The night does not get off to a good start.
‘I’m breaking up with Pete Mooney. Tonight. For definite. Don’t even try to talk me out of it.’
I’m sitting in Mike’s tiny living room, chatting to Caroline, who’s perched beside me on the edge of the moth-eaten sofa, still managing to look elegant even though she’s drinking wine from a mug. Caroline rarely drinks but, believe me, in this flat you want to swig alcohol. It means there’s a better chance of the germs being killed in whatever utensil you’ve been given to drink out of. The place is packed with all of Mike’s dentistry student friends, doing vodka ice cubes, pissed drunk and all in full fancy dress, moshing to Jackie Wilson’s ‘Reet Petite’. It’s hard to believe, but back in 1986, that song was all the go.
‘Oh, honey, don’t break it off with Pete tonight,’ says Caroline. ‘Not on New Year’s Eve, that would be awful for him. Would you want to start off nineteen eighty-seven by being dumped?’
‘No, but nor do I want to start off nineteen eighty-seven with a boyfriend who’s driving me slowly up the wall.’
‘That bad?’
‘Caroline, I’m exhausted from trying to be cool enough for him. And guess what, I never will be. He’s constantly criticizing me: the way I dress, the movies I want to see, the music I like. He came over for dinner last night and ended up having a go at my poor old mum because he caught her watching Cagney and Lacey. He told her it was the cheesiest series ever committed to celluloid and that it was fundamentally aimed at menopausal housewives.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I wish. And Mum was doubly upset cos she’d gone to loads of bother over the meal. She’d defrosted quiche and everything. Then I thought Dad would physically fling Pete out of the house when he started having a go at his taste in films.’
‘What films?’
‘Crocodile Dundee. Dad’s seen it twice.’
‘I’m really sorry, Amelia. I didn’t realize things were that bad. Didn’t he take you to a movie just the other night?’
‘Yeah, Blue Velvet. In the very first scene a human ear is found lying in a field … need I say more? I did my best to pretend to enjoy it, but he sees right through my act. Art-house stuff just isn’t me. I would have been so happy just going to see Hannah and Her Sisters. And don’t even get me started on the time he found out that I thought Che Guevara was one of the Rolling Stones. I still haven’t heard the last of that one.’
‘Have you told Jamie?’
‘No. That’s the other thing. He keeps putting Jamie down too. He’s always giving out about him in the band. He says his singing is off key and that his songwriting is way too commercial. He wants Emergency Exit to head in a completely different direction. Experimental, electronic stuff, you know? I think Pete’s idea of a successful song is one that gets them interviewed by Paula Yates on The Tube whereas Jamie—’
‘Secretly wants to represent Ireland in the Eurovision Song Contest, I know.’
Just then Mike comes over and slips his arm protectively around Caroline’s waist. That’s the other thing that’s upsetting me, although I’d never say it. They started going out the same night as myself and Pete, all of ten months ago, and are getting on so wonderfully well that it’s almost highlighted the slow deterioration of my relationship. Put simply, Mike gave Caroline a string of pearls for Christmas (which he worked his arse off to earn the money for, at his part-time job in a garage) whereas Pete gave me … nothing. Nada. Not a thing.
Now, in his defence, he says he’s fundamentally against the concept of exchanging gifts while there are people starving in Africa, but it’s just that I went to loads of trouble over his present: a season ticket to the Fellini retrospective at the Adelphi Cinema, which I knew he’d love. Funny, but for someone opposed to giving gifts, he has no problem accepting them …
‘So how’re my two favourite Charlie’s Angels?’ asks Mike. ‘And where’ve Sabrina and Charlie gone?’
‘Dunno,’ I reply. ‘Last seen heading in the direction of the keg.’
‘Doesn’t he look handsome?’ Caroline asks, looking up adoringly at him.
Mike has dressed up as Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman (Caroline’s Desert Island favourite movie) and looks like any woman’s fantasy come true. I’m just about to ask them, Cinderella-style, how long to go till midnight when Pete himself sidles over.
‘Oh, hi, Pete!’ says Caroline warmly. ‘So what have you come as?’
‘A rock star.’
