Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 9

  ‘I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t bring them up.’

  Over the years, I have, of course, badgered Caroline and Mike into matching me up with anyone halfway suitable and … well … you don’t need to have the consequences spelt out. Here I am, years on, still single, still sitting on her immaculate Louis XVIII two-seater, still looking for fix-ups.

  ‘Do you remember the Oompa-Loompa?’ Caroline giggles.

  ‘Oh God, don’t remind me!’ I squeal.

  The Oompa-Loompa was a work colleague of Mike’s, an orthodontist, who Mike and Caroline had introduced me to years ago. In fact, that’s probably the best thing I can say about him. He had a decent job. Otherwise he was arrogant and mean, the type who’d take me to dinner in a posh restaurant which I could ill afford, order three courses for himself while I’d nibble on a starter, insist on buying ludicrously expensive bottles of wine, then glug the entire bottle himself while I sipped on a thimbleful (I’d be the designated driver) and, finally, insist we split the bill fifty-fifty.

  Then after we broke up, he became possessive to the point of virtually becoming a stalker. He would buzz the intercom at my apartment gates for hours at a time while I lay flat out on the living-room floor, terrified he’d see that I was home. It was Jamie who christened him the Oompa-Loompa, mainly because he was short with red hair. Jamie also did his best to start a rumour that the Oompa-Loompa had to buy all his clothes from kiddie departments, but it wasn’t true, just Jamie being mean. Funny, but mean.

  ‘He’s married now, you know,’ says Caroline.

  ‘You see, if the Oompa-Loompa can find someone to marry, then so can I.’

  ‘Well, sweetie, you know what I always say? These things are bigger than us. If Julia Roberts’s movies have taught me anything, it’s that fate and serendipity will eventually lead you to Mr Right.’

  ‘Caroline, I’ve waited thirty-seven years; can I help it if fate and serendipity need a kick up the bum?’

  She starts giggling again. ‘What was the name of that patient of Mike’s you went out with? The one who took you to dinner in the Trocadero …’

  ‘And when I asked for a mint tea—’

  ‘He went, “Mint tea? La-di-dah!” ’

  ‘That wasn’t the worst of it. His proudest boast was that he’d never been outside of Dublin in his life. Didn’t even own a passport. He kept saying, “Sure, why would anyone want to leave the Phibsboro Road?” He was forty-two.’

  ‘And he had boasted to Mike that he ran his own highly successful business …’

  ‘But it turned out to be a sweet shop which he lived over.’

  Suddenly Caroline goes quiet.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  ‘Amelia, do you remember what the nuns in school used to teach us?’

  ‘That, sooner or later, everyone gets shot?’

  She smiles. ‘Stop messing.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Remember social studies class? Sister Hildegarde always used to say that you should go on at least three dates with a man before you rejected him. Do you think maybe you’re not really giving these guys a real chance? That you’re writing them all off for very superficial reasons? You know, like we tease Jamie for doing.’

  ‘No I’m not. Am I? Am I?’

  ‘I’ll give you one example. Damien Delaney.’

  I groan inwardly. She’s got me there. Damien Delaney is a good friend of Mike’s; they’re in the same golf club and play together regularly. I have to tread carefully here as I know Caroline is very fond of him too.

  ‘Now you tell me one thing that was wrong with Damien.’

  I brace myself for the lie. The truth was, we only went on one date, just before I met He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken and, although it wasn’t disastrously awful, I did do the seatbelt manoeuvre when he drove me home. This is a handy move which Jamie and I have perfected over years of bad dating, whereby if a guy is driving you home and you’ve already decided you don’t want to invite him in for coffee, you unlock your seatbelt just before you arrive at your destination, but hold it in place so it still looks locked. Then, once you’re safely home, you can be out of the car in one swift movement, politely wishing him a very good night, and cleverly eliminating the embarrassment of any should-we-kiss-each-other-goodnight-or-not angst. One hundred per cent effective, every time.

