Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (31 page)

Then his taxi arrived and he was gone. It was that quick.

This is the man who ripped out my heart, flung it against a wall and now thinks it's absolutely OK to come back late at night looking for a loan of household appliances.

My mind races on the brisk walk home as I force myself to put him out of my head and think only positive, happy thoughts.

Right. Here goes. Deep, cleansing breath.

Good things going on in my life right now

Shit, shit, shit, I really have to think hard.

Yes. There
is
one. My emotional-pension-plan man. In spite of my hysterical email to Jack Keating, he didn't run a mile. He's home next week and I'll hook up with him then.

Bad things going on in my life right now

I will have to go out of my way to prove to him that I am a normal, serenely contented woman and that, furthermore, one deranged late-night email does not a bunny boiler make. Yes, I had remembered our pact and if I drunkenly alluded to it and caused him any
undue stress or worry, then I will apologize unreservedly.

Unless he's still single.

Then, I'm sorry, but he's fair game.

Good thing

Must think positive, happy thoughts about other people and be less self-absorbed in my own dramas. OK. Yes, I have one. Mags is a really lovely girl and if one good thing came out of last night, it's that she seemed to really hit it off with Damien Delaney. I really do hope things work out there. They'd be such a sweet couple …

Bad thing

I'm the one who's going to have to explain to Caroline and Mike that in spite of their best-laid matchmaking plans, I have now officially let Damien slip through my fingers.

Good thing

Schadenfreude. In the first dismal days after my break-up with
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken,
you could barely have picked me up off the floor. When I heard he was getting married, if it weren't for my friends I honestly think I'd have had an emotional collapse.

It's horrible of me to admit this, but from where
I'm standing, now it looks like the age gap between him and Poppy (or whatever her MTV name is) is finally starting to show. If he's staying home at weekends while she goes out clubbing with her mates … what does that tell you about the cracks in their relationship? And why is he calling round to my apartment like we're old friends and it's absolutely OK?

I give that marriage six months tops.

I just have one more comment to make and then I'll shut up on the subject for ever.

HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA
…

There's a great story about the Beatles, when they were famously turned down by a record producer from Decca, who, in 1962, proudly declared that guitar bands were on the way out. A journalist remarked to John Lennon that the guy must be kicking himself. ‘Good,' replied Lennon. ‘I hope he kicks himself to death.'

Not very charitable, I know, but you can see where I'm coming from.

By the time I get home, I'm feeling an awful lot better and am just about to hop back into bed with the papers when my mobile rings. Not a number I recognize, which is odd.

‘Hello?'

‘Amelia?'

The line isn't great and I can't quite place the voice … ‘Yes?'

‘Philip Burke here. Hope you don't mind me phoning you on a Sunday?'

‘Oh … hi. No, of course I don't mind.'
Like I'm going to do a big ‘How dare you? This is my one and only day off' number on the head of television?

‘Mags said I should call you.'

‘Oh, right.'
To thank me for the party? Or … oh gulp… to ask me out?
Neither, it would seem.

He chats on about, surprise, surprise,
Celtic Tigers
for a bit; he'd seen a rough cut of Sadie Smyth's first few scenes and is as impressed with her as I was. I'm just waiting for the Philip Burkeism to come and sure enough, right on cue, it does. ‘So who was that guy who tried to gatecrash the party at the end of the night?'

‘It's a long story.'

‘Is he South African?'

I grunt in reply. It's not very polite, but it's the best I can manage.

‘Yeah, I thought I recognized the accent.'

I don't answer. The least said about that incident the better.

‘Ex-boyfriend, I gather.'

Again, I'm silent. Philip seems to take the hint that this isn't an area I want to be drawn in on, and changes the subject. ‘You know, Mags thinks you and I should go out on a date.'

