Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (23 page)

‘I know. I will. I promise.'

‘That's the girl. Oh, and I have more news. In fact, this should have been the first item of news. Wow, I'm starting to feel like the latest edition of something, which is a new experience for me. Normally I'm so dependent on you guys to keep me in the know.'

‘Oh, I love news. Especially if it's about other people.'

‘Two words for you. Mr Intense.'

‘
What!
'

‘I know exactly what he's been doing all these years. Even better, I think I know
how you can contact him
!'

‘How did you … ? What do you … ? But I thought … ?'

Just then, we hear Joshua bawling from the playroom downstairs, followed by Emma screaming at Ulrika, ‘I never even touched him, hardly at all. That's tomato sauce, not blood on his face.'

In a trice, Caroline's up and gone off to troubleshoot. ‘Do not move from that armchair. I'll be right back and I'll fill you in. Don't suppose you'd care to adopt one of my children, by any chance? I'll pay you cash.'

Oh dear. I really am going to have to go on rhinoceros tranquillizers or some other max-strength medication to stop all these flashbacks …

 

THE TIME: December 1987.

THE PLACE: Dramsoc, the UCD drama society's rehearsal space.

THE OCCASION: The annual college fashion show, which we're all out in force for, because this year, Caroline is modelling in it, along with my boyfriend, who I call Simon, but who everyone else calls Mr Intense.

Jamie and I get there early, which turns out to be not such a good idea as we end up sitting beside Mrs Egan, Caroline's mother. Did I tell you about Mrs Egan? She's like a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Lady Bracknell, with shades of Edwina Currie thrown in for good measure. Scary, scary lady, ferociously proud of her beautiful daughter and basically of the opinion that no man is good enough for her. Not even the lovely Mike, who's sitting further down the row from us.

‘Another few minutes and you'd have been late,' she sniffs as we take our seats beside her.

‘Sorry, Mrs Egan,' we both mumble, instantly regressing back to a pair of ten-year-olds. I don't know what it is; she just has that effect on people. Jamie says that I should console myself, smug in the knowledge that I once peed into the water feature in her immaculate garden when I was seven.

‘Oh, there's Mike.' I nudge Jamie, waving down to him. ‘Hi! Isn't this just so exciting?'

Mike nods and smiles back at us, but looks a bit put off by Mrs Egan's frostiness too. In fairness, you couldn't really blame him.

‘A dentistry student,' she mutters sotto voce, but clearly intended for Mike to overhear. ‘If I've told Caroline once, I've told her a thousand times. A dentist will always be one down from a doctor.'

We're all far too scared of her to answer back, but the sting is fully felt, especially by poor Mike, who visibly reddens, but stays furiously focused on the catwalk ahead.

‘
Bonsoir, mes amis
,' says Rachel, breezing in and looking breathtakingly amazing in a fanny-pelmet leather mini and an oversized black leather jacket, a black beret, fishnet tights and stilettos.

‘Everyone, this is Christian; Christian, this is everyone,' she says, carelessly introducing us to the guy she has in tow. He's utterly gorgeous, handsome in a Mediterranean way, with black eyes, olive skin and a Kevin Costner haircut. Very, very sexy. We all shake hands, unable to take our eyes off him, particularly Jamie.

‘Where are you from?' Mrs Egan asks him imperiously, with this killer glance she has that can kill at ten paces.

‘He's Parisian, but you're wasting your time talking to him,' Rachel answers on his behalf. ‘He doesn't speak a word of English. Well, hardly any.'

‘Then how on earth do you communicate with him?'

‘Oh, I don't. We just have fantastic sex and I can assure you, Mrs Egan, his vocabulary when he's shagging me is surprisingly adequate.'

Rachel, I should point out, is the only one of us who was ever remotely able to handle Mrs Egan, who just stares right back at her, with a face that would stop a clock.

‘I didn't know she was bringing a date,' Jamie hisses at me, really pissed off. ‘Did you know she was bringing a date? Great. Now I'm the only one here with no date. Jamie heaven.'

‘She never told me she was bringing anyone either. He's very good-looking, isn't he?'

