose what I’m trying to say is I think we’ve pulled off a decent job.’
Fraser falls silent, and our guests acknowledge his honesty with a huge round of applause and unexpected wolf-whistling.
I’m walking towards him without a thought for anyone other than Fraser. I’ve never heard him speak so eloquently in public. I suppose I remember the shy teenager he used to be. At home he’s comical, but only when sentiment surfaces and he needs to cover his emotions. But now, here tonight, in front of everyone we know and care about, Fraser’s just summed up the last twenty years of our life, dedicated to each other and raising our boy.
I proudly stand beside him, smiling up at his expression. He’s choked, but rightly so; he’s just done our Cody and me proud by showing how much he loves our life.
I need to do the same.
I take the microphone from his hand, which he duly relinquishes, thinking I’m leading him from the spotlight.
‘Fraser, thank you . . . from both Cody and me – I couldn’t have put it better myself in summing up the years we have spent nurturing and loving our boy. We’ve proved we can work as a team, share each other’s daily lives and still laugh, despite the dramas. Which gives me even more reason to ask . . . Fraser, will you marry me?’
Our guests fall silent; not a sound is heard as I watch my proposal hit home for Fraser.
‘I’d be honoured to marry you, Polly.’
Our guests erupt into applause, and a cry of ‘How embarrassing!’ lifts above the cheers – which I assume is our son hiding his delight with a wayward comment.
We, Fraser and I, are lost in a kiss.
Someone takes the microphone from my hands but I’m oblivious as to who.
‘My parents, ladies and gentlemen! Finally we’ll all share the same surname!’
Our guests titter some more, as we ignore the dimming lights, ignore our son’s quip and sink into an embrace and slowly dance.
‘Thank you,’ whispers Fraser, holding me to his chest.
‘What?’
‘Thank you for asking me . . . I’ve never truly lost that desire I had to make it official all those years ago. But I knew how adamant you were not to have history repeat itself. I knew our relationship would be different to your parents’, but I understood your worries too. I’m delighted that you’re happy enough with our little lot to put old fears aside and get married.’
‘Oh Fraser . . . I don’t deserve you, I really don’t.’
Carmen
I feel such a fool standing in the hotel reception asking to be let into my own room. Elliot still has the plastic door key in his pocket and I had more important things to think about than remembering to ask for it. We were a couple so why should we not share?
‘Madam will just need to wait two moments . . . we will create a spare,’ says the smiley young woman, oblivious to my struggle to maintain my public face as she tap-tap-taps at her computer keyboard.
As I wait, I plan the next thirty minutes of my life – it is all I can do. It is all I can plan ahead for, having been refused the possibility of a marriage or children. The next thirty minutes is all I can manage, given the knot of tears threatening to overflow from my che
st.
In no time I have a brand-new plastic door key and am stepping from the lift beside our room, number 668.
I unceremoniously wiggle and waggle the key to gain entry, which proves to me how useless my basic life skills are. Once inside, I flick on every lamp to illuminate the darkened hotel room. I want to do anything that will eliminate the last hour from my memory – if it’s a Parisian night outside my window, I want Italian daylight to lift my mood.
Would reception switch my room if I ask? I’d be happy with a downgrade; it would be better than staying in a room that had started the weekend as a pre-honeymoon suite. Now it is simply heartbreak hotel, or rather it will be, once I’m undressed and sobbing neck-deep in a bubble bath.
I run around the three-roomed suite, gathering my toiletries, focusing on running a bath and trying to prevent my mind from slipping off-task and remembering the word ‘non’ before I break down uncontrollably. If I let myself cry before the bubbles form, I’ll no doubt drop to the bathroom floor and be found by the maid tomorrow morning in the exact same spot, dehydrated, swollen-eyed and surrounded by crumpled tissues.
I survive the thirty minutes in the bath accompanied by tears. I manage to dry myself and don the large fluffy white towel with the hotel logo emblazoned on the breast pocket. I even unwrap and wear the flimsy matching towelling slippers they provide.
I lie on the bed.
The bed in which hours ago we made love.
The bed to which we were supposed to return, wearing our engagement rings, in order to make more love.
The bed in which we were due to wake up tomorrow morning and smile at each other, blush and begin our new chapter, planning for becoming man and wife.
I crawl into its centre and stare around the room.
It really is a honeymooners’ room.
Did I jinx myself by booking such a suite?
I grab my mobile from the bedside cabinet and speed dial.
‘How’s Maisy?’ I ask.
‘Sod Maisy . . . how are you?’ asks Trish, bursting with excitement.
‘Elliot said no.’
‘What?’ screams Trish, her voice rising ten decibels.
‘He said no,’ I repeat.