Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Your whatshhh?’

  ‘It’s about expanding my target market and casting my net wider and … oh, forget it, you’ll only laugh.’

  ‘After the day we’ve had, I think we could all do with a laugh,’ says Rachel, knocking back the dregs of her G and T, sober as a judge. ‘Who’s for another round? Come on, when you’re out, you’re out.’

  ‘You and your hollow legs,’ I say to her enviously. Rachel can drink anyone, male or female, under any table, easy as eggs.

  ‘Go back to the … whasssit … oh shit … that movie with Keanu Reeves …’ says Jamie, clicking his fingers.

  ‘Matrix,’ I answer.

  ‘Explanation, please.’

  ‘Simple. What you do is think about the type of fella you’d normally go for, then expand your market. You divide it all up into separate categories – you know, age, profession, income, hobbies; all of that – and then you figure how to cast your net a bit wider. The idea is that I start looking at blokes who might have been invisible to me before.’

  ‘HAAAAAAAAAAA, ha, ha, are you listening to that?’ says Jamie, prodding Rachel in the ribs. ‘Shoooo? Would that make you look at Gormless Gordon in a whole new light, my serially celibate one?’

  ‘PISS RIGHT OFF,’ Rachel snarls back at him. ‘I only wish to God he was invisible.’

  I should explain. Gordon (nicknamed ‘Gormless Gordon’ by who else but Jamie) owns the bistro right across the road from her boutique and is a living, breathing example of the devastating havoc the lethal Rachel pheromone can wreak. Every week he asks her out; every week she shoots him down and the following week he’s bounced right back and is hanging around the boutique, desperately trying to date her again. There’s nothing wrong with the guy, he’s perfectly normal in every other way apart from this huge, life-threatening crush he has on our Rachel.

  ‘You have to feel a bit sorry for him,’ I say, sadly.

  ‘Poor kamikaze bashhtard,’ slurs Jamie.

  ‘To call Gormless Gordon thick is an insult to thick people everywhere,’ snaps Rachel. ‘Now can we please change the subject?’

  ‘I’d kill to have a lovely fella chasing after me, asking me out all the time,’ I say. ‘Even if I wasn’t interested, at least it’s marginally better than what I have going on at the moment, which is a big fat nothing.’

  ‘It’s not any kind of ego boost, believe me,’ says Rachel. ‘The guy is just too dim to take no for an answer. May I remind you that this is the man who once said he thought Apollo Creed was the first man on the moon.’

  Jamie starts to snort into his glass. ‘And remember when he said tsunami was an actual place somewhere.’

  ‘Enough said,’ says Rachel. ‘He’s the only person on earth who could make Bob the Builder sound like Nietzsche.’

  ‘But the queshhtion under dishcussion is, what ish Amelia’s normal type?’ Jamie refocuses. ‘Shoo, lemmmme see. I know you like ’em tall, successful, independent, you know, someone who won’t be hanging out of you all the shtime …’

  ‘Let’s take a moment to recap, shall we, children? Here’s an update of my type to date,’ I say. ‘A serial cheater, a closet gay, a self-confessed commitment-phobe who then gets engaged to the first girl he meets after he breaks up with me and, last but not least, a perfectly lovely man who unfortunately had a latent vocation. If anyone could do with expanding their horizons a bit, it’s me, you have to admit. At the age of thirty-seven, I’m finally having to accept that not only have I not found great love, I haven’t exactly inspired any of the men I’ve been with either.’

  Jamie immediately bursts into song, warbling a few lines from the old Marianne Faithfull number ‘The Ballad of Lucy Jordan’.

  ‘Don’t,’ Rachel and I say together.

  ‘Why? Whattttshhhh’s wrong with that song?’

  ‘Just the line about her being thirty-seven and realizing that “she’ll never ride through Paris in a sports car …” ’

  ‘I know,’ says Rachel. ‘That song always gets me too and I never know why.’ She squeezes my shoulder affectionately. ‘I agree with you, sweetie, you may not have a great track record,’ she continues, on her way up to the bar, ‘but at least you don’t have Gormless Gordon the moron plaguing you morning, noon and night. Besides, as D:Ream would say, things can only get better.’