‘Who?’
‘Guess. Don’t tell them, Amelia.’
‘Ehh … Bon Jovi?’ asks Mike.
‘You think I’d dress up as Bon Jovi? Get lost.’
‘Prince?’
‘Not even close.’
‘Give in.’
‘Billy Idol. Thought that would have been, like, sooooo obvious.’
In fairness to both Caroline and Mike, it’s not in the least bit obvious. The only difference between the way Pete looks now and the way he looks normally is that his hair is that bit spikier.
‘Can you do something about the music?’ he says to Mike. ‘If I have to listen to Tina Turner singing “Private Dancer” any more, I’m leaving.’
‘Give me a mo,’ says Mike, politely hopping to.
‘Oh, and I don’t want to make a fuss, but could you get me something clean to drink out of?’
‘Jeez,’ says Mike, ‘you said don’t make a fuss.’
‘So what do you think of our costumes?’ Caroline asks Pete as Mike disappears into the crowd.
He doesn’t answer; he just looks down at us in that patronizing way he has which is really starting to bug me.
It takes more than a snotty look to deter our Caroline though, who’s determined to extract a compliment from Pete if it kills him. ‘Doesn’t Amelia look gorgeous with her hair all backcombed, in the hot pants? Just like a 1950s cyberbabe.’
Pete just looks at me, searching for a suitably cutting witticism. ‘She looks like … like … like a slutty American pin-up painted on to the fuselage of a bomber.’ Then he swaggers off completely delighted and thinking himself the drollest man in the room.
‘I’m sitting right here, you know!’ I shout after him, boiling.
‘I know. Think of it as a backhanded compliment.’ And he’s gone into the kitchen.
‘Right, that’s it. If you don’t break up with him tonight,’ says Caroline, smarting, ‘I’ll do it on your behalf. Just wait till after midnight.’
Just then Mike starts flashing the fluorescent light above on and off to grab everyone’s attention. ‘Two minutes to the countdown, everyone!’ he calls out. ‘Grab your partners!’
‘Let me go and find Charlie and our missing angel,’ I say to Caroline. ‘At least let’s all be together for the start of nineteen eighty-seven.’
Caroline smiles and rejoins her fella as I work my way through the throng, searching for the others. I scour the tiny, filthy kitchen and the hallway looking for them. No sign.
Then I spot Pete chatting to one of Mike’s friends and he imperiously beckons me over, to be obediently by his side for the stroke of twelve.
Ughhhhh. As if. I shudder and am wondering how I can get out of that one when Mike switches off the music and starts the countdown. ‘TEN-NINE-EIGHT-SEVEN-SIX …’ they all start chanting.
I can see Pete coming through the crowd and moving closer to me. It’s at this point I figure I have no choice.
‘FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO …’
I open the bathroom door, not even caring if (a) there’s anyone on the loo or (b) the bathroom is so dirty, it’s a science project. This is an emergency.
And there they are.
It’s one of those things that, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I’d never in a million years have believed it. Jamie and Rachel are having a snog, kissing the faces off each other with such reckless abandon that they hardly even notice that it’s me, staring at them in deep, total shock.
‘Emm … Oh G
od, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going back outside to gouge out my eyes,’ I manage to stammer.
Then the whole place erupts. ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’
Chapter Twelve
There’s Nothing so Tragic, You Can’t Find Something to Laugh at
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Thank God for work. Thank God for being busy and thank God for not having any time left over to think. I make it into the office and the morning flies by in a blurry haze of story meetings, script meetings and emergency meetings with the press office about how to prepare the media for the slimmed-down, tightened-up, new-look Celtic Tigers that will be coming shortly to a TV screen near you. It’s well after two p.m. before I even get a chance to sit down at my desk, grab a sandwich and pick up my phone messages.
Nine missed calls. All from Jamie, all increasingly apologetic/grovelling/contrite to the point of … well, I’ll let you hear for yourself.
‘OK, sweetie, I know I’ve been a naughty boy, but you just have to forgive me. You know me, in vino veritas, and, besides, I was only thinking of you, my love. I’d never have dreamed of opening my big mouth about you and Pete Mooney and your night course if I hadn’t thought I was helping—’ Beep.
