by Matt Dunn
After a further quarter of an hour, it occurs to me that maybe she hasn’t ducked down to fix her make-up. No one takes this long to fix their make-up–not even clowns. But if she’s not fixing her make-up, where on earth is she? I’m pretty sure she recognized me through the window and, judging by the look on her face, she seemed pretty surprised. Maybe it wasn’t surprise, I tell myself, but excitement, and in her enthusiasm she’s rushed towards the restaurant door and has tripped over the kerb, and now might be sitting on the pavement outside, nursing a broken ankle. And maybe it’s because I’ve overdosed on fizzy water, and the carbon dioxide has affected my brain, but, suddenly, this seems like the most rational explanation of all.
I think about going outside to see if she’s okay, but just as I’m about to leave the table and walk towards the door, a couple come in. After a brief conversation with the waiter, they’re shown to an empty table. And I remember that they’re not the first couple to have come through the door in the last fifteen minutes. Surely, if Kate had been sat outside in pain, someone would have seen her as they came in, and said something to the waiter? Or helped her inside, even, and called an ambulance. And I’d have seen if an ambulance had come to pick her up.
Ten minutes later, and with still no sign of her–or an ambulance–I take a deep breath and stand up, as it’s obvious that that’s what she’s done to me. Besides, by now, I’m the desperate one–desperate for the toilet, that is, as I’ve got through the best part of two litres of water. I sprint-walk to the Gents, then pay the bill, and beat the path of shame to the door, past all the sniggering couples, and out into the chilly February evening.
I fob Jen’s ‘So?’ off with a ‘Too busy to talk’ when I come in the next morning, and manage to avoid both her and Kate for the next few hours by shutting myself in my office and refusing to answer the phone, and it’s not until I’m heading out to meet Tom for lunch that I bump into either of them. In the worst possible way. Because Jen spots me trying to sneak down the stairs, and comes out from behind her desk to try and intercept me, at the exact moment that Kate walks past.
‘Don’t think you’re getting away with it so easily,’ says Jen.
‘Getting away with what?’ says Kate, a little alarmed.
Jen glances mischievously in my direction. ‘Last night, of course.’
‘Oh. I er…’ Kate stammers, and I can tell she’s wondering whether Jen knows what happened and is accusing her of standing me up. I can also tell that Jen thinks that it must have gone well, because I’ve been avoiding talking about it this morning, and so Jen is trying to put me on the spot.
‘So, who was it?’ Jen winks at me, making sure Kate can’t see, and obviously assuming she’s doing me a favour. ‘Tell all…’
Kate seems a little relieved that Jen doesn’t actually seem to know. Which is not how I’m feeling. ‘Oh. No,’ she says, pointedly avoiding my gaze. ‘I, er, didn’t go, in the end.’
‘No?’ Jen suddenly looks a little embarrassed. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Kate’s said she didn’t go, Jen. No need for the third degree. Just drop it.’
There’s an awkward silence as Kate hits the lift button and stares fixedly at the LCD panel, waiting for it to arrive. When Jen mouths ‘You didn’t tell me’ accusingly in my direction as she moves back behind the reception desk, I just shrug, then walk slowly down the stairs, leaving a suitable amount of time for Kate to have left the building before heading out into the street.
Tom’s already waiting for me in All Bar One and, like the mature father-of-two he is, he makes a face at me through the window when I walk past. When I break my usual don’t-drink-at-lunchtime rule by ordering a pint of lager, his expression changes to one of concern.
‘What’s up with you? No eBabes locked in a bidding war over you yet?’
I sigh, and swallow a huge mouthful of beer. ‘This is all one big joke to you, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry, mate. It’s not a joke. Although parts of it are funny, you have to admit.’
‘Tom, you’ve obviously forgotten what it’s like to be single.’
‘More’s the pity,’ he says, gazing towards a nearby table, where a couple of good-looking twenty-something women are giggling to each other.
‘I’m serious,’ I say, clicking my fingers in front of his face in an attempt to get his attention. ‘It’s all right for you–you’ve got company whenever you want it. Me? I’m sick and tired of going through the same old find/fancy/meet/go-out-with process, only to find that it all comes to an end because I ultimately work out that we’re incompatible. And what is incompatibility? It’s not like, say, going out with a vegetarian when you like steak. It’s finding out you don’t like the same things, i.e. each other. Finding you prefer your own company. And look how it affects us single people. You might meet someone, start going out with her, enjoy spending time together, but then you have to make a decision. Is this a female friend who I sleep with, or actually my girlfriend?’
‘You have female friends you sleep with?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Tom frowns. ‘I’m not sure I do, actually. And when do they become a girlfriend, exactly?’
‘Ah, well, I’ve thought about this. It’s when you see them every Saturday night. Because Saturday nights are traditionally male nights out. So when you decide to forgo the company of your male friends for your new female one on a regular basis–voilà. She’s your girlfriend.’
‘But you don’t have any single male friends. Not any more.’
‘Which is why I’m trying to make some new female ones. And without putting myself–and them–through the same old cycle, which ultimately leads to one of us being dumped.’ I drain half of my pint in one go, and Tom picks up his and does the same. ‘Because there’s only one thing worse than being dumped, and that’s doing the dumping yourself.’