Typical of him, bloody typical. Was that him asking me out just there or not? A normal bloke would come out with, ‘Would you like to go to a movie/dinner/meet for a drink?' Simple, straightforward and we all know where we stand. But then, this is certainly no normal bloke … ‘Mags thinks you and I should go out on a date' is putting the entire onus on me and now I don't know what to say. If I answer, ‘Yes, please, thank you, that would be lovely,' then I look too eager, but if I just umm and ahh and sound non-committal, then it looks like I'm being rude to my boss's boss.

‘So, what do you think?' he says. ‘Good idea, bad idea?'

I don't know, is the honest answer. I don't know what I think.

The only reason we're even having this highly embarrassing conversation is because we're both single, that's all. I don't fancy him and I'm pretty certain he doesn't fancy me either. We're just at the age where the club/pub pick-up scene is all just getting too
exhausting
and this just happens to be convenient.

But then … he is Mags's friend, so that says a lot in his favour. The recurrent image of my headless groom comes back into my mind. Yes, OK, he's not perfect and he's only trying me on for size because his friend told him to, but then, I do want to be married, don't I? Before the end of the year? And I'm the girl who woke up this morning longing for a partner, I remind myself.
As Ira always says, you have to pump up the dating volume or you'll never get anywhere. And Philip was very considerate over the whole Rob Richards/Good Grief O'Keefe debacle, calling me up to his office just to see if I was OK … wasn't he?

Then I think about Rachel scoring last night. Yes, she'll probably kick my teeth in for saying it, but in fairness to Gorm— sorry, I mean Gordon, he is now living proof that persistence pays. In this life, you have to take risks.

Just as I'm wavering, Philip comes out with one of his classic howlers. ‘Look, Amelia, I realize that asking a single, late-thirty-something woman out is a bit like throwing fish-heads at a starving piranha: you normally get your hand snapped off, they're so eager to say yes. So, come on, what would you say to a drink after work some night during the week?'

‘
What
did you just say?'

‘Sorry, did that come out wrong? It was only a joke. Oh shit, I really should rehearse conversations with women beforehand, shouldn't I? You'll have to forgive me, I'm a bit out of practice.'

I can't make head nor tail of this guy. One minute he's so rude you want to put the phone down on him, the next, he's actually being … almost
endearing
…

‘Philip, please don't feel you have to ask me out just because Mags told you to. It's very sweet of you, but you really don't have to.'

‘So that's a no then?'

‘We
work
together.'

‘Your point being?'

‘It would be … awkward.'

‘Rubbish. Just be direct with me, Amelia. What's going on here?'

Right, well he asked for it …
‘I hate to appear nit-picky, but you were the one who presented me with a six-month ultimatum: turn
Celtic Tigers
around or else face the axe. You'll forgive me for bringing it up, but the idea of going on a date with the man who could propel me to the back of a dole queue in a few months' time is a slightly intimidating one. This may sound surprising, but I'm actually
not
trying to get fired.'

There's a crackly silence and I'm not even sure if he's still on the phone.

‘Hello? Philip?'

‘Yeah, still here. Right. Well, at least it wasn't a flaky excuse, I'll give you that much. Last time I asked a girl out, she said she had to stay home to do her VAT returns. If you change your mind, call me. Just remember, I'm rich, male and in my late thirties. I'm the one who's in a buyers' market.'

He hangs up and I slump back on to the pillow.

This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It's a terrifying thing.

OK, I admit it; I'm a dirty big cheat. I've made an executive decision. I'm skipping my next ex-boyfriend on the list. Yes, I know Ira will go mental; yes, I know I'm bending the rules here; yes, I know that cowardice has got the better of me, but if you knew the sad, awful truth, you'd do exactly the same.

I should explain.

 

THE TIME: The Christmas holidays 1991.

THE PLACE: The long, slushy, foggy, ice-bound road from Dublin to Monaghan.

THE OCCASION: Tim Singen-Underwood, my wonderful, gorgeous boyfriend, has invited me to spend the new year at his family's county estate. This is the first time in my life that I've ever been formally invited to meet any boyfriend's parents, let alone his entire family, and I'm experiencing a whole kaleidoscope of emotions. I'm flattered, overwhelmed, knickers mad about my boyfriend,
desperately eager to make a good impression on his family but most of all … I'm shit scared.

