Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Read online

  ‘ “Christmas is not for single people,” ’ they all chorus, impersonating me very accurately. Well, I can’t really give out; it is yet another one of my catch-phrases …

  ‘Laugh all you like, girlies, but it’s only the truth. Any festival that makes you think it’s a good idea to snog the face off a man you’d ordinarily cross the street to avoid, just because there happens to be a mangy bit of plastic mistletoe hanging from a glitter ball with John Lennon singing “Merry Christmas (War is Over)”, can’t exactly be good for you, can it?’

  ‘She didn’t know what she was doing, your honour,’ says Rachel theatrically.

  ‘She could have been kissing Bin Laden for all she knew. Or cared,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Pay no attention,’ says Caroline sweetly, playing with a strand of her long, golden hair. (Natural, natural, natural. Honestly. The only time Caroline ever goes near a salon is when she needs to get chewing gum cut out of one of her children’s hair.) ‘Anyway, isn’t it a kind of rite of passage for working on Celtic Tigers? You’re not officially part of the show until you’ve had a squeeze with Rob Richards.’

  ‘Just because he’s Mr Big Shot Household Name doesn’t entitle him to some kind of medieval droit de seigneur,’ says Rachel crisply. ‘Men like that have absolutely no difficulty in releasing their inner PUA.’

  ‘Their what?’ I ask.

  ‘Pick-up artist.’

  ‘It’s a rare occurrence, I know, but don’t you just hate it when Rachel is right?’ Jamie says.

  OK, time for me to get off this highly embarrassing subject … ‘So, anyway, we’re filming his big wedding to Glenda tomorrow and the final run-through this evening was a disaster. Neither of them has a clue of their lines. I had to spend the last two hours scribbling them down on three-foot-high idiot boards because everyone else in the office had gone home. I swear, humble and all as a deputy producer’s job is, I really don’t get paid enough.’

  ‘OH MY GOWWWWD, Rob Richards marries GLENDA?’ Caroline, a stay-at-home mom, is the only one of the Lovely Girls who actually watches the show. ‘I never in a million years thought they’d actually go through with it. I mean, not after he had a one-night stand with Shantania on his stag night and then confessed it to Glenda the next day. And he’s not been out of the coma all that long either.’

  ‘Honey, you have got to get out more,’ said Rachel, shoving an uneaten bowl of tapas away from her. ‘Why is it that everything in here tastes like regurgitated bat vomit?’

  ‘It’s protein only,’ Caroline explains helpfully.

  ‘This is protein? I thought it was house insulant.’ Then she picks up an empty champagne flute and waves it threateningly under Jamie’s nose. ‘Excuse me, lounge boy? Refills badly needed, please.’

  ‘Oh, you are so sweet!’ Jamie replies, delighted. ‘You really think I could pass for a lounge boy? Because they’re only, like, sixteen. God bless Crème de la Mer, that’s all I can say. Oh, stay cool, my lovelies, cute guy alert. You know that divine manager I told you about? Here he comes, so just act natural, everyone.’

  This has precisely the opposite effect as we all do 180-degree neck swivels to see who he’s talking about.

  ‘Too butch-looking for you, darling,’ says Rachel.

  ‘Whaddya mean, too butch?’

  ‘I mean, not your type. Not artistic-looking enough.’

  ‘Oh, please, it’s not like he just came in from branding cattle and smoking Marlboro.’

  ‘Hey, I just don’t want you to go out with someone and for people to think you met in a police line-up—’

  ‘Don’t bother finishing that sentence, Rachel,’ says Jamie, a bit miffed. ‘I’ll just catch the rest of that gag on the Antiques Roadshow.’

  It may sound like they’re on the verge of a feud but, honestly, Jamie and Rachel really are best friends. This is just the way they spark off each other. However, I judge it a very opportune moment to change the subject. ‘I have news.’

  ‘So do I,’ says Jamie.

  ‘So do I, but let Amelia go first,’ says Caroline with typical niceness. ‘She never gets to go first.’

