Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘No, most definitely not.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. You take what you can get, honey. Go! Go have a look at your room, then jump in the shower and I’ll have a nice chilled glass of bubbly sitting on your dressing table for you to knock back while you’re pampering. Hurry, babe, there’s less than an hour to show time.’

  Half an hour later and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I’m wearing my ‘serial result’ little black number with my hair loose around my shoulders and just the lightest bit of make-up. ‘Whaddya think?’ I say, twirling in front of Jamie.

  ‘Any man’s fantasy come true. A thirty-something Meryl Streep.’

  ‘You’re lying, but bless you anyway.’

  ‘Here,’ he says, topping up my glass.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a gulp. ‘I’m nervous.’

  ‘Oh, please, what’s to be nervous about?’

  I take a nice, soothing deep breath. ‘OK. My present panic attack stems from the following, in no particular order: (a) Damien Delaney is coming, which is good news, but he may cop on that this is a treasure/trash party and that I only invited him so I could try to pawn him off on someone else, which makes it bad news; (b) I’m afraid that all the boys will cluster around one end of the living room and the girls around the other and no one will talk to anyone and it’ll be like a parish dance hall in rural Ireland circa nineteen forty; (c) aside from one girl called Mags, I barely know anyone in my class, let alone any of the fellas they’re all bringing. I’ve basically invited a bunch of total strangers to my flat and all we have in common is that we’re single. How do I know they won’t rob me?’

  Just then, the phone rings and Jamie leaps to answer it, putting on a John-Gielgud-type accent. ‘Good evening, Miss Lockwood’s residence, the butler speaking. Whom shall I say is calling?’

  I make an I’ll-slit-your-bloody-throat gesture as I snatch the phone away from him. ‘Hi, Amelia here.’

  ‘Amelia, this is Ira Vandergelder calling. Wow, I’m so impressed that you have your very own personal Paul Burrell.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Ira, emm … no, that was the caterer, actually.’

  ‘Caterers? Didn’t I tell you not to go to any trouble?’

  ‘Well, it’s just finger food mostly. And lots of drinks.’

  ‘Good. Lowers the inhibitions. I just called to wish you luck. Now remember, mingle. Rediscover your inner flirt. Remind yourself that you have nothing to lose but your single status.’

  I’m half annoyed I didn’t put her on speakerphone so Jamie could hear the way she goes on, just to prove I wasn’t exaggerating about her. Then the panic hits. ‘Sorry, Ira, did you say that you weren’t coming tonight?’

  ‘I never go to these parties, honey. I find my being there tends to make my ladies a little nervous, which defeats the whole point of the exercise.’

  ‘Oh, rats. I was hoping you could help me to winnow out the decent guys from the messers.’

  ‘What have I told you about honing those rusty instincts of yours? Have a wonderful party and I’ll see you at class next week.’

  And she’s gone.

  Eight p.m. Bang on the dot, the doorbell rings. Jamie hops behind the makeshift bar/dining table and wishes me luck as I go to answer it.

  I’m dying to know who it is; none of my friends ever comes to a party on time. I open the door, hoping my smile doesn’t make me look too much like the desperado I am: Damien Delaney, carrying a magnificent potted pink orchid.

  ‘Good evening, Amelia my dear, how very pretty you’re looking.’

  ‘Emm, thanks,’ I say as we peck each other politely on each cheek. I don’t know how he does it, but there’s just something about the way he speaks that makes me feel as if I should be wearing Victorian crinolines and clutching a phial of smelling salts.

  ‘This is for you,’ he says, handing over the orchid, which is encased in cellophane.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, really touched. ‘It’s my favourite plant. And the only one that I’m actually able to keep alive.’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to Caroline, she told me. Of course, I would never dream of bringing fresh-cut flowers to a party. Dreadful breach of etiquette. It presumes that the hostess has not put any thought into her floral arrangements.’

  ‘Oh … emm … really? Imagine that.’

  OK, so that may have sounded a bit stuffy and old-fashioned, but he’s fundamentally a very nice guy, I remind myself, silently blessing Jamie for buying all the beautiful lilies and arranging them as elegantly as only a gay man can.