‘Ooops, sorry, machine cut me off. Anyway, please don’t judge me too harshly. I really, honestly thought I was doing you a favour or I’d never, ever have breathed a syllable about your course, which, for the record, I think is fantastic for you, honey. I know how much you want to be a Sadie, Sadie, married lady and fair play to you. You’re actually going out there and doing something about it—’ Beep.
‘Sorry, bloody machine again. Are you still in meetings? Ring me when you get this. I sort of have an idea about how I can make this up to you. Love you, mean it.’ Beep.
‘OK, OK, it’s midday now and you still haven’t returned my calls, which means you’re either in a major snot with me or you’re still trying to figure out a way of making your show more popular than Nip/Tuck … I hate to sound needy or anything, but call me, call me, call me!’ Beep.
‘Hmm, twelve-twenty-two. Now I’m worried that Good Grief O’Keefe has found out she might be for the chop and has sprinkled anthrax in your coffee. If I don’t hear from you soon, honey, I’m calling all the hospitals within a twelve-mile radius …’ Beep.
‘Oh God, now I’ve got visions of you in some emergency room with that cute doctor from ER giving you CPR and saying, “No! This can’t be happening! This woman is too young and beautiful to die!” And then that awful hospital administrator with the red hair and the walking stick that they all hate says, “Sure, tough break. Wouldn’t you think her best friends would be here?” ’ Beep.
‘Right. Here’s the deal. I’ve made an executive decision on your behalf. While you have actively NOT been returning my calls, I’ve had a lightning bolt of inspiration. I have a cunning plan which cannot fail. Now, pay attention, Bond. I’m going to call Pete Mooney and I’ll tell him that he may just be hearing from you and not to be surprised if he does; it’s because you’re doing research for a new character that’s coming into your show who by day is a mild-mannered accountant but by night plays in a 1980s nostalgia band. Brilliant, eh? He’ll never suspect a thing. Pete was always thick as a plank. Don’t bother thanking me, it’s the least I can do. If you’re not in an intensive-care unit, call me straight back. Love you up to the sky!’ Beep.
‘OK, you’d better be sitting down for this one. I rang Pete. Now, you’re not to get annoyed with me, promise? The good news is that he actually sounded so humongously pleased to hear from me, you’d have sworn I was Graham Norton calling. We chatted for ages, got on like a house on fire; you’d never have thought there was a cross word spoken between us. So then your name came up and I was saying wouldn’t it be great if we had an Emergency Exit reunion for old times’ sake and that you’d have to come along too, seeing as how you were our number-one groupie—’ Beep.
‘So here’s the fabulous news! Are you sitting comfortably? You’ll just never guess what, so don’t even try. As luck or serendipity or fate would have it, Pete’s at a wedding this weekend IN DUBLIN! I nearly had to have a lie-down when he told me. So, the wedding is on Saturday and I said why not meet up for a drink if he had any free time over the weekend. Then, totally unprompted, he says he’s planning to come to Dublin next Friday evening and how about we meet up then? So are you thrilled? Aren’t I just your golden boy? And more importantly, am I back in your good books again?’ Beep.
‘My final message. Promise. I may have exaggerated the teeniest little bit about what I was doing now … and … well … I might just need your help.’
Between one thing and another, the rest of the week flies by. Meetings, more meetings, scripting sessions that go on till all hours, bickering with actors’ agents … you name it, I dealt with it. I must have clocked up an eighty-hour week and, for once, it doesn’t bother me.
As I say, nothing like hard work to take your mind off things.
And still no sign of He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken and the pre-teen fiancée moving in.
It’s not that I’ve been checking every day or anything, but I do have to drive by their new house with the ‘Sold’ sign nailed to the ground in front of it, taunting me, every time I go outside the bloody door.
