Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Well, apart from the fact that he wore glittery jackets and eyeliner and would spend more time in the bathroom than me, no. But then this was back in nineteen eighty-six. Not even Boy George had come out then and don’t get me started on all the teenage years I wasted lusting after George Michael, thinking that he was straight. For God’s sake, even Elton John had a wife back then.’

  ‘Then it clearly wasn’t your fault, Amelia. That time. But the lesson for you here is that you’ve gotta develop and hone those instincts of yours. If there’s something weird that you can’t quite put your finger on about any guy you’re dating, get out quick. Cut your losses. A smart dater doesn’t waste precious time on a relationship that’s not moving forward. Did you do your assignment? Did you ask a friend for a fix-up?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, delighted that at least I’ve done something right. ‘With a really sweet man.’

  ‘Why do I sense that there’s a but coming?’

  ‘Too old. No chemistry.’

  ‘How old is too old?’

  I’m aware Ira will probably say a good man is a good man at any age and that I should be thankful he’s not living in an old folks’ home that smells of wee, so I know I have to tread carefully here. Either that or make a joke of it. ‘Well, it’s all relative. To anyone born during the Napoleonic era, I’m sure he’s a spring chicken.’

  ‘Do you always use humour as a defence, Amelia?’

  This shuts me up. God, Ira’s good, to see through me so easily. I’m really amazed. Talk about laser-like penetration …

  ‘But then, as I always tell my students, if there’s no spark, there’s no spark,’ she goes on, addressing the packed classroom. Then, to my complete surprise, she adds, ‘There is no compromise in my class, nor is there room for desperation. Do not fall into the trap of thinking: What right have I to reject a perfectly good man just because I’m not attracted to him; at my age, I should take what I can get and be thankful for that. You all wanna be happily married to a man you truly love and you all should settle for nothing less. But there is something you can do, Amelia,’ she says, turning her focus back to me.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘OK, so this older man didn’t exactly light your fire, but your friend who fixed you up must think very highly of him.’

  ‘Yes, she does. He’s a dote of a man really, sweet and attentive and knows how to treat women well.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the phrase “One man’s meat is another man’s poison”?’

  There’s a lot of mutterings from the back row.

  ‘What I mean,’ says Ira, ‘is that in a few weeks’ time, we are gonna throw ourselves a class party. I will be asking one of you ladies to host it and the rest of you to provide food and wine. But there’s a catch. Each of you will have to bring along a date; but not your normal type of date. A single, straight guy who you’ve personally vetted to make sure that they’re a good, decent person, but who you yourself are not attracted to at all. Maybe one of your classmates will fall madly in love with him, who knows? In the United States, we call this a treasure-or-trash party. Amelia, I strongly suggest that you bring along this older guy of yours. Just because you weren’t keen, doesn’t mean one of these other lovely ladies won’t be.’

  Genius. Fab idea.

  I’m just silently glancing over at Mags and idly wondering whether she finds men in their sixties who still live with their mothers attractive when Ira moves on to the woman on my left. I really want to say, ‘Wait! Please! I wasn’t finished!’ but, in fairness, I’ve already hogged quite enough of her time. Besides, the story about He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken is so mind-bogglingly far-fetched, who in the class would even believe me?

  Some of the other fix-up stories are a scream. A woman called Sheila sitting behind me said she was matched up with a guy who her best friend did meals-on-wheels with. She very naturally jumped to the conclusion that this meant he was a kind, considerate, civic-minded member of the public. Turned out he was doing meals-on-wheels as part of his community service.

  ‘What’s good about this,’ says Ira, ‘is that you’re getting back into the dating zone. OK, so this man wasn’t for you, but who’s to say the next man won’t be?’

  To my shock, in no time at all, it’s almost nine o’clock and Ira is already giving us our homework for next week. What is it about this class that seems to make time stand still?

  ‘Number one assignment: you are all to get to work on tracking down your next ex-boyfriend and see what you can learn from him,’ she commands.