‘I thought it was always better to give than to receive,’ says Tom, stifling a burp. ‘Apart from where oral sex is concerned, of course.’
‘Nope. I’d always much rather be the one who gets dumped. Because, first, it’s a really unpleasant thing to have to do to anyone, particularly if you don’t want to hurt them; secondly, you’ve got to come up with a good and plausible reason to be breaking up with them, which can be harder than it sounds; and thirdly, you’ve got to decide if the agony of the break-up is actually something you want to put the two of you through, given your emotional state, the time of year, and so on.’
‘What’s the time of year got to do with it?’ asks Tom, glancing hungrily at the menu.
‘You have been married a long time, haven’t you? There are five key dates,’ I say, counting them off on my fingers, ‘Christmas, Valentine’s Day, your birthday, her birthday, and the summer.’
Tom looks mystified. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Christmas. No one wants to be alone at Christmas. It’s no wonder more suicides happen then than at any other time of year. If you break up with someone at Christmas, there are good points and bad points. The good points? Well, there’s only one, really. You save yourself money on their present. The bad points? You don’t get a present from them. Plus, they’ll always remember you as the person who dumped them before Christmas, which makes you heartless, tight-fisted, or both. Ditto on birthdays. Dump her just after yours, and you’ll feel duty bound to give her present back, even though it might be something you like. Dump her just before hers, and again you look like you’re callous and tight, plus she’ll always remember her birthday as the time you dumped her, giving her an extra reason to tell her friends how heartless you are.’
‘And Valentine’s Day?’
‘Pretty obvious, really. It doesn’t matter whether you’re being dumped or doing the dumping. That feeling when the postman doesn’t pop a card through your letter box is the worst one in the world. And every single single person is desperate to have a date on Valentine’s Day. Because if you don’t, you’ll find yourself stuck at home in front of the telly, where
there’s always some crappy film on to remind you how great it is to be in a relationship. As you stick your dinner for one in the gas oven, you wonder if you should stick your head in there too.’
Tom takes another mouthful of lager. ‘So what’s the deal with the summer? I’d have thought someone like you would love the browsing possibilities. Girls, short skirts, walking in high heels, the way every footstep sends a ripple through their—’
‘Please, Tom. Summer’s the absolute worst, and I’ll tell you why in two words: summer holidays. While you, Barbara and the kids are preparing for your two-week jaunt to Florida, anyone who has just been dumped is stuck with either staying at home, or considering booking one of those God-awful singles holidays, which are really just shag-fests for people with terminal acne. At least when you have a girlfriend, you’ve got someone to go on holiday with.’
Tom looks like he’s wilting, although whether it’s from my verbal onslaught or through lack of food, it’s hard to tell. ‘Well, when you put it like that…’
‘You see, it’s not just about the basic physical need to be with someone. Ours is a society that’s all about couples. Go to a restaurant and ask for a table for one, and they’ll either tell you they’re full or seat you next to the toilets. Take a trip to the cinema on your own and people think you’re a pervert. Go to the swimming pool without kids in tow, and you’re branded a Speedo Paedo. Even your car insurance is more expensive if you don’t have a partner. I tell you, there’re huge pressures on us to pair up just so we conform with society.’
‘But I thought you liked being single? The freedom? The, er, freedom…’
‘Single’s fine some of the time. But the problem with some of the time is that it’s not most of the time. And most of the time is when I want to be happy. I like kids, and therefore having a baby will make me happy too. And it also means that I get the mother–and therefore I’m not single any more–into the bargain.’
Tom wags his finger at me. ‘But what if you turn out to have nothing in common with the person you have the baby with?’
‘Aha–that’s where you’re wrong. We will have something in common, and it’s the best thing there is to have in common. A child.’
‘But what about all those things you’ve talked about in the past? The love of culture. The different interests.’
‘Tom, with all due respect, look at you and Barbara. Where did you last go on holiday?’
‘Well, er, Center Parcs.’
‘And was that because you and Barbara particularly wanted to stay in a log cabin and go swimming every day?’
‘No–of course not. The kids love it there.’
‘So you didn’t think about taking them to Florence instead? Going to visit the Uffizi, for example?’
‘Yeah, right,’ says Tom. ‘I can just see Jack and Ellie loving a load of old paintings and sculptures.’
‘And what do the two of you talk about whenever Barbara gets home? Politics? The arts?’
‘Sometimes,’ says Tom, a little defensively.
‘Well, what did you discuss over breakfast this morning?’
Tom thinks for a second. ‘Well, it was about Ellie’s painting that she’d done at school, and how Jack’s in the ninetieth percentile for his vocabulary. Not that you’d know it, though.’
‘Precisely. So this life you talk about–it doesn’t really exist outside of the kids, does it? Everything you do, everything you talk about, wherever you go as a couple–it’s all with the kids in mind. You put your own interests on the back burner because the thing that’s most important to you both is those two little angels. And it’s going to be like that up until they’re eighteen and off to university, I’ll bet. Which means that as long as the two of you keep going like this, you’re not going to have time to get on each other’s nerves, because that’s just not an option.’
