Dinner for Two

by Mike Gayle

  The first was in a plain white envelope with small, neat, feminine handwriting:

  Dear Love Doctor

  I’ve been going out with my boyfriend for two months. It’s great in so many ways: he makes me laugh, he’s always attentive and buys me presents all the time. The only problem is his jealousy. He gets annoyed if any of the boys in my class even look at me let alone talk to me. This is really getting me down. What should I do?

  Anonymous (15), Inverness

  I pick up a second letter, a pale blue envelope with unmistakably teenage handwriting in silver ink:

  Dear Love Doctor,

  About a month ago my boyfriend cheated on me with a girl at a party. I was devastated but carried on going out with him because I thought I loved him. Last week, however, I was at a party and I ended up kissing a boy who wasn’t my boyfriend. Now I have a double dilemma: do I tell my boyfriend that I cheated on him? Or do I dump my boyfriend and go out with the boy I kissed at the party? He’s phoned me several times since that party and says he wants to go out with me. I’m so confused. What should I do?

  Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan (16), Nottingham

  I pick up a third letter, a cream-coloured envelope with a cartoon fieldmouse in the corner chewing a blade of grass. The handwriting is much the same as the previous one but this time the ink is a silvery green.

  Dear Love Doctor,

  I think I’m in love with my maths teacher. He’s quite young, only in his twenties, and has only just joined my school. I don’t know what it is but there’s definitely a connection between us. I find myself staring at him in class all the time and sometimes I even catch his eye and he doesn’t look away immediately. Do you think there is any chance that things could work out between us?

  A Janet Jackson fan (14), Cornwall

  I compare the letter in my hand to the previous one. They have exactly the same handwriting. I check the postmarks on the envelopes. The first says Cambridge, even though it’s supposed to have been from Nottingham, and the second says Cambridge even though its writer apparently lives in Cornwall. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan (16) and the Janet Jackson fan (14) are both some bored teenage girl in Cambridge who likes Teen Scene, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Janet Jackson but doesn’t have any problems with her life and needs to make some up to feel like a valid human being. If I’d been in any other frame of mind, this would have made me laugh but now it depresses me.

  I’m wasting my time doing this job and I’m wasting my talents. The readers of Teen Scene don’t have real problems – I do. I wake up my computer, which had long since gone to sleep, open my e-mail and begin a note to Jenny. I tell her that I’ll write agony-uncle columns for another two issues but after today I won’t be back in to work at Teen Scene. Then I write one to Fran, who, thankfully, is out of the office on a ‘make over your life’ competition shoot. I tell her thanks for everything and that I’m sure we’ll bump into each other some time in the future. I press send on both e-mails, tidy my desk, pick up my bag and walk out of the office.

  pop

  I’m sitting on a bench in the gardens at the centre of Soho Square. The weather, although not warm, is okay for the time of year – pleasant enough to attract a number of people with nothing better to do than sit down and waste a few hours looking at the sky. I dig into my bag for my personal stereo. When I was younger I listened to music at every opportunity: on my way to and from work, at work, and in those spare moments at home when Izzy had gone to bed and I’d stay up until four listening to album after album on my headphones, cocooned in a world I understood. I want that feeling right away. I put on my headphones, close my eyes to the world outside and press play, but even in music there’s no escape because every song on the tape has a link to Izzy – songs she loved, songs she hated, songs she tolerated, songs that made her cry and songs that made her happy. And, for some reason, this makes me happy too. Even in music she’s there at my centre. Being lost in music means being lost in her.

  tape

  Song 1: ‘Safe From Harm’, Massive Attack. The first song I listened to after Izzy and I had our first ever full-blown no-holds-barred row.

  Song 2: ‘Debris Slide’, Pavement. A song from the days when we were just friends and I tried to convince her that it was the future of rock ’n’ roll by playing it to her at every opportunity.

  Song 3: ‘I Forgot To Be Your Lover’, William Bell. A sixties soul record I discovered in my dad’s collection. I called Izzy up at two o’clock in the morning to play it to her over the phone – in my defence, I was drunk.

  Song 4: ‘Everybody In Here Wants You’, Jeff Buckley. Another song I played to Izzy over the phone when I first heard it. I insisted that she should fall in love with it immediately. And she did.

  Song 5: ‘Don’t Believe The Hype’, Public Enemy. We had this on repeat on the CD-player the day we decorated the living room in the flat. Izzy said it helped us paint faster.

  The tape lasts ninety minutes.

  if

  When the tape ends I decide to go home. I head towards Oxford Street and as I walk I check my phone for messages. There are three: one from Jenny, telling me she refuses to get another agony uncle until she’s spoken to me, and two from Fran, asking my whereabouts. None from Izzy. I dial Fran’s number at work.

  ‘Hello, Teen Scene.’

  ‘Hi, Fran, it’s Dave.’

  ‘I got your e-mail. Were you really going to say goodbye like that?’