  I’m well ahead of you there, I think to myself smugly, absolutely dying to get in touch with the lovely Tony Irwin. He has to be married by now, I reckon, how could he not be? Whoever she is, though, there’s one thing for certain. Mrs Tony Irwin has to be the luckiest woman alive …

  ‘Number two: I want you all to write out your personal matrix and then figure out a way to expand it.’

  A lot of ‘Huh?’s and what’s-she-on-about looks. I’m inclined to forget that Ira is, first and foremost, a marketer.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I want all of you ladies to cast a wider net, or, in other words, to expand your market. I give these classes the world over and I’m constantly amazed at the number of single women whose list of criteria they need in a potential husband is so long, you wonder if such a man even exists. Fact: the odds of finding a husband over thirty-five change. Quite simply, women outnumber men. So we need to figure out a way of meeting a whole new range of eligible guys. This means you all gotta forget about your “type”. In my class, that’s a dirty word. You’re gonna learn to be flexible. Your future husband may be shorter than you, he may not earn as much as you, he may not love the theatre the way you do. But if he’s a really wonderful person and you could truly love him, should you really overlook him just because of a few trivial details?’

  Someone from the back asks a question. ‘Ira, what’s a matrix?’

  ‘Let me explain. When cell phones first came on the market, they were designed for business people on the move. That was the primary market. But then the phone companies got smart. They realized they could make a lot more money by expanding their target market to include secondary buyers, like teenagers or busy moms. Smart move, I think you’ll all agree; that’s where they made their fortune. And that’s what all of you ladies are gonna do. For next week’s assignment, I want you all to write out your matrix, and then figure out how you can expand it.’

  By way of explanation, she whips out a red marker and starts drawing a chart on the whiteboard. It looks a bit like this:

  My Type Cast My Net Wider

  Age

  Profession

  Background/education

  Height/physique

  Interests/hobbies

  Personality type

  Income

  Marital status

  ‘From this day on, ladies,’ she continues, ‘you have no type. I want you all to fill out this matrix and really give thought to the kind of guy who’s not your type. Remember this is only an experiment, I’m not asking you to compromise yourselves in any way. All you’re doing is learning to cast your net wider.’

  Class has run way over time by now and eventually Ira wraps it up.

  I purposely loiter behind, dying for a quick, private chat with her. Pretty soon, the room empties and I go for it. ‘Ira, I’m sure you’re dying to get home, but could I have a minute of your time?’

  ‘Sure, honey, fire away.’

  I find myself telling her all about He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken, the unedited version, right the way up to his impending marriage and plans to move across the road from me. I don’t even know why I’m telling her except that (a) I’m dying to know what she thinks and (b) in a million years, there’s no way I’d be up to discussing this in front of the class.

  Even Ira, with all her boundless energy, has to grab a seat for this one. ‘Wow, that’s some tale,’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘I sup
pose I really just wanted to tell you that you were right,’ I say. ‘You told me that when a man doesn’t want to commit, all it means is that he doesn’t want to commit to you. And you were right.’

  ‘You poor girl, I really feel bad for you,’ she says. ‘I don’t ever believe in putting men down, but what an asshole.’

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s mild. You should hear what my friends have to say about him.’

  ‘In all the time you were together, did you ever get signs that he wasn’t for you?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes, honestly.’

  ‘Loads of them. So many signs, I’ve lost count,’ I say, remembering things like the time he was to come to Spain with me for my dad’s surprise seventieth birthday and let me down at the last minute (for absolutely no good reason); the year he completely ignored Christmas; then there was one occasion when he was moody and rude to me at his friend’s wedding where I knew absolutely no one … it’s quite a list.

  He was also someone who needed what I can only describe as the uninterrupted ego-massaging normally associated with heirs to the throne in ancient civilizations. You know: the type of guy who thinks that everything centres on him, at all times, always.

  Funny how a bit of perspective from a failed relationship can make you feel like a total idiot. When I think what I put up with, in the name of love …

  ‘All I can say in my defence is that I really, honestly adored him. I thought he’d change and that I could make it work. Plus, if I have one talent, it’s bashing square pegs into round holes.’

