Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  And not a bit controlling at all, in spite of what Jamie said at the time. I really hate that the others all call him Mr Intense …

  Tonight, he’s wearing tartan too, baggy tartan pants and a yellow matching tartan waistcoat, worn over a bare chest. I wave at him and I’m sure he sees me as I’m in the front row, but he ignores me and keeps that modelly admire-me-from-a-distance-but-if-you-come-near-me-I’ll-kick-your-teeth-in smouldering glare he has going on.

  ‘Doesn’t he look cute?’ I say to Jamie.

  ‘Cute? Constipated, more like.’

  ‘OK, he may not be your favourite person, but you have to admit he is bloody gorgeous-looking.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure his smile brings dead puppies back to life.’

  ‘Your jealousy is very transparent. You’d love to be up there, strutting your stuff, admit it. What have you got against Simon anyway?’

  ‘Hmm, let me see. He’s weird, he’s conceited, he’s up his own arse and he’s obsessive. But apart from that, I’m sure he’s an absolute sweetheart.’

  ‘Lay off, Jamie. You’re only saying that because he rearranged all the clothes in my wardrobe. I wouldn’t mind, but I only told you that story because I thought you’d get a laugh out of it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He can only fall asleep if he’s facing due east. Perfectly normal behaviour.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he colour-codes the towels in his bathroom.’

  ‘Which have to … ?’

  I sigh. I knew it was a big mistake telling the Lovely Girls about Simon’s idiosyncrasies. Now I’ll never hear the end of it. What can I say? My will to gossip is just too overwhelming. ‘Which have to hang exactly twelve inches from the towel rail.’

  ‘And you don’t see anything wrong with any of this? Any normal person would have run a mile by now. You can do a lot better for yourself, Amelia. You’re not that ugly.’

  By now, the music has changed to Marvin Gaye’s ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ and all the models come out wearing Levi’s 501 jeans, just like in the TV ad. And then I notice something. While all the other models are looking designer-scruffy, Simon’s jeans are immaculately creased down the front. Eagle-eyed Jamie spots it too and shoots me a significant told-you-so look …

  There’s a party afterwards and we all stand around drinking warm white wine out of plastic beakers and thinking ourselves very sophisticated. Over by the bar, Christian is blatantly feeling up Rachel, who’s doing absolutely nothing to stop him, while Jamie, Mike and I stand around making tense small talk with Mrs Egan.

  And then something occurs to me. It’s almost as if Rachel is going out of her way to flaunt her new fella under Jamie’s nose to annoy him and it’s working and now he’s taking his appalling bad humour out on me. I decide to let it go, though. After all, this is Caroline’s night, not mine …

  Eventually, the star of the show herself emerges breathlessly from the makeshift dressing room, carrying a huge bouquet of roses, which are obviously from Mike. She pecks her mother demurely on the cheek and gives Mike a bear hug and they look so adorable together that I whisper to Jamie, ‘Do you think they’ll ever get married?’

  Mrs Egan, who could hear the grass grow in her sleep, immediately snaps back, ‘With a sense of humour like that, Amelia, you really should consider a career in stand-up comedy.No one marries their college boyfriend.’

  ‘I certainly hope you don’t,’ Jamie mutters to me. ‘Have you noticed how Mr Intense is the very last to leave the dressing room? He’s probably still staring in the mirror checking his hair hasn’t moved one-eighth of a degree.’

  ‘Give me a break, Jamie. OK, so he has his odd little ways, but I have fun with him.’

  ‘Oh, please, there are prisoners on death row with more joie de vivre than him.’

  ‘He’s smart.’

  ‘Get real. There are more intelligent forms of life floating around in ponds.’

  ‘OK, so he might be a little bit intense, but so are a lot of very gifted people like … emm …’

  ‘Hitler? Stalin?’

  ‘Why are you picking on my boyfriend? Why don’t you pick on Rachel’s? Cut me some slack.’

  ‘I only met … whatever his name is … Christian, an hour ago. Give me time.’

  We’re interrupted by Mr Intense, who accepts all our congratulations as though he’s just won a Nobel prize.