  ‘I know that he thinks you’re lovely,’ says Caroline. ‘Anytime he’s here, he always asks after you. Now, you give me one good reason why you won’t see him again.’

  I look at her sheepishly. There is no good reason and I’m beginning to feel she may have a point, that I do reject guys over inconsequential trifles. Damien was a lot older than me, about sixty, widowed with grownup kids and now living back at home with his mother. He also had the same pen pal that he’d had since the age of seven and whom he’d never actually met. Now, ordinarily, I have a high tolerance level for the eccentricities of others, but even I thought that was a bit whacky. There was also the small matter of there being absolutely no chemistry between us … nothing … not even the tiniest smidge …

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ says Caroline gently. ‘OK, maybe he’s not the funniest guy in the world, but just remember, you don’t necessarily want to marry someone who’s going to do stand-up routines every time you’re out with him. You have Rachel and Jamie for that. But he’s a good, solid man, who’d treat you well and look after you. Not the most exciting or glamorous, I know, but will you please give him one more whirl? For me?’

  Just then, Mike bursts in, swinging Emma, their six-year-old, over his shoulders. All of a sudden, Joshua is awake and the whole room is happy and noisy, with both kids demanding sweets from soft Auntie Amelia’s bottomless handbag. Mike looks as yummy as ever, getting more and more like Richard Gere every day and wearing Calvin Klein casual gear even better than Calvin Klein himself could. (‘How does he do that to clothes?’ Jamie’s always moaning. ‘Make them look so crisp and starched and immaculate all the time? He has two kids, for God’s sake. The clothes should be covered in chocolate stains and congealed snot.’)

  I say my goodbyes and Caroline walks me downstairs to the front door.

  ‘So?’ she asks, hugging me. ‘Will I ask Mike to set up another date for you?’

  ‘Go for it,’ I reply. ‘As Ira Vandergelder would say, this is not a drill, people.’

  ‘Good girl. There’s the Dunkirk spirit. You’ll see if I don’t have you married off before the year is out.’

  I hop into my car, drive away from her gorgeous Victorian doll’s house and head for home. Caroline and I don’t live too far from each other and within ten minutes I’m stepping out of the lift and into my toasty-warm apartment, dreaming about a long, hot bath and short crisp glass of Sancerre.

  The phone in the hall is ringing and I answer. Jamie.

  ‘Am I so undeserving of love?’ he asks theatrically, cutting straight to the chase as usual.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sigh. ‘Are we talking about a certain Hispanic director with a limited grasp of the English language? Do I need a glass of wine in my hand for this?’

  ‘A wine box more like, honey.’

  ‘OK, you said it.’

  I head to the kitchen, open the fridge (which is practically empty apart from wine), pour myself a very large glass and collapse on to the sofa while Jamie prattles on.

  ‘So, José Miguel and I had lunch today and I asked if we were seeing each other exclusively and you know what he said? “I am like the wind.” Can you believe it? That’s the kind of answer you get when you punch up Google and key in “commitment-phobic bastard”. It’s at this point that my day starts to go downhill. Then he tells me I didn’t get the part because – get this – I don’t have the X factor. I said, “Oh great, thanks for the fantastic feedback! Because for a minute there I was afraid you were going to be vague.” ’

  Just then my mobile beep-beeps loudly as a text message comes through.

  ‘Whoever that is
, ignore them,’ Jamie demands. ‘I’m not having anyone pulling focus away from my problem. Oh shit, curiosity just got the better of me. Go on, find out who it is that dares to interrupt.’

  I haul myself up, walk back to where I’d flung my mobile on the kitchen table and read the text aloud. It’s from Caroline. SPOKE TO DAMIEN. ALL SORTED. KEEP NEXT SAT NIGHT FREE, DINNER FOR THE 4 OF US?

  ‘Hello? Explanation please? New readers begin here,’ says Jamie.

  ‘Now, don’t overreact, OK? Caroline is setting me up again, with Damien Delaney. Remember him? Mike’s golfing partner.’

  ‘The old man?’