  I usher Damien into the living room and automatically go to introduce them both, but Damien beats me to it. ‘Yes, of course, Jamie and I have met before. In Caroline and Mike’s beautiful home. I almost didn’t recognize you …’

  ‘With all my clothes on?’ says Jamie cheekily.

  A hint of a blush from Damien and a furious glare from me.

  ‘I was about to say, in your charming uniform.’

  ‘Thanks. I like it cos it accentuates my ass.’

  Jamie has a really bad habit of reverting back to a bold schoolboy whenever he comes up against anyone whose manners are … a little more formal, and right now he’s behaving like the Artful Dodger.

  ‘What can I get you to drink, Damien?’

  ‘I’m driving, unfortunately, so perhaps just a mineral water. Still, please.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s a Saturday night. I’m always saying to Amelia that Saturday nights are all about getting drunk and getting laid.’

  I could kill Jamie …

  * * *

  Nine p.m. I could hug Jamie …

  Everyone’s here and the party’s in full swing.

  Jamie was worth his weight in gold when they all arrived. He whirled around the room like a dervish on acid, getting people drinks, taking coats and even putting on boppy salsa music to swing things along a bit. Meanwhile I did my best to introduce people I barely knew to people I’d never met before in my life.

  In fairness, they all seem really nice. Any initial awkwardness is quickly done away with as soon as the wine begins to loosen everyone up. The girls seem to be doing most of the work, introducing the guys they’ve brought and chatting away, although occasionally you can spot one of them scanning the room faux casually, thinking: So who or what has everyone else brought?

  Just like I’m doing right now.

  Yes, bingo, target identified.

  Now, I know it’s never a good idea to assess men solely in terms of looks; it’s bad enough that guys do that to we girls, but you should just see this fella. He’s tall, very tanned, Nordic blond and is standing over in the far corner chatting away to a small, round guy with Gucci glasses who’s holding a plate of sausage rolls and eating all of them. Sexy-looking guy looks really bored. Brilliant. Now’s my chance.

  I sidle over to where Jamie is frantically scooping ice cubes from a freezer tray into an ice bucket and pick up two bottles, one red, one white, just to be on the safe side.

  ‘Do I look OK?’ I hiss at him. ‘I’ve just identified a possible target. Twelve o’clock. Over by the balcony. Act natural.’

  ‘Mmm … yes, hot, hot, hot, in a Viking-warrior-type way. Doesn’t look Irish.’

  ‘I love being the hostess. Remind me to do this every week. Perfect way to sidle up to him and ask him what he’d like to drink without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘You see that guy over there by the fireplace? The one with the boiled potato head? Gay and doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘Jamie! You and your gaydar.’

  ‘Where’s Damien? Remember Damien? Your date – or rather your non-date, except he doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ I say, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. ‘I’ve hardly said two words to him all night.’

  ‘Relax. Go flirt. I’ll mind him for you. Maybe even turn him, who knows?’

  ‘Behave yourself.’

  ‘I’ve always secretly fancied the idea of having a rich older guy to lavish gifts on me and take c
are of me. You know, the way Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior used to take care of Liza Minelli …’

  I roll my eyes at him and head back into the throng. Yes, there’s my cute Viking, all on his own now and still looking bored. I make my way over to him, topping up glasses as I go.

  Now, I know I’m chronically single and am in absolutely no position to criticize anyone else who’s in the same boat, but, to be honest, if Ira overheard some of the snippets of conversation that I’m hearing now, she’d pass out.

  One tall, stooping guy with really bad dandruff falling down the back of his crumpled linen suit is chatting to a particularly stunning girl from the class, who I think is called Emily. ‘Of course I didn’t mean to insult you,’ he’s saying. ‘It’s just that I’m a consultant anaesthetist and I thought maybe you’d had breast-augmentation surgery. I only meant to compliment your surgeon, whoever he is. He did a great job. They’re very realistic.’

  Emily catches my eye and for a second I think she’s going to slap him one across the face.