  ‘Yeah, I really think I may just pursue a full-time career in modelling,’ he says modestly. ‘Everyone says I’m a born natural.’

  Jamie mouths something which looks like: ‘Born wanker, more like,’ but I ignore it and offer to buy a round of drinks, leaving Simon chatting, or rather talking about himself to my pals.

  I’m waiting ages at the bar and fall into casual conversation with Tom O’Gorman, a really nice guy in my class. We’re both doing our final year theses and are swapping notes on our subjects and the real reasons versus the interview reasons why we chose them.

  ‘Mine’s on Jane Austen,’ I’m telling him. ‘Interview reason: because I love the early-nineteenth-century novel form; real reason: I get to watch a lot of movie adaptations of her books all day long, which sure as hell beats working for a living.’

  Tom laughs. ‘I can top that. Mine’s on late-eighteenth-century men’s costume. Interview reason: because I’m fascinated by the playwrights Congreve, Goldsmith and Sheridan; real reason: because it’s such an obscure topic, I can get away with murder. No one knows very much about it so I reckon all I’ll need to do is read about two books and I’m home and dry.’

  ‘Genius! Wish I’d thought of that.’ I laugh.

  I’m just about to pay for the drinks when Mr Intense … sorry, I mean Simon comes over, face like thunder. I introduce him to Tom and then instantly regret it.

  ‘So who are you then?’ Simon asks him, so rudely that Tom looks back at him, a bit dumbfounded.

  ‘Tom’s in my class,’ I say, puzzled by this behaviour.

  ‘Did you tell him that you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Tom quite rightly senses an almighty row brewing and moves off the minute his pint is ready.

  ‘Amelia, the guy was chatting you up and you were letting him. I was watching you. You were flirting your head off.’

  His tone is low and – well, there’s no other way to describe it –menacing. For a split second, I don’t know whether to laugh or not. He has to be messing … hasn’t he?

  ‘Is it actually possible that you’re being serious? I barely know the guy; we were only talking about our theses for a few minutes while we were waiting for the drinks.’

  ‘Eleven minutes.’

  ‘You timed me?’

  ‘Amelia, the only reason you’re getting annoyed is because you were found out. You’ve probably been seeing him behind my back for weeks, haven’t you?’

  He’s gripping my arm tightly now, and it’s hurting. Instinctively, I look around to see where my friends are. Not too far. Good. I’m starting to feel a bit scared. ‘Simon,’ I say, shaking him loose and rubbing my arm, ‘can you just hear yourself?’

  ‘I can only think of one reason why you’re being so defensive. You’re sleeping with him.’

  ‘Never, never, never have kids,’ says Caroline, wearily coming back into the drawing room. ‘Take it from me, sterilization is the answer. I nearly had to throw a bucket of water over the pair of them.’

  ‘Oh dear. Worse than the new-car row?’

  This was a famous occasion a few months back where Emma was perched on the bonnet of Mike’s brand-new Mercedes with a flinty stone in one hand. She absentmindedly etched her name into the paint-work: ‘Emma’. Then she realized what she’d done and changed it to ‘Emma is a pig’, so Joshua would get all the blame. When the truth was discovered, the ensuing row lasted for days.

  ‘God knows how they’ll react to a new arrival,’ Caroline goes on, patting her tummy and sitting back down. ‘So? Aren’t you dying to k
now how I figured the chain between us and Mr Intense? I’m not bragging, but I am particularly proud of this bit of detective work.’

  ‘It’s been almost eighteen years and, you know, if Jamie heard we were trying to track him down, he’d still vomit.’

  ‘Never mind Jamie. I did this for you. Easy peasy, really. I did the maths and figured that after poor Tony Irwin, Mr Intense … sorry, I mean Simon was next on the hit list, so to speak. Now. Do you remember Phoebe Smyth?’

  ‘That you used to model with?’

  ‘That’s the one. Well, her daughter is in Emma’s class and I bumped into her this morning and we just got chit-chatting about the old days. And then I remembered that Mr Intense did a bit of modelling with the same agency as myself and Phoebe. So I asked her if she ever saw any of the old gang and casually dropped Mr Intense’s name. Turns out he’s still working for the same agency now, but as a bookings manager.’

