Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  I’ve got the worst dose of food poisoning I’ve ever had in my entire life. It’s not just the nausea; by now I’m shaking all over and in a cold sweat. Tim is sweet and very understanding about it; he showed me to my room, tucked me in and said he’d make my apologies to everyone, but the minute the dinner gong goes, he’s out of there like a scalded cat.

  The room is filthy, damp and so cold that I have to sleep with all my clothes on. From the dining room below, I can hear them all roaring with laughter, in top form, having a fantastic time … and then another wave of nausea sweeps over me.

  This is not helped by the one thought I can’t escape from. I should be down there with them all now, trying my best to be the perfect, charming, intelligent, witty house guest/girlfriend/prospective daughter-in-law. I’d even rehearsed.

  Caroline, who’s brilliant at this stuff, gave me a crash course in how to make a boyfriend’s parents fall in love with you: i.e., pay very careful attention to everything the mother says, ask loads of questions about her fabulous hairdo/clothes/housekeeping tips and, most importantly of all, keep complimenting her on what a wonderful son she has. With the father, you want to appear fun and playful, a good sport, a great bit of crack: in short, the type of girl who’d be a great addition to any family gathering.

  Jamie even gave me a book for Christmas, called Not a Lot of People Know That: 1000 Interesting Facts About Country Life, and urged me to memorize a few. ‘The Singed-Underwears will immediately think you’re one of them,’ he said, ‘plus it’s the kind of stuff that’ll come in very handy for pub quizzes.’

  OK, it may not have made for the most scintillating of conversation (I can now tell you exactly how many acres are in a hectare and the correct type of bridle to put on a two-year-old mare, that type of thing) but the point is that I really made an effort and now they all probably think I’m some sort of Elizabeth-Barrett-Browning type, pale and sickly and bedridden. Absolutely no fun and most definitely not daughter-in-law material.

  Oh God. A fresh bout of queasiness comes over me and I know I have to get to a bathroom in double quick time. I’ve puked up on quite enough carpets for one day. I run out on to the corridor and try the room next door to me.

  No joy, it’s a linen cupboard.

  So, I work my way down through all the doors to my left and right, knocking gingerly on each one and each time failing to find a loo.

  By now, dinner’s over and I can hear them all drifting from the dining room into the drawing room, chatting and laughing, everyone full of the holiday spirit. Just then, a tall, blonde, middle-aged woman, who kind of has a look of Tim about her, comes striding down the corridor towards me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I ask, stopping her in her tracks, ‘could you show me where the bathroom is, please?’

  Now, I have absolutely no idea who this woman is. The minute I threw up all over the library floor earlier, I was ushered upstairs and haven’t actually met any of the family. Plus, there’s an awful lot of them and they all look a bit alike.

  ‘Are you the girl Tim brought?’ blondie woman asks me bossily. ‘The one who vomited all over poor Florence?’

  ‘Emm, yes, that’s me.’

  ‘She was making us all laugh over dinner with that story. Right then, you’d better have a barf in my bathroom if you want. It’s through here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say weakly, following her into a bedroom and straight on through to her en suite.

  What follows isn’t pleasant and I’m in there for ages. When I emerge, I presume that blondie woman will have gone back downstairs to rejoin the others, but she hasn’t. She’s in the bed, completely naked with a very dark-haired, younger-looking moustached man, kissing the face off him.

  ‘Oh, I’m really sorry,’ I say, speeding through the bedroom as fast as I can, but they completely ignore me, as if they’ve far better things to get on with than exchanging pleasantries with a food-poisoned house guest …

  I presume that this is her husband/lover/partner/boyfriend and leg it back to my own room, feeling a whole lot better.

  Breakfast the next morning is buffet-style and, thank God, I’m actually able to eat again. Only a thin bit of toast, much to Tim’s annoyance, but at least it’s something. He and I are the first downstairs and have just plonked ourselves at the dining table when my blonde-haired guardian angel from last night comes in, with the moustached man I’d seen her with the night before, followed by another, much older, silver-haired man. Tim’s father, maybe?

  Before Tim even has a chance to introduce us, I’m in like Flynn.

  ‘I owe you such a big thank you for letting me use your en suite bathroom last night,’ I gush at blondie woman, ‘you really saved my life. In more ways than one.’

  ‘Absolutely all right, don’t mention it,’ she says as the three of them help themselves to rashers, sausages and scrambled eggs from the huge platters groaning on the sideboard.

  ‘Feeling better, then?’ asks moustached man, very casually.

  ‘Much better, thanks.’

  Now, if I’d had the good sense to leave it at that, perhaps all would have been well, but guess what? I don’t have the social discretion that God gave a fruit fly. ‘Oh and, by the way, I must apologize for walking in on you both last night.’ I smile at moustached man in what I hope is a friendly, I’m-a-woman-of-the-world-type way.