  ‘I didn’t want to make a big fuss.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come back to Teen Scene? I was talking to Jenny about it and she said she was going to try to persuade you to stay. There’s no need to go.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that . . . this is going to sound stupid but I got two Love Doctor letters today and they were so obviously made up by the same girl that it just . . . well, it kind of depressed me. I mean, what’s the point?’

  ‘The point, Dave, is that you’re mad for thinking that two letters from one girl count for anything. You help people. The girls who read the column feel better about themselves because they’ve written to you. That’s got to be a good thing, surely?’ I don’t reply. ‘I get the feeling something’s gone wrong,’ says Fran.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Is it what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she find out?’

  ‘I told her.’

  ‘Oh. And she’s . . .’

  I finish her sentence for her. ‘Left me? Yeah.’

  ‘But she’s coming back?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since Friday night.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be on your own,’ says Fran. ‘I’ll be finished here in a few minutes. I’ve got a couple of things to put through that Tina’s been nagging me for all week and we’ll go for a drink or something to eat. I’m not going to take no for an answer. I’ll meet you downstairs at the Phoenix on Charing Cross Road in half an hour, okay?’

  ‘I can’t. I’d be terrible company.’

  ‘I don’t mind. We can just sit, if you want to.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Well, when will I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know when any of this will be sorted. And I just won’t be thinking straight until then.’

  ‘So why don’t you come back to Teen Scene until then?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not really me. I’ve been thinking I might go back to music journalism full time.’ I laughed. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for the world of relationships.’

  ‘So that’s it, I’m not going to see you again?’

  ‘Of course you will. I just don’t know when.’

  ‘Come for a drink,’ Fran pleads. ‘It’ll be the world’s smallest leaving party. Just you, me and too much alcohol.’

  She makes me laugh so I say okay. ‘I’ll meet you from work and we’ll go for a drink,’ I tell her.

  I switch off my mobile, put it back into my bag and ne
arly walk straight into a couple heading the other way. I’m about to apologise when I realise I know them. Only they’re not supposed to be a couple. It’s Trevor and Stella.

  -ish

  ‘Dave,’ says Stella immediately, ‘I can explain.’ She looks at Trevor. ‘We can explain.’

  ‘I know this looks really bad,’ says Trevor. ‘We’re together, Dave,’ he explains. ‘We have been for a while. Everyone’s going to find out soon anyway.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ I ask.

  ‘A while,’ says Stella. ‘Before I split up with Lee if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘So, why were you so upset when you and Lee split up?’

  ‘Because even if I didn’t want to be with him, I did still love him.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Does anyone else know?’

  ‘No,’ says Stella, and then there’s a long silence.

  Secrets, I think. Everybody’s got them. Even me.

  ‘No offence,’ I say to them both, ‘but I’d never have put you two together. I don’t know, we’ve all been friends for such a long time but it never occurred to me that something like this could be going on.’

  ‘It came as a surprise as much to us,’ says Stella, ‘but one day Trevor and I just clicked. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised how great he was.’

  ‘I felt really guilty at first,’ says Trevor. ‘I still do, but Jenny was never right for me and I was never right for her. We were together out of habit, really. I’d have moved out a long while ago but . . . I’m not brilliant at breaking bad news. I know I have to tell her soon but now never seems to be the right time.’

  ‘It’s true,’ says Stella. ‘When this all comes out I know it’s going to cause a lot of hurt – especially to Jenny as she’s my friend – but we just couldn’t help ourselves.’

  ‘I feel like we’re finally getting serious about life,’ says Trevor. ‘Serious enough to start looking at houses that we might be able to afford . . . Houses with gardens and okay schools in the area.’

  ‘You’re not . . .?’

  ‘No,’ says Stella. ‘Not yet, anyway. But it’s part of the plan. We buy a place, maybe we get married, but by next year we want to have a kid.’

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit fast?’ I ask. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘It isn’t too fast at all,’ says Stella. ‘That’s been the problem all along. I used to think I had all the time in the world to do everything I wanted. But what’s the use of having all the time in the world if you’re always wasting it on things that don’t mean a thing?’

  10/10

  This morning some CDs arrive in the post from various music PR companies. Normally I just bundle them all into the spare bedroom to work through when I can be bothered but today, as I’m not going in to work, I decide to listen to them. I’m usually cynical when it comes to CDs – all the staff at Louder were unless it was an artist we really liked. Basically we’d act like kings with a court jester, dropping the promo CD or tape into the stereo and giving it a short amount of time to prove itself before being consigned to the pile marked ‘Crap’, never to be played again. You have to do this kind of thing when you’re a music journalist simply because of the sheer volume of stuff that you get sent. Not every album can be judged like this – some are ‘growers’ and in my time I’ve consigned a fair number of multi-platinum or critically acclaimed albums to the ‘Crap’ pile but that’s just the way it goes. What I really love, though, is the rare moment when you put on an album by someone you’ve never heard of expecting to skip through the tracks in moments only to be blown away, and this morning that happens. I put on a CD called Small Moments, by an Irish singer called David Kitt, lie in bed and listen to it. It’s simple stuff – a bedroom recording-studio operation: one guy with a guitar and a few bits of rudimentary electronic gadgetry but it works perfectly. It was – to put on my music journalist head – a twenty-first century Nick Drake. I love it. It lifts my mood and transports me to another place. I listen to the whole album on repeat until midday. In the middle of ‘Another Love Song’, the album’s high point, the bell rings. I pick up my jeans and T-shirt from the floor, throw them on and answer the door. It’s Nicola in her school uniform.