‘He's all right. Look at the state of her though. All she's short of is a bike, a stripy T-shirt and a string of onions around her neck singing “Frère Jacques”. And he doesn't speak English, gimme a break. Does he come with subtitles?'

‘Don't get narky, you can hang out with me and Simon afterwards if you want.'

‘Mr Intense? Thanks but I'd rather chew tinfoil.'

‘Stop having a go. What is wrong with him anyway? He's about to model in a fashion show, don't you think that's really cool?'

‘You have to stop using the word cool when you're talking about Mr Intense. He is, without a doubt, the
uncoolest person in the whole of UCD and that's really saying something.'

‘Jamie, emm … Let me see, how can I put this … SHUT UP.'

On cue, the house lights are dimmed and the show starts. Kraftwerk's song ‘The Model' is played and out comes Caroline, striding down the catwalk as to the manner born. She's modelling a tartan suit with big shoulder pads and a micro-mini, with her hair all backcombed and a black Alice band holding it in place. The lyrics of the song really seem to suit her too; certainly the line about her being a model and she's looking good. I glance back at Mike, who's beaming up at her, transfixed.

‘Isn't she stunning?' I say to no one in particular.

‘Oh, don't be so ridiculous, Amelia,' snaps Mrs Egan, patting her helmet-hair. ‘She looks like a Ukrainian prostitute. I would blush to be seen with her in public dressed in that outrageous get-up.'

Then the lads come on, led by Mr Intense … sorry, I mean, Simon, my fella of, oh, going on for two months now. We met after an L and H debate (the Literary and Historical Society) that I was speaking in. He came up to me afterwards and started giving me tips on how I could improve my debating skills, right down to some vocal exercises he recommended for me, which I thought was just so …
sweet
of him. You know, considerate and thoughtful.

And not a bit controlling at all, in spite of what Jamie said at the time. I really
hate
that the others all call him Mr Intense …

Tonight, he's wearing tartan too, baggy tartan pants and a yellow matching tartan waistcoat, worn over a bare chest. I wave at him and I'm sure he sees me as I'm in the front row, but he ignores me and keeps that modelly admire-me-from-a-distance-but-if-you-come-near-me-I'll-kick-your-teeth-in smouldering glare he has going on.

‘Doesn't he look cute?' I say to Jamie.

‘Cute? Constipated, more like.'

‘OK, he may not be your favourite person, but you have to admit he is bloody gorgeous-looking.'

‘Yes, I'm sure his smile brings dead puppies back to life.'

‘Your jealousy is very transparent. You'd love to be up there, strutting your stuff, admit it. What have you got against Simon anyway?'

‘Hmm, let me see. He's weird, he's conceited, he's up his own arse and he's obsessive. But apart from that, I'm sure he's an absolute sweetheart.'

‘Lay off, Jamie. You're only saying that because he rearranged all the clothes in my wardrobe. I wouldn't mind, but I only told you that story because I thought you'd get a laugh out of it.'

‘And?'

‘He can only fall asleep if he's facing due east. Perfectly normal behaviour.'

‘And?'

‘And he colour-codes the towels in his bathroom.'

‘Which have to … ?'

I sigh. I knew it was a big mistake telling the Lovely Girls about Simon's idiosyncrasies. Now I'll never hear the end of it. What can I say? My will to gossip is just too overwhelming. ‘Which have to hang exactly twelve inches from the towel rail.'

‘And you don't see anything wrong with any of this? Any normal person would have run a mile by now. You can do a lot better for yourself, Amelia. You're not that ugly.'

By now, the music has changed to Marvin Gaye's ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine' and all the models come out wearing Levi's 501 jeans, just like in the TV ad. And then I notice something. While all the other models are looking designer-scruffy, Simon's jeans are immaculately creased down the front. Eagle-eyed Jamie spots it too and shoots me a significant told-you-so look …

There's a party afterwards and we all stand around drinking warm white wine out of plastic beakers and thinking ourselves very sophisticated. Over by the bar, Christian is blatantly feeling up Rachel, who's doing absolutely nothing to stop him, while Jamie, Mike and I stand around making tense small talk with Mrs Egan.