  ‘Never think you can change a man, sweetheart,’ says Ira, kindly. ‘Biggest mistake you’ll ever make. If you want my opinion …’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘I think the best thing you can do is stick with this course. You have to stop dating dumb and learn to date smart. If you’d been in my class when this guy first started mistreating you, I’d have ordered you to dump him right there and then. There is no point in throwing good time after bad. Good luck to him and his bride-to-be. There’s someone so much better out there for you and we are gonna find him and you, my dear, are gonna have the happiest ending. Where I come from we have an old saying: “There is no Oz without Kansas.” ’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that you can only really appreciate all the wonderful guys in this world when you’ve been through the shits. I know what I’m taking about, Amelia. I’ve been married three times.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘And after all that, I still believe in love and happiness. You know, there’s a metaphysical word to describe what you’re going through. Chemicalization. Ever heard of it?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Put simply, it means that when the universe sends you something awful like you’ve just experienced, the converse is only around the corner. And this wonderful thing that’s waiting for you will be the perfect counterbalance to what you’re going through right now. The universe is very fair like that.’ She clocks my puzzled look and takes me by the arm. ‘It means go home and crack out the champagne, Amelia. Your prince is almost here.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Frenaissance

  The rest of the working week goes by in such a blur of meetings, castings, hirings and firings that I almost can’t believe it when I wake up at six a.m. on Saturday morning (force of habit;Celtic Tigers starts shooting at seven) and then realize that this is the one morning of the week when I can actually sleep on.

  I doze off and have the craziest dream …

  I’m living in a mud hut in Johannesburg with He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken, barefoot and pregnant, when Ira Vandergelder swoops down in a helicopter, throws a rope ladder over the side, and rescues me.

  Figure that one out, Dr Freud.

  I’m in the deepest, soundest sleep when the phone on my bedside table rings. Rachel, putting on a truly awful Southern accent. ‘Hi, Thelma, it’s me, Louise! Get your lazy arse out of the bed and look out the window.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s the time?’ I ask, groggily dragging myself out of bed.

  ‘Time we were on the road, sleeping beauty. It’s eleven-thirty.’

  I haul myself like a sleepwalker over to the balcony window, throw back the curtains and there they are: Rachel and Jamie, sitting in the front seat of her convertible with the roof down, waving at me like a pair of demented loonies. Rachel is looking very Audrey Hepburn today, in a 1960s-style shift dress and big, dark sunglasses, and Jamie looks like he always does, as if he just fell out of an early house pub down the docks.

  Suddenly I’m wide awake. I fling open the French windows and stage whisper down to them, mindful that (a) my neighbours are all night owls who, chances are, could still be asleep and (b) He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken might have moved in across the road: ‘Jamie! Are you coming with us?’

  ‘Course I am. I was starting to feel really left out of all the fun. If you pair are going to be Thelma and Louise on this road trip, then I’m Brad Pitt. You know, the sexy, super-cool drifter they pick up. Don’t you think that would be good casting for me?’

  ‘You have exactly five minutes to get your tush down here,’ says Rachel, ignoring him. It’s a three-hour drive and I plan on a good stiff cocktail before we get to Glenstal.’

  ‘Booze hound,’ says Jamie.

  ‘People in glass houses,’ she snaps back. ‘The smell of stale drink off you, I’m only thankful we can take the top down on the car. You must have been locked out of your head last night.’

  ‘Do you mind? I prefer tipple happy.’

  To avoid them entertaining the neighbours any further, I manage to persuade them to come up to the flat for a lightning-quick coffee while I jump in the shower, and then decide on a suitable outfit for, fingers crossed, meeting Tony Irwin in.

  ‘Now remember, he’s a schoolteacher,’ Jamie advises me as I’m standing in front of my wardrobe in a bath towel, frantically trying to root out something. ‘So nothing too overtly sexy. Dress like you would for a garden party and you won’t go too far wrong. You know, vicar’s-wife type vibe.’