  ‘And you have the number of the agency?’

  ‘Right here in my address book.’

  ‘Caroline, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times: You’re an angel sent from on high.’

  We both look at each other.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Caroline asks.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Let’s ring him now. It’s only just gone five-thirty; the agency would still be open. Come on, Amelia, you and Jamie and Rachel have all the fun; this would be the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all day. Apart from the U-bend in the downstairs loo getting blocked.’

  ‘You’re on. Just let me finish this glass of wine. Dutch courage is better than no courage.’

  A few minutes later, the pair of us are rolling around laughing, with the speakerphone switched on. I take a deep breath and dial. It rings.

  ‘Hello, Catwalk modelling agency, how may I help you?’

  ‘Ahem. Hello. I’d like to speak to …’ Shit, I’m so used to hearing everyone call him Mr Intense I have to rack my brains to remember what his real name is. ‘Oh, yes, Simon Byrne please.’

  Caroline gives me the two-thumbs-up sign. If I say so myself I do sound very confident, but then, I’ve had quite a bit of practice over the last few weeks …

  The receptionist falters a bit. ‘Is it a personal call?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘OK. Well, Simon actually left here some time ago, but I still have his mobile number, is that any help to you?’

  ‘That would be great, thanks.’ I scribble the number on the back of my hand and hang up, delighted.

  Caroline is on the edge of her seat.

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘now for the hard bit.’

  ‘Oh God, my nerves,’ squeals Caroline. ‘Are you sure you want to do this now?’

  ‘No time like the present,’ I answer firmly, bracing myself. I dial the mobile number. Caroline has to stuff a tissue in her mouth to stop herself laughing out loud.

  It rings. And rings. Eventually a woman’s voice answers. Caroline and I look nervously across at each other. Could this be his wife?

  I take the bull by the horns. ‘Hello, is that Simon’s phone?’

  ‘Ehh … yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘Amelia Lockwood. I’m a friend of his from college. Could I have a quick word with him, do you think?’

  ‘Oh. You’re a friend of his?’

  ‘Ehh … yeah.’ I pull a face at Caroline. A total exaggeration, but what choice have I?

  ‘Well, maybe you’d like to come and visit him then?’

  I think on my feet. Yes, isn’t this the whole object of the exercise? ‘I’d love to, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Great. I’ll tell him to expect you. It’s just that of all our patients, Simon hardly gets any visitors, you know.’

  This time, Caroline and I look at each other in horror.

  ‘Emm, I’m sorry but … where exactly is Simon?’

  ‘Here in St Moluag’s psychiatric home, St Killian’s ward. Any time tomorrow would be great. If you come to the main reception desk and just ask for me. Nurse Sarah O’Loughlin.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The Cuckoo’s Nest

  There’s no getting out of it. I have to go and visit poor old Simon and that’s all there is to it. It’s a mad busy day for me in work, but I make up my mind to go and see him at lunchtime, when things in the office are slightly less manic. Even Caroline gently admits that it’s the right and proper thing to do.

  ‘You have to. Especially after the nurse told him to expect a visit from you,’ she says during a sneaky phone call when I’m meant to be holed up in the conference room reading scripts. ‘I’m just not very happy about you going on your own. Do you have to go at lunchtime? I have a check-up at one, but if you could wait till later in the afternoon, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Bless you for that, but I’m in meetings for the rest of the bloody day. It’s lunchtime or never, I’m afraid. Besides, better to get it over with sooner rather than later. If I leave it till tomorrow, there’s a very good chance I’ll think about what I’m about to do and then not do it and then run in the opposite direction, very, very fast.’

  ‘OK, well, keep safe and remember I’m only on the other end of a phone if you need me.’

  I decide not to tell Jamie about this latest turn of events as (a) to say he never liked Simon is a big understatement and (b) he’s got an interview for a big commercial this morning, and is up to the ceiling about it. He won’t tell any of us what the ad is for on the grounds that it’s bad luck; all he’ll say is that, if he gets the gig, he’ll be able to repay all the money he owes us. I keep my fingers crossed for him because he needs this. It would be so good for his self-esteem right now. Plus, with the amount of money he owes me alone, I could treat all the Lovely Girls to a five-star round-the-world cruise on the Queen Mary. One p.m. comes and I’m into my car and out of the station like a hot snot, when Rachel calls.

