Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 4

  ‘LATE!’ they chant in unison.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I reply breathlessly. ‘Don’t laugh, but I really wanted to watch the end of the Olympics.’

  ‘Oh, how did Sebastian Coe do? He is so yummy …’ says Caroline, ever the hopeless romantic.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m politically opposed to watching,’ says Jamie, who’s wearing black eyeliner and looks like the really scary one from the Cure. ‘Without the Soviets, it’s like … oh I don’t know …’

  ‘Charles without Diana,’ says Caroline, looking a bit like an early Diana herself, all blonde and bobbed in a sailor dress with pearls.

  ‘You look good,’ Rachel says, eyeing me up and down approvingly. She goes to loads of trouble with her own clothes and is always really interested in what everyone else is wearing. Tonight, she’s all dressed in black, with a glittery crucifix hanging off her neck, backcombed hair, a long duster coat and really, really heavy eye make-up. ‘Take it from me, the puffball skirt is here to stay. It’s a design classic. And the white stilettos just complete the look.’

  ‘You look amazing too,’ I say, ‘a bit like Madonna in the “Holiday” video.’

  ‘Ughh, Madonna,’ groans Jamie. ‘If I hear that crappy song once more, I’ll puke. What a one-hit wonder. Oh, oh, oh, cute girl alert.’

  ‘Who?’ All our heads turn as a tall girl in pink and yellow striped dungarees walks past us, nose in the air, completely oblivious to poor Jamie, who’s busy adjusting his mullet haircut in a bid to catch her eye.

  ‘Isn’t she stunning?’ he says, all full of puppy-dog adoration.

  ‘Looks like a poor man’s Molly Ringwald,’ Rachel cuts across him.

  ‘I’m sorry, there’s a beautiful woman in the vicinity,’ says Jamie, ‘you’re all just big blurry shapes to me now. What do you think, girlies, will I ask her up to dance?’

  ‘Not to this, you’re not allowed,’ says Rachel bossily as the Special AKA come on singing ‘Free Nelson Mandela’.

  ‘Yeah, this song really gets me too,’ I nod in agreement. ‘Like they’re ever going to release Mandela.’

  ‘Anyone for a drink?’ asks a passing cocktail waitress.

  ‘Four orange juices please,’ we all reply, trying our best to look innocent, as if we’re four teetotallers on our way home from choir practice and that’s genuinely our order.

  ‘Did you bring it?’ Jamie hisses at Rachel.

  ‘Yup, but we have to go easy. If my mother smells booze off me when I get home, I’ll be under curfew for a month.’ She then fishes around in her pocket and produces a tiny club soda bottle, filled to the brim with neat, blue-label vodka.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t let the waitress see you topping up our drinks,’ says Jamie. ‘I’m already barred from the Berni Inn for getting caught doing that.’

  ‘Amelia,’ Caroline says slowly, ‘don’t look now, but I think you’re being eyed up.’

  ‘WHAT?’ I nearly fall off my chair in shock. She and Rachel are always the ones who get chatted up and asked to dance whenever we’re in Blinkers; it never seems to be my turn.

  Ever.

  ‘She’s right,’ says Jamie. ‘Over there, by the Malibu promotion stand. Tall, rugger-bugger type. Bet he went to Blackrock College.’

  This time, we all turn to look. It’s considered the height of cool if you can nab a Blackrock boy: the ultimate arm decoration.

  ‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ says Caroline dreamily, ‘kind of like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman.’

  There’s no mistaking it. In fact, not only is he staring over at me, but, prompted by Rachel’s demented waving, he smiles and makes his way over to our table.

  ‘OK, just act natural, girls,’ says Jamie. ‘He might have mates. You know those Blackrock types, they hunt in packs.’

  ‘Stay cool,’ Caroline whispers to me as the waitress comes back with our drinks. ‘Remember you’re single and ready to mingle.’

  I’m not in the slightest bit perplexed as I’m full sure he’ll want to chat up either her or Rachel, which is usually the normal outcome. To my astonishment, he makes a beeline for me, takes me by the hand and asks me up to dance.

  I’ll never forget it.