  I settle on a long, floaty skirt and a sweet little pink cashmere twin set which is on extended loan from Rachel and, five minutes later, we’re on the road.

  Caroline calls and we put her on the car speakerphone so we can all chat/squeal at her.

  ‘Have fun, you guys,’ she says. ‘Think of me stuck at home all weekend!’

  ‘Where’s Mike?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ she says, a bit crossly, for her. ‘He’s at a conference in London. Which means he’ll spend ten minutes talking to sales reps and the rest of the time out on a golf course. Won’t be back till Monday. So ring me all the time and keep me in the loop. Otherwise I’ll go off my head looking at Barney DVDs and scraping porridge off the walls. Oh, and will you do me a favour?’

  ‘The answer is yes, what is the question?’

  ‘Will you ask Tony if he has any pull getting boys into Glenstal Abbey? I’d so love to enrol Joshua there. Wouldn’t he look so sweet in that lovely navy-blue uniform?’

  ‘Consider it done,’ I say. ‘In fact, it might even be good cover for us going down there in the first place. Sure as hell beats my explanation of, “Oh, hi there, Tony, long time no see, we were just passing, don’t suppose by any miracle you’re still single?” ’

  She laughs and we all say goodbye and promise to keep her fully posted.

  ‘OK, girlies,’ says Jamie, ‘we have a gruelling, three-hour journey ahead of us, so that should just about give us enough time for me to tell you about my date last night.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you actually met up with Pete Mooney?’ I ask, horrified at the very thought.

  ‘Like I’d ever do that to you? Even I have standards, you know. Besides, that is soooo last Friday’s news. Try to keep up.’

  ‘With your Spaniard?’ Rachel asks innocently.

  ‘No, that’s mucho finito.’
r />   ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since he stopped calling over a week ago. You know me, I’m not needy but I do require the reassurance of constant attention and if he can’t provide that, then let him see how dull and boring life is in a Jamie-free universe.’

  ‘This is the twenty-first century, don’t tell me guys still do that?’ says Rachel, wrinkling her nose in disgust, as if she’d just driven past a silage plant. ‘Just stop calling you and then expect you to psychically deduce that you’ve been dumped? And what’s the statute of limitations these days anyway?’

  ‘Stop using long words. Explain. Slowly. I’m very hung over.’

  ‘I mean, thicko, if a man stops calling, then how long do you give it before you accept that he’s the dumper and you’re the dumpee?’

  ‘Depends,’ says Jamie. ‘With me, there’s usually a forty-eight-hour rule. And a text message doesn’t count. That’s just what guys do when they couldn’t be arsed picking up the phone to you. No full-on phone contact, no Jamie. Look at me, Amelia, and learn by example.’

  ‘When I was married to shit features number two,’ Rachel chips in, ‘and he was working late and wouldn’t call me, I used to think either he was having an affair or lying on the side of the road in a coma. Funny, but I think I actually would have preferred the coma option.’

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear about your Spaniard,’ I say. ‘It would have been nice if things had worked out for you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it would have been nice if Hitler had channelled all his energies into opening a nice chain of vegetarian restaurants instead of the Third Reich, but guess what? That didn’t happen either.’

  ‘So what poor unfortunate freak-o-saurus were you dating last night?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘This guy I met on the internet. Now, normally, I’m not one to kiss and tell, but … Oh, who am I kidding? Well, girlies, you’d have howled. From his profile, I expected to meet a guy with the swarthy good looks of a young John Cusack and the charisma of that guy who won American Pop Idol. What I actually got was a middle-aged man who looked like one of the judges on Pop Idol, with all the charisma of a Heinz ketchup bottle. I wanted to say to him, “Do you have a full-length mirror in your house?” The difference between him and his Gaydar profile was so unbelievably huge, you’d think he was leading a double life. You know, kind of like Bruce Wayne and Batman. Except this guy looked more like the aul’ fella that’s the butler.’