  Then I whisper to blondie woman, ‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you?’

  With that, the older, silver-haired man, who’s standing right beside them, gives me a furious look and storms out of the breakfast room.

  That alone should have sent alarm bells ringing in my head. None of the Singen-Underwoods ever walk away from food, ever.

  Moustached man turns to Tim and growls, ‘Can’t you teach your girlfriend some manners?’

  Tim covers his face with his hands, shoves his food away (another alarm bell) and hisses at me. ‘You idiot, Amelia! Don’t you realize what you’ve just done?’

  ‘What?’ I say, desperately panicking. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Aunt Mabel has been having an affair with George Newman for years. We all know about it, everyone knows. It’s just not spoken of in front of her husband, by any of us, ever. Do you realize the irreparable damage you almost certainly have caused?’

  Colossal social faux pas number three:

  Later that morning, they’re all going hunting but I opt to stay in the safety of my room. My eyes are still all red and puffy from the awful row I had with Tim.

  I must have apologized about twenty thousand times; I tried my best to defend myself and, in fairness, how was I supposed to know who’s having an affair with who? Let alone what’s to be spoken about and, more importantly, what’s not to be spoken about … honestly, it’s like a real-life game of Cluedo.

  ‘You could have just kept your big mouth shut,’ Tim snapped at me, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

  He’s barely gone when there’s another rap at the door: Florence, impeccably turned out in her hunting gear, neat blazer and gleaming black riding boots. ‘You poor sausage, I’ve just heard about your horrific gaffe,’ she says. ‘It’s all over the house.’

  Terrific, I think.Just terrific.

  ‘But I bring a ray of hope,’ she goes on. ‘The thing is … I’ve come to offer you a way out.’

  Ten minutes later, we’re outside in the paddock, and she’s saddling up a very scary-looking animal, eagerly persuading me to join them on the hunt and absolutely not taking no for an answer.

  ‘But, Florence,’ I protest, ‘I can’t ride a horse.’

  ‘But yesterday, you said you did.’

  No, I want to shout at her, were you even listening to me? You asked me if I could ride because you happened to see me wearing jodhpurs and now you’ve jumped to the conclusion that I’m an Olympic three-day eventer.

  Right. Time to nip this in the bud. I’ve had quite enough humiliation for one morning. ‘Florence, I have a confession. The last time I came close to any four-legg
ed animal was at the under-fives donkey derby my dad entered me into on a beach in Wexford. Which I came last in. Sorry to let you down, but I really think it’s better for me to be honest.’

  ‘Now just look here. I’m trying to do you a favour. I practically grew up with Timmy and I’m going to give you a piece of advice. The worst thing you could do is spend the morning moping about in your room, hiding away from everyone. If it’s one thing the Singen-Underwoods really appreciate it’s a house guest who’ll muck in. Put this morning behind you and show that you’re one of us.’

  ‘But, Florence …’

  ‘Now, I’m only going to put you up on Ginny. Gentle Ginny we call her. She’s Mrs Singen-Underwood’s absolute fave and she’s just a dream to ride. All you have to do is sit there and she’ll do all the work.’

  ‘But suppose she gallops off with me?’ I ask, a terrified vision flashing through my head that I’ll end up clinging on to her mane, being dragged through gorse bushes for miles, and eventually be thrown into a stinking, putrid septic tank by Mrs Singen-Underwood’s favourite horse.

  ‘Ginny? Gallop?’ Florence roars with laughter. ‘She’s about fourteen years old and has never as much as cantered in her whole life. Look, just come with us for a bit. You can always hack back if you get scared.’

  She has a point. I should at least appear to make an effort to be a good house guest and good house guests/prospective daughters-in-law muck in, as Florence puts it. And Tim knows I don’t ride, so he’ll appreciate the effort I’m making in getting up on a horse all the more, won’t he?

  She helps me up on to Ginny, tosses me a riding hat and leads me round to the front of the house, where the rest of them are all mounted, having a good, strong stirrup cup before the off.

  This feels OK, not too scary at all. Maybe, just maybe I can pull this off …

  There’s an awful silence as they all take in what they’re seeing. It’s very surreal. The only way I can describe it is that it feels as if about twenty pairs of beady Singen-Underwood eyes are all focused on me. Next thing, Tim rides over to where I am, red with fury. ‘Amelia, that’s my mother’s favourite racehorse. Ginny is a racehorse, not a hunter. Do you even understand the difference? She’s running at the Curragh next week and under no circumstances should be out jumping over fields today. Take her back to the paddock at once, please. We’re already late starting off.’

  ‘But Florence said that …’ I begin, with tears stinging my eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Singen-Underwood,’ I can hear Florence saying to yet another big blonde woman sitting on a horse that looks ready to do the Grand National. ‘She absolutely insisted. I tried to stop her, but she just hopped up on Ginny anyway.’