 

First of all, there was the drama about what to wear.

‘You need to strike exactly the right chord,' says Caroline as she and I pilfer through the collective bounty of her, Rachel's and my own wardrobe combined. The three of us by now are all sharing a dotey little townhouse, which is great because it's like having twenty-four-hour access to two other girls' wardrobes as well as your own. Jamie has semi-moved in too and spends most nights on our pull-out sofa mattress, rent free. This is also very handy, as (
a
) he's the only one of us who's remotely able to cook and (
b
) it's like living with your own personal stylist.

‘Remember the Singed-Underwears are proper, west-Brit aristos,' says Jamie, coming into Caroline's bedroom, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and eating toast.

‘Singen-Underwood, not Singed-Underwear,' I say.

‘Whatever. My point is you don't want to wear anything that looks either too new or flashy. Old and tatty is the look you're going for. Think Nancy Mitford and you won't go far wrong. Posh, but broke.'

‘What about this?' I ask, holding up a high-necked, very modest-looking cream blouse.

‘Ughhhh … have mercy, put it away. Too Rose of Tralee.'

‘I bet they dress for dinner in the evenings too,' says Caroline, fishing out a little black number from the darkest recesses of her wardrobe and holding it up. ‘Just like in Agatha Christie. What about this?'

‘Too sexy,' says Jamie. ‘They're Protestants; they'll probably have the vicar over for dinner too. You need to think demure. We may even have to put you in pearls and a Hermès scarf.'

‘I don't own a Hermès scarf,' I squeal in desperation. ‘What am I going to do? All my clothes are too … too …'

‘Too-girl-about-town,' says Caroline, sweetly finishing the sentence for me. ‘A great look for an up-and-coming journalist like you, but maybe not quite for this trip. What about this?' She brandishes a Chanel-type suit in front of us, which would be lovely except for all the medals and gold chains hanging off the shoulder pads.

‘Caroline, you should be ashamed of yourself,' says Jamie sternly. ‘Newsflash for you; the eighties are dead and gone. All your suits, shoulder pads and Ivana Trump pastel gear should be flung into the nearest Oxfam. That's if they'll even take it. I'm sorry, girlies, but we only have one option.'

The three of us look at each other.

‘We can't,' says Caroline firmly.

‘She'd kill us,' I agree. ‘I'm still paying her back for the laddered Woolford tights fiasco.'

‘Besides, we promised her we wouldn't,' Caroline says firmly. ‘We'd be breaking our word.'

‘Those are noble sentiments, ladies, but for once in your lives, can't you just be cool? Rachel is in Paris having great sex with Christian and she won't be back for another two weeks. Do you really think she's worrying about her designer collection at this point in time? Besides, if this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is.'

Caroline and I have no choice but to reluctantly agree as we sneak into Rachel's room, like the Three Stooges. Even opening her wardrobe is like going into the Garden of Eden; while we're still dressing like students, apart from the odd freebie Caroline gets from the fashion shows she models in, Rachel is now a junior manager at the Irish fashion centre and, boy, does she dress the part. Every stitch belonging to her is by a well-known designer and everything in her wardrobe is immaculately swathed in protective zip-up bags, the kind they put dead bodies in on
Prime Suspect
.

‘Now this is more like it,' says Jamie, triumphantly producing a tweed box jacket (Paul Costelloe) and a matching pair of beige jodhpurs (Ralph Lauren). Not that Rachel would know one end of a horse from another, any more than I would myself, but this just happens to be a very hot look at the moment.

‘Bingo,' says Jamie. ‘That with a crisp, white cotton shirt and a string of pearls and you're home and dry.'

‘Just remember to get it all dry-cleaned before she gets back,' says Caroline, worried. ‘And don't make the same mistake I made last time. For the love of God, you have to take all the safety pins out when you get her stuff back from the cleaners. I swear, she checks these things.'