Tom looks at me, dumbfounded for a moment. ‘Ah. But you’re forgetting one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘We had a lot in common before we had Jack and Ellie. We had a life before them.’ Tom scratches his head. ‘I think.’
‘But that’s my point. And that’s why what I’m doing will work. Because even if you did, it’s all completely gone by now. It’s like these couples who describe their other half as “my best friend”. What is all that bollocks? The only reason they say that is because they’ve become so bloody insular during the whole time they’ve been together and they’ve let their real friends, their true friends, fall by the wayside.’
Tom folds his arms. ‘That’s bollocks, Will. Look at you and me, for example. We still see a lot of each other.’
‘Tom, that’s because I don’t have a family. And you don’t have a proper job. And because I make the effort to try and drag you out of the house at least once a week. What would you have done last night, for example, if it hadn’t been Valentine’s Day?’
‘It was Valentine’s Day yesterday?’ says Tom, his eyes widening in horror.
‘You didn’t forget?’
‘You’d be visiting me in hospital and feeding me through a straw if that had been the case,’ says Tom, picking up the menu. ‘But, actually, Barbara was too tired to do anything, so we just fed the kids, put them to bed, and collapsed in front of the TV. Like any other night, really.’
‘That’s exactly my point. A lot of people, when they get married and settle down, lose the will to live. And I don’t mean live as in their heart stops beating, but live, as in have a life. The family becomes the focus, and the kids fill the gap between the partners. Not that I’m suggesting you and Barbara don’t have any interests outside of the twins, you understand.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘Well, not completely. But you have to admit, it’s a lot easier to just keep your head down and deal with your family responsibilities. Why do you think a lot of couples get divorced when the kids leave home?’
Tom almost drops his menu in shock. ‘They don’t, do they?’
I shrug. ‘Probably. And if they do, it’s because they realize, when it’s finally just the two of them again, that they’ve got nothing left to talk about. Which is why my approach is the only logical one.’
As Tom stares miserably at the ‘specials’ board, I feel a little guilty for bringing him down. But I’m right. I know I am. Which is why have to keep on going. However long it takes.
Chapter 15
It’s been a week, and my total of new eBay bids so far is a big fat zero. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. In fact, apart from David69, only two people have actually looked at my listing, and one of those, as far as I’m aware, is Tom, so in desperation I’ve re-listed myself. What’s more, NewFlames is proving to be a bit of a waste of money as well, although maybe I’m just a little too wary after my experiences with Sandra and Cat Lover. And with less than two weeks to go until my birthday, I’m starting to feel under a little bit of pressure.
And to tell the truth, I can’t understand it. I’m not a bad-looking guy. I don’t smell. I’m pretty successful. I’ve got the sexiest car in the world. And I’m prepared to do the one thing that most women want, apparently. Settle down. Commit. Well, perhaps that’s two things. And stay faithful. Three. Anyway, you get my point.
I’ve even done my research and, apparently, in London, fifty-two per cent of the population my age are women. That’s an extra four per cent when compared to us blokes–allowing for, er, uncertainties on both sides, I suppose. So unless an awful lot of men are dating two women at the same time, or there’s a much higher proportion of lesbians than gay men, I can’t work out for the life of me where on earth all these single women are. Apart from doing other things with their time instead of looking on eBay, obviously.
‘You’d think they’d be becoming less choosy the older they get,’ says Tom, when I share my concerns with him and Barbara over lunch on Sunday. ‘Which is lucky for you.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘Why should they be less choosy?’ asks Barbara, easily pull
ing the cork that neither Tom nor I could shift out of a bottle of wine.
He shrugs. ‘Once they hit their thirties, women start to worry they’ll never meet Mr Right. It’s a fact. Time is running out for them, so you’d think they’d leap at the kind of opportunity Will’s offering them.’
Barbara fingers the sharp end of the corkscrew, obviously considering where to stab Tom with it. ‘Is that a fact?’
‘Yup,’ says Tom, unaware of the potential impending violence. ‘But for a guy, it’s completely different. Why tie yourself down now when you can spend the rest of your life dipping in and out of an increasingly desperate female population?’
‘Which is why I can’t understand why I’m not having more luck,’ I say. ‘Particularly when I’ve got a trump card.’
Barbara looks at me strangely. ‘Which is?’
‘Well, what’s the one thing that you women always complain about in us guys?’
She scratches her head. ‘One thing? I’m not sure there’s just one thing…’
‘All right, then. The main thing. Before you met Tom, what was the thing you and your girlfriends would always moan about in relation to us blokes?’
‘Er…’
I’m starting to get exasperated. ‘Come on, Barbara. It was our lack of…’
‘Will, there are so many things. I can’t pick one.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Begins with C?’
‘Cash?’ says Barbara, nodding towards Tom.
‘Commitment. Our lack of commitment,’ I almost shout. ‘From the dawn of time, women have moaned about man’s lack of commitment. You–you’re genetically programmed to be monogamous and faithful, whereas we–well, let’s just say we’re rather well equipped to sow our seed as widely as we can.’