And then something occurs to me. It's almost as if Rachel is going out of her way to flaunt her new fella
under Jamie's nose to annoy him and it's working and now he's taking his appalling bad humour out on me. I decide to let it go, though. After all, this is Caroline's night, not mine …

Eventually, the star of the show herself emerges breathlessly from the makeshift dressing room, carrying a huge bouquet of roses, which are obviously from Mike. She pecks her mother demurely on the cheek and gives Mike a bear hug and they look so adorable together that I whisper to Jamie, ‘Do you think they'll ever get married?'

Mrs Egan, who could hear the grass grow in her sleep, immediately snaps back, ‘With a sense of humour like that, Amelia, you really should consider a career in stand-up comedy.
No one
marries their college boyfriend.'

‘I certainly hope
you
don't,' Jamie mutters to me. ‘Have you noticed how Mr Intense is the very last to leave the dressing room? He's probably still staring in the mirror checking his hair hasn't moved one-eighth of a degree.'

‘Give me a break, Jamie. OK, so he has his odd little ways, but I have fun with him.'

‘Oh, please, there are prisoners on death row with more
joie de vivre
than him.'

‘He's smart.'

‘Get real. There are more intelligent forms of life floating around in ponds.'

‘OK, so he might be a little bit intense, but so are a lot of very gifted people like … emm …'

‘Hitler? Stalin?'

‘Why are you picking on my boyfriend? Why don't you pick on Rachel's? Cut me some slack.'

‘I only met … whatever his name is … Christian, an hour ago. Give me time.'

We're interrupted by Mr Intense, who accepts all our congratulations as though he's just won a Nobel prize.

‘Yeah, I really think I may just pursue a full-time career in modelling,' he says modestly. ‘Everyone says I'm a born natural.'

Jamie mouths something which looks like: ‘Born wanker, more like,' but I ignore it and offer to buy a round of drinks, leaving Simon chatting, or rather talking about himself to my pals.

I'm waiting ages at the bar and fall into casual conversation with Tom O'Gorman, a really nice guy in my class. We're both doing our final year theses and are swapping notes on our subjects and the real reasons versus the interview reasons why we chose them.

‘Mine's on Jane Austen,' I'm telling him. ‘Interview reason: because I love the early-nineteenth-century novel form; real reason: I get to watch a lot of movie adaptations of her books all day long, which sure as hell beats working for a living.'

Tom laughs. ‘I can top that. Mine's on late-eighteenth-century
men's costume. Interview reason: because I'm fascinated by the playwrights Congreve, Goldsmith and Sheridan; real reason: because it's such an obscure topic, I can get away with murder. No one knows very much about it so I reckon all I'll need to do is read about two books and I'm home and dry.'

‘Genius! Wish I'd thought of that.' I laugh.

I'm just about to pay for the drinks when Mr Intense … sorry, I mean Simon comes over, face like thunder. I introduce him to Tom and then instantly regret it.

‘So who are you then?' Simon asks him, so rudely that Tom looks back at him, a bit dumbfounded.

‘Tom's in my class,' I say, puzzled by this behaviour.

‘Did you tell him that you have a boyfriend?'

‘
What
did you say?'

Tom quite rightly senses an almighty row brewing and moves off the minute his pint is ready.

‘Amelia, the guy was chatting you up and you were letting him. I was watching you. You were flirting your head off.'

His tone is low and – well, there's no other way to describe it –
menacing
. For a split second, I don't know whether to laugh or not. He has to be messing … hasn't he?

‘Is it actually possible that you're being serious? I barely know the guy; we were only talking about our theses for a few minutes while we were waiting for the drinks.'

‘Eleven minutes.'

‘You
timed
me?'

‘Amelia, the only reason you're getting annoyed is because you were found out. You've probably been seeing him behind my back for weeks, haven't you?'

He's gripping my arm tightly now, and it's hurting. Instinctively, I look around to see where my friends are. Not too far. Good. I'm starting to feel a bit scared. ‘Simon,' I say, shaking him loose and rubbing my arm, ‘can you just
hear
yourself?'

‘I can only think of one reason why you're being so defensive. You're sleeping with him.'

‘Never, never, never have kids,' says Caroline, wearily coming back into the drawing room. ‘Take it from me, sterilization is the answer. I nearly had to throw a bucket of water over the pair of them.'