  Then I pause briefly to top up the glass of another man who looks like a young fogey, the type who’d end up leading the Conservative Party, a bit like William Hague. He’s talking to Sarah, a very pretty plumpish blonde girl.

  ‘And what do you do?’ he asks her.

  ‘I’m an air hostess with Aer Lingus.’ She smiles brightly. ‘I work on the transatlantic route.’

  ‘Really?’ He nods sagely. ‘I had a cousin who was an air hostess. Very unsociable hours, I hear. Is that why you find it so difficult to meet men?’

  Sarah’s looking at him, dumbfounded.

  ‘What’s your last name?’ he continues, undeterred by her stunned silence. ‘Just in case I ever need an upgrade.’

  Nor is it just some of the men who are coming out with howlers. I pause for a moment to top up the glass of another girl who has buttonholed a very bored-looking guy. She’s got him up against a wall; he’s an awful lot younger than her and is basically looking anywhere in the room except directly at her.

  ‘Do you remember when Prince Charles said that Camilla was not a negotiable part of his life?’ she’s asking him sadly. ‘Well, why can’t I meet a man who’ll say that about me? Is that too much to ask?’

  Viking man is all on his own, glancing at his watch, when I make my move. I’m just about to offer him a top-up when Jamie shouts across to me from the bar where he’s trying to pour about six drinks at once. ‘Amelia? Can you get the door? I would, but I’m snowed under here.’

  OK, bad timing, but I can always approach Viking man in a minute. I catch his eye, pull a would-you-excuse-me? smile at him and head back out to the hall.

  By now, Sarah has made her escape from the young fogey and now he’s chatting to a girl I don’t recognize at all.

  ‘It’s not that I want to get married per se,’ he’s droning on, ‘it’s just that I think a wife would be a really good asset to my career.’

  I slip down the hallway and open the door, wondering who the late arrival could be.

  It’s Mags, looking absolutely lovely in a cream cashmere coat which sets off her red hair to perfection. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she says, hugging me and presenting me with a bottle of champagne. ‘I’d left your address on a scrap of paper at home and we had to go all the way back to get it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry a bit; I’m just so glad you’re here. You look amazing.’

  ‘Thanks! All I’ve done is take off the glasses and wear my lenses for a change. How’s it going?’ she asks as I help her take off the good coat.

  ‘Well, everyone’s chatting away, so at least that’s something. I’ve so far identified one cute guy and one to be avoided like the Black Death.’ Then it strikes me. ‘Did you come on your own, Mags?’

  ‘Oh no.’ She smiles. ‘I’m with an old friend. He’s just the fussiest man you ever met about where to park his car. Can’t park under a tree in case a bird poos on it; can’t be too close to another car in case they scrape off it. I just came on ahead to apologize to you.’

  I’m about to say there’s absolutely no need for apologies and usher her inside for a nice, relaxing drink when the lift door glides open.

  Philip Burke.

  * * *

  Nine-o-four p.m. I had a silent bet with myself to see how long it would be until he came out with a Philip Burkeism. Exactly four minutes, which must be a record, even for him.

  ‘This is Amelia that I’ve been telling you all about,’ Mags says cheerily as Philip comes in. ‘You’ll love her; she’s just such a hoot. She always has the class in stitches.’

  No! Now he knows I’m on a course to find a husband and, what’s even worse, Mags has probably told him some of my ex-boyfriend stories …

  I’m a bit shell-shocked, but I compose myself enough to shake his hand and say, ‘Yeah, actually, we work together. Philip, please come in, you’re very welcome.’

  ‘You just said the party was in some girl called Amelia’s house,’ Philip says to Mags. ‘You never said it was Amelia Lockwood.’

  The implication is clear enough; if you had, there’s no way I’d have bothered coming.

  ‘Sure, I’d no idea you worked in television.’ Mags smiles at me. ‘Let alone your last name. That’s the funny thing about our course. All we really know about each other is that we’re all single.’

  Oh God, this can’t get any more embarrassing, can it? Yes, this is my life. Of course it can. There is always room for further embarrassment.