  ‘What is it with me?’ I say to Jamie as Rachel shouts in another order for us. ‘I hate to sound whiney, but how come some women find it really easy to find husbands and partners and men chasing after them whereas to me, it’s completely elusive, like …’

  ‘Me trying to break into movies?’

  I smile. ‘Kind of, yeah. All I want to figure out is: What am I doing wrong?’

  ‘You, my daaarling one, have been very busy concentrashing on your career, shat’s all that’s wrong. And you’re shooo shhhuccessful, Miss Big Shhhot Producer Pants … and I’m shoooooo proud of you.’

  ‘Bless you. That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day.’

  ‘Now gimme a job.’

  ‘Stop harassing her for work,’ says Rachel, plonking back down again. ‘OK. Get out a pen and paper, Amelia. We’re going to figure how to widen your matrix.’

  ‘Here? Now?’

  ‘Either do it without the attitude or don’t do it at all. If you have to do this, then we may as well have a bit of fun while we’re at it.’

  An hour later and the three of us are hysterical with laughter, the perfect antidote to the day we’ve had. We’ve scribbled my matrix all over a couple of paper napkins and it reads something like this.

  AGE, MY OLD ATTITUDE:

  In an ideal world, my ideal type of man would be aged somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five. Fifty’s kind of getting on a bit and I’m afraid that if I went out with anyone younger than thirty, there’s a good chance I could be mistaken for his mother.

  MY NEW IMPROVED ATTITUDE:

  From here on in, any heterosexual male aged between eighteen and eighty is within my target age range. As Jamie says, if a man has his own breathing apparatus, that’s considered a bonus. Even if he has a bus pass, a pension and has to go everywhere with a nurse in tow, so be it.

  PROFESSION, MY OLD ATTITUDE:

  Work is an important part of my life and if I’m really honest I would have to admit that I like a man who enjoys what he does and is good at it. In my experience, they tend to be the best adjusted ones. Besides, let’s be brutally honest. As Rachel says, would I really have anything in common with the man who sweeps the streets?

  MY NEW IMPROVED ATTITUDE:

  From now on, the man who, although trained to dig a hole in the road, is now reduced to holding up the ‘STOP/GO’ sign at roadworks is on the menu.

  EDUCATION, MY OLD ATTITUDE:

  Being completely upfront, I have to admit that I do like a guy to have a few letters after his name.

  MY NEW IMPROVED ATTITUDE:

  As long as a guy has letters in his name, he’s a potential husband.

  INTERESTS/HOBBIES, MY OLD ATTITUDE:

  I’m a great theatre-goer (even, in fact, especially if Jamie isn’t in a particular show I want to see) so I love a man who I can share that pastime with. Also it’s great if he’s sporty and athletic, enjoys reading, eating out, fine wines, holidays abroad, weekend breaks at home, old black-and-white movies, Monty Python, music, literature and art … but apart from all that, I’m not in the least bit picky.

  MY NEW IMPROVED ATTITUDE:

  If his interests include getting out of bed, switching on the telly and reading the back of a Cornflakes box while burping out the national anthem, he’s in with a chance.

  ‘So all you’re basically doing is taking your standards and then lowering them beyond all recognition?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘No, that’s not it. I’m not settling, just trying to be a bit more flexible, that’s all. Suppose there’s someone wonderful right under my nose that I’m not looking at in a romantic light just because he’s not six feet tall with a g
reat job and sings light opera in his spare time?’

  ‘I have to shay,’ slurs Jamie, ‘looking at your old me/new me lisshhhts … there’s nothing in the “new me” column that’d put me off any guy. I shhon’t care what he is or does, once he’s mad about this boy. And has a nice tight arse.’

  ‘Well, that’s just fantastic,’ I say. ‘I’m stuck in a homosexual man’s matrix.’