  ‘In some cultures, early sixties is considered to be the prime of life,’ I answer primly. ‘OK, so he may not tick a lot of my boxes, but Caroline thinks he could be a grower.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You know, no fireworks, but a really sweet guy who slowly grows on you.’

  ‘Well, don’t look on him as old, honey. Look on him as younger than some buildings.’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny. I’d no idea you were so ageist.’

  ‘Just think of it like this. In a way, you’re living out your fantasy.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know how you always secretly fancied going out with a twenty-one-year-old? Well this way, it’s like you’re going out with three twenty-one-year-olds.’

  Just then, there’s a knock on my hall door.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, I was in mid-rant. Who’s that?’ says Jamie.

  ‘Moany Moira Brady from downstairs probably. She’s always thumping on the door whenever I walk around the wooden floors in my heels. Hang up and I’ll call you when she’s finished giving me an ear-bashing.’

  ‘Get rid of Mrs Brady, old lady, and call me straight back. While she’s tearing shreds off you, just mentally make a sentence out of the following words. Tip. Iceberg. You haven’t even heard the half of yet.’

  I whip off my shoes and tiptoe down the wooden corridor, bracing myself for the onslaught. ‘I’m so sorry Mrs Brady—’ I say, opening the door.

  But it isn’t her.

  Instead it’s the only other person I know who still has a key to my building.

  He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken.

  ‘Amelia …’ he says.

  I have to grip tight on to the door frame, just to stop myself from passing out.

  ‘I know you’ll probably want to slam the door in my face, and I don’t blame you, but …’

  I can’t speak. All I can do is stare at him in deep, total, shock. Stop opening and closing your jaw, my inner voice says. You must look like a demented goldfish.

  ‘… it’s just that … there’s something you should know.’

  Chapter Ten

  Exactly How Much Closure Do You Need?

  With the speed of light, four possible reasons as to what he was doing on my doorstep flash through my head.

  1. He has an incurable disease and has six months to live.

  2. Oh God, far worse! He has an incurable disease which he has passed on to me, and now I have six months to live.

  3. He’s come back for his CDs (which, actually, I’ll be quite glad to get rid of; they’re all Leonard Cohen and Johnny Cash excuse-me-while-I-just-open-a-vein type music).

  4. Dare I even think this thought? He’s back from Johannesburg … because, gulp, he misses me? Can’t live without me? Loves me? Wants me back?

  Spectacularly wrong, on all four counts.

  ‘Amelia?’

  I can’t even answer him.

  ‘Earth to Amelia?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, but you’d done one of your drifting-off-into-space tricks there and I know how long your meandering little fantasies can last. So, are you going to ask me in?’

  On mute, stunned autopilot, I lead him down the hallway and into my living room. He plonks down on his favourite armchair as if he’d never got out of it. ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you,’ I manage to say.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Force of habit.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Amelia. You look well.’

  ‘I am well.’

  I’m aware that this sounds curt, but I’m no actress, and at this moment find myself unable to banter in meaningless pleasantries and small talk. Particularly when, if I’m brutally honest, I’d rather see him in a wheelchair than sitting in my apartment, cool as a breeze, as if he deserved a lovely, warm slippers-bythe-fire welcome, followed by a traditional Irish fry-up meal, fantastic sex and then a lift home.

  After an awkward pause, where the penny seems to drop with him that he isn’t going to get the red-carpet treatment, and nor am I about to stick a fatted calf into the microwave in celebration at his return, he eventually comes to the point. ‘Look, Amelia, there’s something I had to tell you myself, because I’d really hate for you to hear it from anyone else.’

  Incurable disease?

  ‘It’s just that …’ A deep, soul-searching sigh here. ‘You know, this is so much harder than I thought it was going to be …’

  ‘Give me the last sentence first.’

  ‘OK, OK. The thing is … well, you and I have been broken up for a while now …’

  Oh God, am I hearing things? Or is this actually his roundabout preamble to saying he wants us to get back together again?