  I bring them both into the living room and the first person we bump into is Damien. I’m just about to introduce them all when Philip says, ‘Hi there. Nice to meet you. Are you Amelia’s father?’

  Eleven p.m. Disastrous night. Just awful.

  I’ve spent the last two hours stuck in a corner, collared by Philip, and all he can talk about is Celtic Tigers. Most people have left by now, including cute Viking man, who I never even got to speak to. I don’t even know who he came with and I can hardly go into class next week and make an announcement saying, ‘Excuse me, girls, hands up who here brought the guy who looks like an extra from Conan the Barbarian.’

  Mags is sitting on the sofa chatting away to Damien, but apart from them there’s only a handful of people left, none of whom I even know.

  Jamie comes over to us, offering to top up our glasses. Philip’s not drinking but I bloody well am.

  Then I do something a bit below the belt. I’m not very proud of it, but needs must. Tonight was supposed to be about meeting single guys, not being stuck talking shop in the corner with my boss.

  ‘Jamie, did I introduce you to Philip Burke?’

  ‘No, hi, how are you?’ says Jamie, shaking hands indifferently.

  ‘Philip is the head of television.’

  For a second, Jamie almost looks like a character from a cartoon with a lightbulb suddenly flashing brightly over his head. ‘The head of television? Amelia! Are you telling me that the man who could change the entire course of my career has been under the same roof as me all this time and you never even told me? Philip, it really is an honour to meet you. I’m an actor, you know. But I also have a wonderful idea for a screenplay, or a sitcom, it could be either. Do you have a sec?’

  I leave them to it and drift away.

  ‘Amelia?’ says Mags as I walk past the sofa. ‘Could you show me where the bathroom is please?’

  ‘Sure, it’s this way. Excuse us for a moment, Damien.’

  I take her down the hallway and show her where the main bathroom is, but there’s someone in it. ‘Not to worry,’ I say, ‘there’s an en suite off my room. Here, I’ll show you.’

  No sooner are we in my bedroom than she bangs the door shut and plonks down on the bed. ‘I didn’t need the loo at all. I just need to talk to you privately.’

  I sit down beside her. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better. I just wanted to run something by you. I’m really getting along well with Damien. He’s so sweet a
nd … gentle and … like a big teddy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean, he kind of is, isn’t he?’ I laugh.

  ‘Look, I know he’s the guy you brought tonight, but the thing is he’s offered to drive me home and I just wondered if that was OK with you?’

  ‘Mags, I’m thrilled! I was hoping you two would hit it off. This is fabulous news.’

  ‘So, do you mind me asking you something else?’

  ‘Is it about Philip?’

  She sighs. ‘I wish you’d give him a chance, Amelia. He really is a lovely man. I’ve known him for years and years. I know he has a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but it’s nothing that can’t be sanded down and worked on over time. You’ve got so much in common with him.’

  I want to say to her, what exactly do you think I have in common with that oddball? But then I have to remind myself that he is Mags’s friend and I am the hostess and have to be ultra-polite and not slag off the guests.

  Right then, think of a polite comment … Ooh, I know …

  ‘How do you know each other?’

  ‘He went out with a friend of mine for ages and he and I always got on. She met someone else while she was still seeing Philip and ended up going to Australia with this other guy. She’s married to him now and I think they’ve a few kids. Poor Philip; you’ve never seen anyone so devastated when she upped and left him. So, I was his shoulder to cry on and we ended up being great friends.’

  Somehow the idea of Philip Burke being cast as the heartbroken jilted lover just doesn’t ring true.

  ‘So, what do you think, Amelia? Come on, as Ira is always telling us, you have to cast your net wide.’

  ‘Emm, well, I don’t really think he’s interested in me. Honestly, we were just talking shop.’

  ‘You’re not answering the question. If he asked you out, would you say yes?’

  I’m saved by the bell.

  Literally.

  The doorbell rings and I excuse myself to go and answer it.

  ‘Sorry about this, Mags. Probably my moany neighbour to tell me to turn down the music. I won’t be a sec.’

  She follows me out to the hall and we bump into Philip, searching for his coat at the hatstand with Jamie still bending his ear.