  Lionel Ritchie came on singing ‘Hello’ as he led me on to the dance floor. The gang looked on, giving me very unsubtle thumbs-up signs and generally making a show of me. But I didn’t care. A gorgeous guy just asked me to dance.

  Me.

  The others could have mooned at us and I’d barely have noticed.

  He was way over six feet tall, well built, with twinkly blue eyes and floppy light brown hair. Miles better looking than Richard Gere any day.

  ‘I’m Greg Taylor,’ he said, holding me so tight, my tummy did somersaults.

  Three Malibu and Cokes, one more slow set and about fifteen snogs later, he had officially become my first proper boyfriend.

  First guy I fancied who actually fancied me back.

  First love.

  First broken heart.

  And now, after all these years, somehow I’d have to contact him again.

  Chapter Three

  Mr Wrong, the First

  Brunch on the first Saturday of every month is something of a sacrosanct tradition for the Lovely Girls by now. In fact, nothing short of one of us being terminally ill and on life support would be considered an acceptable excuse for getting out of it. But then Jamie has always been a bit of a Houdini when it comes to wriggling out of long-standing commitments.

  ‘I’m soooooo sorry to let you down,’ he trills down my mobile phone as I scour the car park for a space, ‘but my agent has set up a meeting for me with a theatre director who’s so hot at the minute he’s practically smoking. Every actor in town is sawing a limb off just to get to meet this guy, so you can just imagine how I feel.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Like Santa Claus finally got my letter, sweetie. Remember that all-male production of Romeo and Juliet that won about twenty-five Olivier awards? Same guy. José Miguel Fernandez. From Catalonia. Very, very sexy. Hot to trot.’

  ‘So he’s gay, then?’

  ‘Bent as the Soviet sickle, darling. If he was played by a Hollywood actor it would have to be … Antonio Banderas. And you know how much I adore those Latino types. So you see my dilemma, baby.’

  ‘Well, no actually, I don’t,’ I reply firmly, mobile clamped to my ear as I try to squeeze into a parking space the size of a fruit pastille. ‘Jamie, you hate the theatre. You said it’s a dying art form, and that the only reason you go at all is because occasionally you like to watch the corpse decompose.’

  ‘I know, I know. Theatre’s really just there so that the ugly actors have someplace to work. But this director is just soooo cute and it’s been so long since I had sex that I’m starting to wonder if it’s any different now.’

  ‘You’ve barely been single for two weeks.’

  ‘For a gay man, that’s an eternity. We’re a completely different species to you. Just think of us as a parallel universe.’

  There’s a slight pranging noise as I inadvertently tap off the bumper of the car in front.

  ‘Are you parking, Miss Magoo?’ (This is my nickname, as I’m both short-sighted and an atrocious driver to boot.)

  ‘Yup. I have a brunch to go to. I would never dream of letting my friends down. Not even if Colin Farrell begged me to have naked brunch with him instead.’

  ‘You’re such a doll; I know you’ll break it gently to the others why I can’t be there. And I know that you’ll cope with their devastation at not seeing me. I am, after all, the nucleus around which you all revolve. It’s quite a responsibility.’

  ‘And as modest as a postulant,’ I sigh wearily. Jamie’s made up his mind to cancel and that’s all there is to it. ‘OK then, you win. I’ll do your dirty work for you and pass on the message that some cute guy is more important to you than the Lovely Girls. But God help you when you speak to them next.’

  ‘You are an angel from on hi
gh. Men have gone to heaven for less.’

  ‘And by the way, I hope you get a dose of the DDs for letting us down.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Double diarrhoea.’

  ‘Too late, I’m so nervous about meeting him, I already have. That’s the theatre for you. Nature’s laxative.’

  We’ve arranged to meet in the Cobalt Café, a gorgeous bright sunny restaurant with colourful Cath Kidston tablecloths, a jazz quartet playing in the background and a wine list to die for.

  ‘I adore brunch,’ says Caroline, tucking into a plate of omelette and chips fit for a builder.

  ‘I know,’ Rachel replies, ‘it’s kind of like breakfast with booze.’