  Not surprisingly, the drive home the next day is a far more sombre affair than the journey down. All three of us are nursing such colossal hangovers from the night before that Rachel and I are silent for most of the journey while Jamie fills in the background with his babbling. You never even have to answer him when he goes off on these stream-of-consciousness monologues and I’m grateful for this as it gives me much-needed head space to think about the week ahead, which, even by Celtic Tigers standards, is exhausting. More meetings, more casting sessions and one other, deeply unpleasant task which lies ahead …

  ‘Now shut me up if I’m boring you girlies,’ says Jamie from the back of the car, ‘but it really helps my creative visualization process when I talk aloud like this. So, pay attention, universe. I want to be such a big star that I can strut around film sets and say things like, “Make me five iced frappuccinos and bring me the best, frothiest, foamiest one.” Or, “Bring me a bowl of M and Ms but take out all the red ones.” You know, basic high-maintenance shiteology.’

  I’m so lost in thought that in what feels like half the time it took to get to Limerick, Rachel is already driving through the security gates to my apartment complex. And there it is. A lovely welcome-home surprise waiting for me.

  Two cars are parked outside the duplex that He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken is moving into. The front door is open and a tall, willowy blonde girl is busy unloading boxes from the boot of one car. She’s utterly gorgeous, in a leggy, doe-eyed, Carolyn-Bessette-Kennedy way, the type who was just made to model Calvin Klein jeans. Through the open hall door, I can just about catch a glimpse of He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain- unspoken on his way back outside to unload more boxes.

  Suddenly, all three of us in the car are wide awake.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance you didn’t see that?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘Bastard!’ says Jamie. ‘Do you want me to sort him out for you, Amelia? Just give me the nod and I’ll take him out.’

  ‘You’ll take him out?’ says Rachel. ‘Oh, please, where do you think you are? Chicago? Nineteen twenty-two?’

  ‘Drive,’ I say in a hoarse whisper, slumping down in the seat in the hope that I won’t be seen. ‘Just drive the car.’

  Rachel almost chokes the engine, she revs past the house so fast. Then she pulls up outside my building, which is literally one hundred metres down the road.

  ‘Are you OK?’ they both say, patting my arm, really concerned.

  I take a deep breath and try to sound cool and rational. After all, it’s not like I didn’t know this was coming. In fact, I’ve been dreading this for so long, that now that it’s actually happened, in a weird way it’s almost a relief. ‘OK. I have two clear choices. Either I can go upstairs, drown myself in Sancerre and spend the rest of my life feeling sorry for myself, or I can accept the situation, deal with it and move on. Just remind me to set my alarm for half an hour earlier tomorrow morning, so I can at least drive past their house with make-up on and freshly washed hair.’

  ‘Good girl,’ says Jamie. ‘Come out fighting. She’s not all that good-looking either. I know I only had a quick glimpse, but I’d swear I saw acne scarring.’

  ‘Like we said last night,’ says Rachel, ‘things can only get better.’

  ‘You guys. What would I do without you?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  An Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove …

  OK. I don’t particularly like Mondays at the best of times, but today is really going to be a howler. I’ve hardly slept a wink with the knot of tension that’s in my tummy. I might as well have had the Celtic Tigers logo tattooed on to the insides of my eyelids, I spent so much time in bed last night tossing and turning, tummy churning in dread of the next day.

  Two grim Herculean labours lie ahead. I have to impart news about future plans for each of their characters to (a) Good Grief O’Keefe and (b) Rob Richards. I’ve scheduled both meetings for as early on Monday morning as possible, mainly to get them over and done with as soon as I can.

  Eventually, I realize that I’m not going to get any sleep, so I get up at dawn, jump in the shower, throw on my only ironed pair of trousers with a smart black cashmere sweater and lash on a bit of make-up.

  Up until last night, you understand, I’d never have dreamed of going to all this much trouble just to go into the office, but you never know who you might meet on the way there.

  It’s still dark when I jump into my car and head for the security gates. I can’t resist taking a peek as I drive past. Yes, there’s He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken ’s house, two his-and-hers jeeps parked outside, curtains drawn and in pitch darkness.

  Obviously not morning people then.

  Good.

  There’s very little traffic at that hour, but even though it’s early when I get into the office, pretty much everyone’s here. And there’s a distinctly gallows-like atmosphere about the place. It’s almost as if everyone knew it would be pistols at dawn and came in extra early so as not to miss out on any of it.

  ‘Good luck this morning, Amelia!’ hisses Suzy, our lovely production secretary to me as I make my way through the main office and on into the more private conference room which I’ve commandeered for the time being. I close the door, take a deep breath and plonk down on a swivel chair. A text comes through on my mobile and the beep-beep almost makes me jump out of my skin, I’m that edgy.