  I take a deep breath, then whip the ‘FATE IS LATE!’ ad out of my handbag, carefully spreading it out in the middle of the table for them all to google at. ‘So. What do we think?’ I ask hopefully.

  The silence alone should have alerted me.

  ‘You have got to be taking the piss,’ says Rachel, scrutinizing it. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you’re supposed to track down all your exes and then say – what? What was it about me drove you nuts when we were going out? Now that’s ironic, Alanis Morissette.’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘And this is going to help you find a soulmate?’ Rachel’s on her high horse now. ‘Face it, sweetie. We’re your soulmates. Whether you like it or not.’

  OK, maybe not the reaction I’d hoped for, but I’ll plough on … ‘Thanks very much, two divorces. What do the rest of you think?’

  ‘Oh, honey,’ says Caroline, clocking the hurt look on my face, ‘I know you’ve been single for a long time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jamie, ‘ever since you broke up with He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken.’

  The gang all make gestures of sticking their fingers down their throats and throwing up, at the mere hint of the name Jamie has just conjured up, which I gamely choose to ignore. Not the time, not the place.

  ‘Apart from him, I’ve pretty much been single for most of my thirties, bar a few horrific dates which we won’t even bother going into.’

  Rachel starts to chortle. ‘Do you remember that guy you went on a blind date with who turned out to be in the IRA?’

  ‘Well, that just shows that I’ve been a brave little foot soldier,’ I reply, wincing a bit at the memory. ‘And that I’m prepared to get out of my cosy comfort zone. I mean, if a girl can’t find a husband among the non-paramilitaries—’

  ‘If daytime television has taught me nothing,’ Caroline gently interrupts, ‘it’s that the man of your dreams is out there somewhere for you, and that you’ll meet him when the time is right. There has to be serendipity about it. I honestly think these things are bigger than us. I really do.’

  ‘If I was married to a big ride like you are, I’d probably say the same thing,’ says Jamie. ‘Look, we all know you really want to be with someone, Amelia—’

  ‘No, I’ve been with people. That’s not what I want. I want to be married. Sorry if this sounds old-fashioned, but I want my husband. Look, just say I live to be eighty, then I’ve already lived almost half my life alone. I’d love someone to share the second half with, that’s all. Yes, it’s about having kids before it’s too late and all of that, but it’s the little things too. You know, just … someone to read the papers with in bed on a Sunday morning and, I dunno … someone who’ll give me a hug at the end of a rough day. Girlies, I’m thirty-seven years of age and I’ve been dating since I was sixteen. I’m officially worn out. Where is he?’

  ‘Not on some bloody night course anyway,’ says Rachel. ‘Unless he’s teaching it. I’m sorry, darling, but face facts. If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s not going to. The secret of a happy life at our age is to gracefully accept that yes, men do like strong, independent women, once they’re hot, sexy and under thirty-five. It’s like that fabulous quote: “Being an old maid is a little bit like drowning. A really delightful sensation once you give up the struggle.” ’

  Just then, an imposingly tall, good-looking, preppy guy, who looks and dresses like he has a proper job, approaches Rachel. ‘Hiya,’ he says confidently. ‘Just wondered if I could buy you a drink?’

  ‘Piss off,’ she says, without even looking at him.

  See what I mean about the lethal Rachel pheromone? The poor guy skulks off without even a backward glance in my direction and suddenly I get all defensive. It’s OK for her, she’s had two husbands; it’s OK for Caroline, she has a perfect life; and it’s OK for Jamie, he changes boyfrie
nds the way the rest of us change shoes. I just have to work a bit harder at it, that’s all.

  There is no lethal Amelia pheromone.

  Nor can I help feeling that this is my very, very, very last chance to do something about it.

  ‘Well, I’ve tried everything else,’ I reply. ‘Internet dating, speed dating, blind dates; short of joining the Knock marriage bureau, you name it, I’ve given it a whirl. And all with zero per cent success. I must be doing something wrong, so why not try the business marketing approach? I mean, huge corporations spend millions on this sort of thing, so if it works in the world of commerce, why not dating?’