  ‘Well, well, well. I take my eye off you for two minutes and this is what happens.’

  ‘Hi, hon!’

  ‘Caroline told me exactly what you’re up to, so don’t even attempt to deny it.’

  ‘It has to be done,’ I say, pulling out on to the motorway. ‘No way out of this one.’

  ‘Just make sure you wear a T-shirt that says “sane”, won’t you? I don’t have time to come and bail you out later.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. When I get married, I’m making you wear lemon-yellow chiffon as my chief bridesmaid and it’ll serve you right.’

  ‘Shit, hold on one sec.’ She covers the mouthpiece with her hand but, although it’s a bit muffled, I can still hear the unmistakable sound of Gormless Gordon asking her out to lunch. ‘No thanks,’ she’s telling him crisply, ‘I don’t do wheat, dairy, gluten or any kind of meat product so there’s no point really.’

  ‘Maybe you’d come for coffee later on?’ I can hear him saying.

  ‘Don’t do caffeine either,’ she snaps back. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Poor kamikaze bastard,’ I say when she comes back to the phone.

  ‘People in glass houses. Look at what you’re about to do and then judge me, if you dare.’

  Point taken.

  Anyway, St Moluag’s isn’t too far from work and about ten minutes later I’m pulling up the long, oak-lined driveway which leads to the hospital. Except that it doesn’t look remotely like a hospital, more like a big, posh country hotel. The grounds are fabulous, beautifully maintained, and there’s even a tennis court, I notice as I park the car in the visitors’ car park. I hop out and scrunch up the gravelled driveway, taking nice, deep, calming breaths as I head for the main entrance.

  Nothing scary; no one in straitjackets being chased by men in white coats; no one wandering around the grounds thinking that they’re chickens; so far, so good. I make my way inside, walk up to the main reception desk and ask a very friendly-looking nurse where I can find Simon.

  ‘Oh yes, he’s been expecting a visitor,’ she says, sm
iling prettily. ‘I think he’s waiting in the canteen. It’s just round the corner, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Ehh … thanks,’ I say, bracing myself.

  ‘Just one thing, Miss … emm … ?’

  ‘Amelia.’

  ‘Amelia. Would you mind if I had a quick look in your handbag?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing like the security checks at Dublin airport.’ She grins cheerily as I hand my bag over. ‘I just need to make sure you don’t have anything sharp in there.’

  I obviously pass the test as she slides my handbag back to me and tells me to enjoy my visit, as if I was expecting it to be anything other than a barrel of laughs. Gulping, I make for the canteen, which is busy, naturally enough, this being lunchtime, but I spot Simon straight away. In fact, it’s hard to miss him.

  He’s sitting at a table on his own, still outrageously good-looking, but somehow without that aloof, reserved aura he always used to have about him; that quality he had which, at aged twenty, I mistook for a nervous, passionate, highly-strung temperament but which was actually just plain weird. The only other tiny difference the years have wrought is that he’s put on a bit of weight, but otherwise there’s no mistaking him. He spots me and waves over for me to join him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, pecking me warmly on each cheek, ‘Amelia Lockwood, as I live and breathe. You look fantastic – great outfit! Smart casual is a good look for you.’ He hardly gives me a chance to ask how he is; in fact, he seems so delighted to see me that he barely draws breath. ‘I was so pleased when they said you were coming to see me. A Big Successful TV Producer like you.’

  ‘Oh, you knew I worked in television?’

  ‘Are you kidding? When Celtic Tigers is on, it’s about the only time of the day that there’s total silence in the recreation room here.’

  I smile and he suggests we grab some take-out coffees and sit outside to chat, since it’s such a lovely day. I buy us two cappuccinos the colour and strength of dishwater and he jokes that I’ll have to pay for them as he’s not allowed to have cash in here. Part of me is so relieved at how calm and relaxed he seems that, as soon as we get out to the garden, I find myself wondering, well, what’s he doing here?