  I get another Walter Mitty head-rush fantasy, this time where the impossible dream has actually happened: he’s grovelled/begged me for forgiveness/vowed never to mistreat me ever again … Next thing, we’re happily reunited, having worked out all our differences and renewed our love while entwined round each other in the first-class cabin of a long-haul flight to the Fijian islands … (I’ve had quite a bit of practice with this particular flight of fancy, mainly because, in the first dark, dismal days of our break-up, I used to amuse myself by dreaming up all sorts of scenarios where he’d come crawling back. Believe me; the long winter nights just flew by.)

  ‘How can I ever make it up to you for hurting you the way I did?’ he’s murmuring as we sip champagne cocktails by the infinity pool, whilst gazing out over the turquoise ocean from our tropical paradise hide-away …

  ‘I’m getting married.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?’

  ‘Amelia, I know this will come as a shock to you, but please understand I really wanted to be the one to tell you myself.’

  ‘You’re getting married? Am I hearing things?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to do your happy dance for me, but you see, the thing is …’

  ‘You’re getting married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said you never wanted to get married, not to me, not to anyone, ever. You said you were a born loner and that’s the way you wanted to stay. You said you wanted to live out the rest of your days, alone, in your farmhouse in bloody Stab City. Sorry, I mean Johannesburg. You’ll forgive me for harping on, but please understand this particular subject is one which I have one hundred per cent recall on. I have spent some not inconsiderable time dwelling on the topic. Seeing as that was the main reason why we broke up.’

  ‘I know, I know I said that, and that was true. Then. At that time. Before I met Poppy.’

  ‘Poppy? You’re marrying someone called Poppy?’ I’m dimly aware that I’m repeating everything he says and am starting to sound like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, but guess what? I don’t care.

  ‘She’s a lovely girl; I think you’ll really get on with her when you meet her.’

  Oh, for the love of God, is this why he’s here? To invite me to his wedding?

  ‘Of course, she’s an awful lot younger than you and your friends …’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-three. She’s just out of college.’

  By now, my head is beginning to spin.

  ‘But, you know, she’s not like you, Amelia. She’s not chasing after a big, high-powered career. She just wants to get married and have a family. All the s
imple things in life, really. Meeting Poppy made me realize these are the things that I want too. A woman who wants to make a home.’

  Now I’m starting to feel like I’ve just been hit by a stealth missile. When eventually I can get a sound out, my voice sounds tiny, as if it’s coming from the room next door. ‘But … but … those are all the things that I wanted. And still want.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Amelia. I never thought so. With all due respect, you’re such an independent careerist, you haven’t any time over for a partner. When we were together, I always figured your priorities were first, your friends, second, your big TV job and then last in line, me. At least with Poppy I know I come first.’

  ‘Is that really what you thought?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I really did. Now, don’t get me wrong, Caroline’s lovely but Rachel and Jamie can be very hard to take at times. I know for a fact Rachel calls me Shitface behind my back.’

  I don’t even attempt to deny this, although for the record what she actually calls him is Shitty from Stab City.

  ‘They’ll always come first with you, Amelia, and that’s great for you, but not so good for any man you want to be with. Of course, it’s fantastic that you have such support and that the four of you are all so unbelievably loyal to each other, but it always made me feel like an outsider. There’s a bond between you that no man will ever come between.’

  At this point, my stomach is starting to heave and I’m heartily wishing him gone so I can burst into tears without him seeing.

  Calm down, says my cool, inner voice. The torture has to be almost at an end. He’s just told me the worst possible news I could ever want to hear … it can’t exactly get much worse, can it?

  Anyway, Poppy is probably some South African who he met in Stab City and who I’ll never have to set eyes on as long as I live … he’s only in Ireland briefly to tie up loose ends before he goes back to Johannesburg permanently with his bloody child bride. Yes, it’s awful; yes, it’s a shock; but at least I’ll never have to worry about bumping into him in the supermarket on a Saturday morning, or, even worse, in Temple Bar on a Saturday night.