  ‘But, Amelia,’ says Caroline gently, ‘you have such a fantastic life as it is. Try walking a few miles in my shoes and you’ll appreciate just how great you have it. You get to stay in bed all weekend, if you feel like it. Your purse is full of disposable income.’

  ‘Yes, we loveless loners are so lucky.’

  They all roar laughing, but I wasn’t trying to be funny.

  ‘Come on, girlies. I don’t know why it is, but finding a partner is just so easy for some people, but to me it’s like climbing Mount Everest.’

  What I really mean is … I seem to have a hex on me. It’s almost as if some wicked fairy came to my christening, just like in the Disney cartoon Sleeping Beauty, and said, ‘OK, I got good news and bad news for you.’ (In my imagination, the wicked fairy talks a bit like a mafia don.) ‘The good news is, everything in your life will be great, but the bad news is, you’re destined to live it out alone. Capeesh?’

  I may not be able to break the curse, but one thing’s for sure: I’ll get there or die trying. This is the year.

  I’ll give it twelve months and if it still hasn’t happened, then I’ll gracefully give up and spend the rest of my life going on lesbian walking tours at weekends. I’ll leave instructions in my will that my headstone is to be engraved with the immortal phrase: ‘Here lies Amelia Lockwood, spinster of this parish. She may have died single, but at least she bloody well tried.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a fabulous idea.’ We all turn to look at Jamie, intrigued. I was fully expecting him, of all people, to make mincemeat of the whole thing. ‘I mean, just look at you, Amelia. In every other respect, you’re completely and utterly at the top of your game. You’re so pretty; I always say behind your back that you’re one of the undiscovered beauties of Ireland. You know, a bit like the Antrim coastline.’

  ‘You’re comparing her to scenery in Northern Ireland?’ says Rachel.

  ‘I am trying to be complimentary, girlies. Just look at her, she’s an SHB.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Oh, please, do none of you watch MTV? A super-hot babe. If Amelia was played by a Hollywood actress, it would have to be … Meryl Streep.’

  ‘She’s fifty-something!’ squeals Caroline.

  ‘Can I finish? Meryl Streep twenty years ago, in Sophie’s Choice. You know, when she was young and gorgeous and had the long, swishy hair and that ephemeral, dreamy thing going on. Devastating combination.’

  ‘You only chose her because we both have big noses,’ I say.

  ‘Not true. Amelia, I’ll only say this once, mainly because then it’s time to talk about me, but you’re successful, talented, you’ve got a fabulous penthouse apartment, a flashy car, your dream career and … well, put it this way, what did you spend last Saturday night doing? Watching Parkinson? Taking calls from telemarketers?’

  ‘No, I was saving that for my birthday.’

  Now Rachel is cackling. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, look! The teacher is called Ira Vandergelder. You seriously want to enrol on a course run by a woman called Ira Vandergelder? She sounds like the mother out of Rhoda.’

  ‘Shut up, Rachel,’ says Jamie. ‘I think Amelia should go for it. It’s been so long since she produced a boyfriend that people will start thinking she’s GUPO.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘Gay until proven otherwise.’

  I turn to Caroline. ‘I will give you one hundred euro if you change the subject right now.’

  ‘No, it’s my go!’ says Jamie. ‘Amelia’s had her airtime and I haven’t even started the bitch-fest about my little dalliance last weekend yet.’

  ‘Can you all stop the sailor talk for a minute?’ says Caroline, taking a deep breath and pausing for dramatic effect. ‘I don’t mean to sound prudish or anything, but there’s an expectant mother in your midst.’

  ‘AGHHH! You’re up the duff again!’ Rachel and I squeal, almost going ultrasonic as we smother her in hugs.

  ‘This is it, though,’ says Caroline, ‘this is definitely the last one. As my mother always says, never have more children than you have windows in your car.’

  ‘Shame on me, I should have guessed the minute you ordered a virgin bloody Mary,’ says Jamie, sounding a bit choked. ‘I am soooo happy for you, sweetheart, I feel like I’m in a musical. Does anyone else feel not just happy, but Broadway happy right now?’

  Hours later, as I’m crawling into bed, I think about Caroline. And Mike. And their perfect life and their two perfect children, and now another one to come.