  We’ve all expressed our disappointment at not seeing Jamie, tinged with friendly understanding that his career must come first, or, as Rachel dryly puts it, ‘I will rip out his still-beating heart and wave it in front of his disloyal face the next time I see him, that’s if he’s lucky and I happen to be in a good mood. He chucked us over for a theatre audition? He told me he thought the theatre was a hideous bitch-goddess.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, ‘I got that speech too.’

  ‘And if he thinks I’m going to fork out to see some bloody show if he gets the part, he’s got another think coming. Not after that Beckett play he made us sit through.’

  This was a production of Waiting for Godot Jamie was in about a year ago, which the director, for reasons best known to himself, decided to set inside a German concentration camp.

  ‘It’s meant to challenge the audience,’ Jamie had said at the time.

  ‘And in a way, it has,’ Rachel had muttered darkly. ‘Certainly challenged me to go up to the box-office manager, thump him and demand my money back.’

  ‘Did you have to remind me?’ I groan. ‘I’m just out of therapy to recover from seeing that particular show.’

  We’ve also discussed Caroline’s pregnancy; she’s just at the twelve-week stage now, and looks like a glowing ad for it. I don’t think she’s ever experienced nausea once in her entire life. In fact, I’ve had worse symptoms and certainly a far more swollen tummy with a bad dose of PMS. She strenuously denies this, naturally, claiming that she’s eaten so much, the control-top gusset on her tights is in shards.

  And then the chat turns to me. As I knew it would.

  I’m prepared though. For Rachel, anyway. Caroline would support any of her friends even if we decided to sell up and emigrate to Fallujah. But Rachel is another kettle of fish entirely. Don’t get me wrong, I love her dearly, but she’s so smart and so sharp and is permanently three steps ahead of me and she uses witty banter to put her point across and she’s always at her funniest in front of an audience and she really doesn’t want me tracking down all my exes and I know it’s because she’s looking out for me – but guess what?

  I’m a big girl now. And I want a husband. So I’ve come fully prepared for Rachel.

  ‘Well then, honey?’ Caroline asks, gently patting my hand. ‘How did you get on at the find-a-husband night class then? And if you could postpone your wedding till after the baby’s born and I fit back into a size ten, I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘Or have you faced up to the un-face-up-toable and accepted that we are your soulmates?’ says Rachel and I know by the glint in her eyes that she’s only warming up for a good old ding-dong.

  ‘If you’re my soulmate, then God help me. You call-screen during Desperate Housewives.’

  Told you I was ready for her.

  ‘Me and half the Northern hemisphere. For God’s sake, everyone call-screens during Desperate Housewives. I just meant that if you were going to meet someone, you would have met them by now.’

  ‘Rach, you can be very cruel when you’re sober,’ I reply, taking a deep breath and reminding myself that she’s only saying these things because she cares about me. But … well … does she really have to be so down on the whole idea? This is a very tender subject, kind of my own personal Achilles heel. If Rachel wants to show off how funny she is, couldn’t she just slag off my haircut instead?

  ‘All I’m doing is pointing out the obvious, Amelia. If you’re going to get all worked up about it, then go crush a pill and put it in your drink.’

  ‘Girlies,’ says Caroline, tactfully intervening, ‘no way have I forked out ten euro an hour for a babysitter to listen to you pair squabbling. Rachel, call off the dogs.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, but I don’t think she really means it.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I answer, but I don’t mean it either.

  ‘So how did you get on?’

  ‘Short answer or long answer?’

  ‘Long, naturally.’

  I take another sip from my glass of Sancerre and brace myself. ‘Apparently, to find Mr Right, I have to revisit all of my past Mr Wrongs. Starting right at the very beginning and working from there.’

  ‘OH MY GOWWWWD!’ Caroline squeals, ‘Greg Taylor? You have got to be kidding me! Don’t tell me you have to get in contact with him again, after – what’s it been?’

  ‘Twenty years,’ I answer calmly.

  ‘And what’ll you say?’

  ‘I’ve a fair idea of what he’ll say,’ says Rachel. ‘ “Any spare change?” ’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I say, ignoring her. ‘The tutor gave us all these questions you’re supposed to ask, so I can figure out whatever it is I’m doing wrong, but I suppose I’ll just cross that bridge when I come to it. And I can’t put it off for much longer, either.’