  ‘Nicola,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?’

  ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve been worried about you. Why haven’t you called me? I’ve left about a million messages on your answerphone.’

  This is true. She has been ringing all weekend. Big, long, rambling messages, and I haven’t returned a single one.

  ‘I’m really sorry, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly. It’s just that something came up and everything dropped out of my head.’

  ‘I was worried. I thought something bad had happened to you.’

  ‘I’m really, really sorry. I should’ve remembered.’

  ‘Didn’t you get my other messages?’

  ‘Yeah, I did, but I had a lot on my plate.’

  She looks hurt. ‘So you ignored them?’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose, Nicola. It was . . . just . . . well, I had a lot on, okay?’

  ‘But I left loads of messages . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see me any more?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you call me? I thought my phone was broken. We’ve never gone this long without talking since I’ve known you.’

  This isn’t true but that’s not the point. I should’ve returned her calls. I know it’s a hateful thing to do. But standing there in the communal hallway of my house being lectured by a thirteen-year-old girl is the last thing I need when my wife has left me. The absolute last thing.

  And before I know it I’ve lost my temper with my beautiful girl.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I snap. ‘I’ve already told you I’m sorry. What more is there?’

  The look of horror on Nicola’s face brings me to my senses. If I’d wanted to hurt her my mission is accomplished. Within seconds floods of tears are streaming down her face and all the time she’s just looking at me, unable to believe I can act in such a terrible way. I can’t believe it either.

  ‘What have I done wrong?’ she asks. ‘I only wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What have I done?’ she repeats. There’s real pain in her voice. ‘Why don’t you like me any more? What can I do to make you like me again?’

  ‘It’s not you,’ I tell her. ‘Of course I love you. I’m sorry. You’re all I’ve got.’ I throw my arms round her and hold her tightly, unsure if I will ever let go.

  control

  We talk, my daughter and I, about everything. It’s hard to tell her the truth but I want to be honest with her. I tell her about Izzy leaving, I tell her about the miscarriage, and I even tell her that Izzy might be pregnant, although I half expect her to get even more upset. But she doesn’t. She’s really grown-up about it. She listens carefully, and when I finish she tells me not to worry. She says that whatever it is I need to do to get Izzy back she’ll help me. She tells me that everything will be all right. And the strange thing is, I believe her.

  So, after she leaves to go back to school, I make my way to the spare bedroom and turn on my laptop, slap a fake smile on my face and begin my next ‘Male Man’ column. Two hours later I’ve finished it. Eight hundred words of ‘What your boyfriend might be thinking’ that makes me sound like the world’s most perfect partner. It made me feel good writing this piece. I’d hit rock bottom and now the only way is up.

  forever

  To: izzy.harding@bdp.co.uk

  From: dave_atch01@hotmail.com

  Subject: My Male Man column

  Dear Izz,

  The show must go on eh?

  Dave XXX

  Weddings

  Madonna was once asked why, if she knew Sean Penn
had wanted to marry her for a long time, she didn’t ask him earlier. She replied, ‘It’s one thing to have to read a man’s mind. But it’s another to have to read it back to him.’ That pretty much sums up the differences between men and women when it comes to marriage: women know everything and men know nothing. And in this game knowledge is power. Proposing marriage has never been men’s strong point. Quite often we can be happy with our partners, yet the idea of marriage will not have crossed our minds. It’s nothing personal, girls. Progress within a relationship has never been our priority. With us, the fact that there relationship exists at all is sufficient sign of commitment. However, as time moves on and our partner’s hints become less subtle, we finally see the benefit. In the end the grooms enjoy the wedding more than the brides – even if they never say so. I said to my wife on our wedding day, ‘If you’d pitched this wedding lark to me as a massive party where we get all our family and friends round and just drink too much I would’ve asked you to marry me ages ago.’

  The planning of a wedding will always be a woman’s job. Women will, of course, pretend that it is a joint effort. But we men know different. I tried suggesting something out of the ordinary for ours – wearing jeans and T-shirts to the ceremony – just for a joke, and received a look that in my wife’s facial lexicon meant, ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’ But, seriously, if wedding arrangements were left to men we’d plan the whole thing when we woke up and we’d turn up late at the wrong church wearing yesterday’s boxer shorts and a Manchester United top. The reason why women excel at wedding arrangements is that for them the small things in life are as important as the big things, if not more so. And detail is everything when it comes to weddings. To this day our local florist occupies the number-one slot at the top of my wife’s personal hate list (way ahead of fascists and men who leave the toilet seat up). Why? Because despite the strictest of instructions on the big day, her wedding bouquet arrived with a white ribbon on it instead of a cream one.