  And how lucky they both are.

  Right there and then I make up my mind. I have absolutely no idea what the coming year will bring, but I’m certain about one thing: I’m getting married.

  Chapter Two

  The Pity Party is Over

  Next day in work is a battlefield. This is nothing unusual, it’s just that by mid-afternoon I still haven’t had either the chance or the privacy to pick up the phone and book myself a place on the ‘find a husband’ course.

  At times like this, I really feel like calling up Jayne Lawler, my predecessor on Celtic Tigers, and offering her my entire annual wage packet, plus any vital organ of mine she may have a use for, if she’ll just come back to work. Jayne, however, is younger than me, happily married to a gorgeous guy and now on extended maternity leave, which is why I was drafted over from the current affairs department to deputize for her in the first place.

  Jealous? Me? Bitter? Moi?

  Anyway, I’m up to my eyes casting for a major new character that’s coming into the show in a few weeks’ time. This may sound straightforward enough, but actually involves (a) contacting every actor’s agent in Dublin to see who they have on their books who’d be suitable, (b) winnowing out the ones who can act from the ones who can’t and, most difficult of all, (c) fielding calls from Jamie who’s been pestering me all morning demanding that I cast him.

  ‘I am so perfect for the part it’s not true. There’s nothing I can’t play, you know. I’m an actor’s actor.’

  ‘Jamie, just listen for a moment—’

  ‘Don’t you think I’m TV pretty? You know, kind of like that gorgeous guy who plays Will in Will and Grace? A straight gay type, that’s the look I’m going for.’

  ‘You’re wonderful-looking, as you very well know, but the problem is—’

  ‘If I don’t get a decent job soon, I will be unable to shop.’

  ‘Jamie, you’re not listening—’

  ‘You have GOT to give me the gig. Otherwise what is the point of me hanging around with Miss Big Shot Deputy Producer anyway?’

  ‘Sweetheart, you know me; ordinarily I’ll cave in to emotional guilt, but in this case, you’re wasting your time. You’re completely wrong for the part.’

  ‘Wrong, how?’

  ‘Well, for starters you’re not over six feet tall.’

  ‘I can wear shoes with lifts, like Tom Cruise.’

  ‘And you’re not from Nigeria.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of make-up?’

  ‘Jamie, forget it. If we were to cast you, the make-up budget alone would bankrupt the show. I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m on the lookout for the right part for you, but trust me, this isn’t it. Now go away, I have to work.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right, darling. You know me, completely NID.’

  ‘NID?�
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  ‘Not into details.’

  Then Rachel calls. ‘Hey, sweetie, just wondered if you’d booked yourself on to the I’m-so-desperate-to-find-a-man-I’m-prepared-to-go-back-to-college course thingy.’

  ‘Still haven’t had a chance. Can I call you back?’

  ‘I’m just trying to be the voice of reason here, before you do something you’ll live to regret. Are you really sure this is what you want? To go back in time and live the rest of your life in a 1950s detergent commercial?’

  ‘No, just a husband will do fine, thanks.’

  ‘I just think that, at your age, you should be slowly eliminating the need for a man out of your life. Maybe think about going on a kill-a-spider course instead.’

  ‘Rachel, call you back!’

  Five minutes later, I’m outside in the TV studio car park, frantically trying to get through to the UCD admissions office from my mobile. I don’t normally make phone calls from the car park, you understand, it’s just that … well … in this life, there are some conversations you don’t really want anyone to overhear and as anyone who works in an open-plan office will tell you, loose lips cost ships.

  ‘And which evening class are you interested in booking?’ asks a warm, friendly woman’s voice.

  I glance over my shoulder, just to double-check there’s no one around. ‘The one about how to find a husband …’ I mutter under my breath.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but you’re breaking up on me. What did you say?’

  ‘Over the age of thirty-five.’

  ‘The signal must be terrible where you’re calling from. I’m sorry, what was that again, please?’

  Whether I like it or not, I’m forced to raise my voice, while hopping around the car park like a demented lunatic trying to see if the signal will improve.