  ‘What would you say he’s up to now?’ Caroline asks excitedly.

  ‘Mmm, let me just apply my mind to that question,’ says Rachel, acidly. ‘In prison? In rehab? Or maybe a mental home?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ says Caroline. ‘I need to pee, but I’ll be straight back. My life is so domesticated these days; I have to live vicariously through you.’

  ‘OK,’ says Rachel, getting up. ‘I’ll pop outside for a quick smirt.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of a smirt? It’s what the young ones in work call a smoke mixed with a flirt.’

  No sooner have they both left the table than I have another memory flashback …

  THE TIME: 13 July 1985.

  THE PLACE: Old Wesley Rugby Club, Dublin.

  THE OCCASION: Live Aid is on: it’s the only reason I remember the date so clearly.

  Two massive video screens dominate the whole bar area, both relaying live feed from Wembley arena. Queen have just come on stage and stormed the show with a foot-stomping, mosh-pitting rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. Even the operatic bit in the middle sounded incredible. The crowd, those lucky enough to be in Wembley and here in Dublin, have, predictably, gone mental.

  ‘You are watching the greatest show on earth!’ Bob Geldof is now screaming into the cameras, ‘so get up off your f**king arses and start donating more money! Now!’

  Jamie and I are perched on bar stools, with a brilliant view of the screens. ‘Wow,’ we both say, overwhelmed by Queen’s electrifying performance.

  ‘Isn’t Freddie Mercury unbelievable?’ I say, blown away by his operatic muscularity.

  ‘I heard a rumour he’s gay, you know,’ says Jamie, sounding like an aul’ one gossiping in the hairdresser’s.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say, sneeringly. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me so’s George Michael. Or else someone happily married like – oh, I dunno, like Elton John.’

  ‘So where’s Greg this evening?’

  ‘Who’s on next, Bruce Springsteen?’

  ‘Unavailable.’

  ‘The Boomtown Rats?’

  ‘Unavoidable. Now stop trying to change the subject and tell me where your boyfriend is.’

  I take a sip of my Ritz cider and twiddle nervously on my long, feathery earrings. I was dreading that question. The truth is, after almost a year of going out, I don’t know where Greg is tonight. And it’s a big night. Everyone’s out tonight. Half of UCD is here and have b
een here all day, ever since the show started.

  Except for Greg.

  He hasn’t called, or answered any of my messages: not in ages. I’ve been postponing telling the Lovely Girls for as long as I could, because I know how they’ll react, but I honestly don’t think I can put it off for much longer.

  ‘Amelia? What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t called me since … oh, I can’t remember when.’ I try my best to sound all blasé, but I’m a crap actress. Jamie sees through me straight away.

  ‘Yes you can. When?’

  ‘Two weeks, four days and oh … about thirteen hours ago.’ By now Freddie Mercury is belting out ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’. The irony is too much for me and I start getting teary. ‘I don’t know what to do, Jamie; I’m so knickers mad about him.’

  ‘Oh, come on, babe,’ he says, slipping an encouraging arm around me. ‘He took you to his debs ball, and that was only a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I try to sound convinced but am not really doing a very good job of it, mainly because Greg spent most of the night chatting up Sandra Sweetman, the pin-up girl of first-year Arts, UCD. Literally. She ran in the students’ union election and not only was voted in by a landslide, but all her posters (in which she looks stunningly gorgeous, a bit like Lucy Ewing) were nicked and are now hanging in student bedsits the length and breadth of Rathmines. ‘I was kind of hoping that the reason Greg hadn’t called was because he was so mad about me that he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone …’ I trail off lamely seeing the look of disbelief mingled with pity on Jamie’s face.

  ‘Now, you know what I’ll say to that,’ he says, gently.

  ‘Probably, but say it anyway.’

  ‘That’s a bit like saying, “Oh, I just love that song so much that I’m never going to listen to it ever, ever again.” Or, “I love that movie so much I’ll never watch it ever again, as long as I live.” You know, a bit like the way I feel about The Breakfast Club.’

  ‘I know, you’re right.’ I take another gulp of Ritz and try really hard to keep the wobble out of my voice. Wesley’s packed and I really don’t want to be seen bawling in public.