But somehow, I’ve made it through the week and now it’s Friday and I can’t believe it. It’s the weekend and I’m going out for the night, like normal people do. Well, except that, in my case, it’s to meet up with an ex-boyfriend I haven’t seen in nineteen years …
Did you ever find yourself in a situation so surreal that all you can do is wonder how the hell you ever got there in the first place? It’s the only way I can describe how I feel as I find myself sharing a taxi with Jamie on our way into town. In all honesty though, I have to admit that it’s actually really nice to have the bit of moral support. I’m feeling absolutely none of the awful anxiety attacks I went through before I met up with stinky old Greg Taylor. This time, I’ve brought an ally.
The taxi picks me up first, then we head for Jamie’s flat and get there punctually on the dot of eight, but, as usual, he’s not ready. He never is. After a twenty-minute wait, punctuated with Jamie sticking his head out of his bathroom window every moment he gets and shouting down at the taxi, ‘Nearly there! I promise, sweetie! Bit of a hair gel emergency!’ eventually he plonks down into the passenger seat beside me.
‘Pooh! What is that aftershave?’ I ask. I have to roll the window down, the smell is so overwhelming.
‘It’s my lucky blend, darling. I invented it myself. It’s a subtle mixture of Route du Thé from Barneys in New York—’
‘And what? Harpic toilet bleach?’
‘Smell is a critical part of chemical attraction, you know. Don’t you like it?’
I can’t even answer, I’m too busy spluttering.
‘Well, it is Friday night. And we are meeting in my favourite haunt, the Dragon bar on George’s Street.’
‘Jamie! You arranged to meet Pete in a gay bar?’
‘Oh, put your claws in, Ena Sharples. I didn’t suggest it, he did.’
‘But he doesn’t even live in Dublin. How is he supposed to know it’s a gay bar?’
‘Relax. It’s one of the most famous pubs in town; it’s practically a landmark, that’s the only reason he knows it. Besides, the front part of it is mixed, so you’ll be fine. So do you want to know the good news, oh single one?’
‘After the week I’ve had, all good news is gratefully received.’
‘Now don’t get over-excited, but I think Pete could be single too. I was on the phone to him for ages and he never once mentioned a wife or dependent kids. Nor did he even mention the dreaded GF word.’
‘GF?’
‘Girlfriend, idiot.’
‘Jamie, it doesn’t matter if he’s a practising Mormon with seven wives. This is not a date. This is about as far from a date as you can get. I’m not meeting him because I want to get
back with him; the only reason I’m here is to try to learn from the mistakes of my past.’
‘You didn’t make any mistakes with Pete. He was a total arsehole back then. The only honourable course of action open to you was to drop him off in dumpsville.’
‘Well, as Ira Vandergelder says, I’m clearly doing something wrong.’
‘Explain.’
‘OK. Let me put it to you like this. Suppose I go on one job interview and I don’t get the gig.’
‘I can certainly relate to that.’
‘Well then, it’s fair to assume that I just wasn’t what they were looking for. But supposing I spend the best twenty years of my life doing interviews and at the end of all that, I still don’t have a job to show for it. Then guess what? Chances are I’m the problem. Same with dating.’
‘Oh, sweetie, you and I both have that in common. It’s time to shut the revolving door of losers and hold out for something better.’
‘You’re dead right,’ I say, squeezing his arm. ‘It’s like that Samuel Beckett line about the harder you try, the better you fail.’
‘And for the record? I totally understand this burning need to have to be married. At least it’ll save you having to go out on any more crap dates.’
We’re just outside the Dragon bar by now and the taxi pulls over. I fish about in my handbag for the money to pay the driver and Jamie hops out.
‘Thanks for paying, darling,’ he coos. ‘You know me, I’m like the Queen. I don’t carry cash.’
The taxi speeds off and I take a deep, calming breath.
‘Oh, come on, honey,’ says Jamie, linking my arm, ‘just think. After tonight, three down and only seven to go.’
The Dragon is truly awful: crowded, noisy and full of Friday-night poseurs. We battle our way to the bar, order drinks and look around for anyone who even closely resembles Pete: i.e., tall, thin, beanpole, weedy types. Kind of like John Cleese, except in his late thirties.
‘OK, when he gets here,’ Jamie shouts in my ear (he has to, the noise is deafening), ‘you’re to ask me if I’ve decided whether or not to do the Spielberg movie.’
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 11