  Jamie. On his way home from a club, probably. TAKE NO PRISONERS TODAY DEAREST GIRL BUT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY JUST TEXT ME AND I WILL BRING VODKA.

  I’m just about to reply when, without even knocking, the door bursts open and in she comes: all five feet nothing of Good Grief O’Keefe. Bang on the dot of seven-thirty, which is probably the only time this season she’s been on time for anything.

  She’s absolutely tiny, just like a doll, with the face of an angel, a figure like Kylie Minogue’s and an attitude that would make J-Lo seem like a meek, sweet-natured pushover. Her tactic is clear as crystal: suck up to the producer as much as is humanly possible, lay on the charm offensive and hope that’s all that’s needed to ensure her long-term survival on Celtic Tigers.

  ‘Amelia!’ she says, air-kissing me and plonking a cappuccino down in front of me. ‘I thought you might be gasping for a coffee, so I got you this. Look at you! You look FAB! How do you always manage to look so stunning at this hour of the morning?’

  I’m not looking in the least bit fab, but it doesn’t stop her rabbiting on about the outfit that I’m wearing, my hair and make-up, then moving on to eulogize what a wonderful producer she thinks I am. In a nutshell, her sycophantic carry-on would be considered nauseous in LA, but in Dublin, it’s little short of projectile-vomit-inducing.

  ‘Have a seat,’ I say, mentally reminding myself to call her by her proper name, Cara, and not Good Grief O’Keefe.

  ‘Anything you say, you’re the boss and can I just say, you’re by far the best producer I’ve ever worked with, Amelia. I hope you’re not going to leave us now for the bright lights of Hollywood!’

  Don’t get sucked into all the toadying, says my inner voice, just come straight to the point and get it over with. Oh, and try to avoid the coffee, it could be spiked.

  ‘Cara, I just wanted to have a chat with you about the storyline we have planned for your character.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ she says, looking a bit relieved that she’s not for the chop. ‘You know me, I’m a pro to my fingertips. I’m happy to play out any storyline you have, whatever it involves.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear. OK. As you know I’ve had a
lot of intensive meetings with the story team over the past couple of weeks, and I think we all feel that we’ve gone about as far as we can down the sex-kitten, glamorous, femme-fatale route with your character, Glenda. So we’ve decided to send her off in a completely different direction …’

  She’s looking at me, face frozen, but with her mouth parted in shock, and it flashes through my mind what a great silent-movie actress she would have made. You know, the ones that had captions underneath them in the 1920s: this one would be ‘star feigns horror’.

  ‘Basically, what happens is this. Glenda finally walks out on Sebastian, sick to the gills of all of his cheating and mistreating her. She loses pretty much everything: her home, car and flashy lifestyle. Times get tough for her, but she refuses to take a penny from her family or friends; instead she’s determined to forge a brand-new life for herself, without being dependent on any man ever again. She’s too proud to accept any help from all her old friends and pretty soon, they start to dwindle away.’

  ‘And then what?’ Good Grief O’Keefe asks; the eyes like slits.

  ‘Obviously she needs money and isn’t exactly qualified to do much, so Sam gives her a part-time job in the café, to help get her back on her feet again.’

  ‘Waitressing? You want Glenda to be a waitress?’

  This silent-movie caption would be ‘STAR DOES DEEP SHOCK’.

  ‘Nothing so grand, I’m afraid. No, she ends up working in the kitchen and Sam very kindly lets her rent a room in the flat above the café.’

  ‘Oh dear God, you have got to be kidding me.’ (‘STAR DOES DISGUST’.) ‘Please tell me this is April Fool’s Day.’

  ‘Listen, Cara, this is a wonderful storyline for you; it’s a fantastic opportunity for you to really get your teeth into something meaty. You’ve played the glamour girl for years, now here’s your chance to let the audience see a whole new side of Glenda. There are actors out there who would kill for a storyline like this.’ I take a breath. I hadn’t wanted to resort to this, but now I may not have a choice. ‘Of course, Cara, if you don’t want to do it …’