  Bitch. Bad, bloody malevolent bitch. She’s nothing but a pig in knickers.

  I swear I can hear twenty Singen-Underwood tongues clicking in exasperation as I trot round the side of the house, scarlet in the face.

  Just then, the horn sounds the off and Ginny’s ears prick up. It’s all too much for her. She sees all the other hunters chasing the hounds down the driveway and, oh dear God, in a second, she’s off. I’m clinging on for all I’m worth, screaming at the top of my voice for her to stop, when a dog shoots out in front of us, Ginny rears up and suddenly, I’m thrown off.

  I’m fine, I think. I’m shocked and winded, but I don’t think I’ve broken anything. Tim, Florence and I presume his mother ride back to where we are, but to my surprise they all cluster around where Ginny is now peacefully grazing on the grass verge, completely ignoring me.

  ‘Limping,’ says Florence, shaking her head gravely. ‘Oh dear, this could be serious.’

  ‘No, I think I’m OK,’ I say, picking myself up off the gravel and dusting myself down. The three of them look at me furiously and for a moment I almost wish I had broken a collar bone, fractured a leg or, at the very least, was stretched out on the ground, unconscious.

  ‘Not you,’ snaps Florence. ‘Ginny.’

  ‘Call the vet,’ the mother barks at Tim. ‘And get that bloody girl out of my house.’

  ‘Are you happy now?’ Tim asks me viciously as he dismounts. ‘Ginny’s seriously injured; she could even be lame. There’ll be no steeplechasing her for months, possibly never again.’

  ‘Tim, I’m so sorry, I didn’t do it on purpose, it was an accident …’

  ‘I really think the best thing all round is if you left. Immediately. You must understand that your presence is no longer welcome in this house.’

  At times like this, you really know who your friends are. I phoned home and Caroline came to my rescue. She borrowed her mother’s car, cancelled all her plans and she and Jamie drove the whole three-hour, pot-holed journey to collect me. I think I bawled the whole way home.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Is this Night Course about as Much Use to Me as a Chocolate Teapot?

  … I wonder as I drive into UCD for the following week’s class. Or, to put it more plainly, am I completely and utterly wasting my time?

  I arrive in the classroom and the girls all give me a big round of applause as a thank you for hosting last Saturday’s shindig. I smile and wave and grab a free seat in the back row, right beside Sarah, the pretty blonde air hostess, who got stuck with that awful guy at the party.

  Ira is doing her usual, working her way down through everybody, asking them in a very businesslike manner (a) did they meet anyone at my flat (b) how many new, single men they spoke to there and (c) did they get a phone number and if not, why not?

  Mags is the star pupil this week, by a mile. She glowingly tells us all about her budding relationship (her word, not mine; I think I’ve only ever used the ‘R’ word twice in my whole life) with Damien Delaney. The works. How she asked him loads of questions about himself at the party (which you’re supposed to do: get the guy talking about himself and he’ll talk to you all night is the theory); how she had two glasses of wine on purpose so she’d relax and not come over as too uptight; and finally, the pièce de résistance, when she discovered they both lived in the same part of town, she asked would it be too much trouble for him to drive her home?

  One hundred per cent success. They kissed, he took her number and has been calling her every day since.

  The only man who calls me every day is Jamie and half the time that’s just because he’s looking for me to give him a job.

  ‘He’s just wonderful,’ says Mags. ‘He’s even invited me to have tea with his mother.’

  ‘I am very proud of you,’ says Ira and Mags blushes to her roots, beaming.

  ‘The rest of my class have a lot to learn from you. You put yourself right outside of your own personal matrix, you smartened up your appearance, just as you would if you were going after any big job, you took a chance and you got a result. Now, you seem to be with a man who truly likes you. Well done. Keep me posted on what happens and keep up the good work. Ladies, a round of applause for Mags!’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Mags, as we all politely clap her. ‘Although if it weren’t for Amelia, none of this would have happened.’

  ‘We’ll come to Amelia, don’t you worry,’ says Ira, moving on to Sarah, beside me.

  The class titter just at the anticipation of the mad stories they’re all expecting me to tell. Oh dear … Sarah, however, takes the focus off me for a bit as it seems she didn’t have nearly such a good week of it as Mags.

  ‘I got all dressed up for the party,’ she tells us disappointedly. ‘I even had my hair and nails done. And what happened? Nothing. No offence to any of the guys you all brought along, but I didn’t even like any of the men I got talking to and not one of them showed the slightest interest in me. Apart from wanting upgrades on my flights. So then I did something I’m not very proud of.’

  ‘What’s that, honey?’ asks Ira, concerned.

  ‘I’m so annoyed with myself.’

  ‘Tell us. We’re all here to help you.’

  ‘Well, I went home in the depths of depression, you know the
way you do when you’ve really made an effort and you feel you’re looking OK and then you come home having met no one and … well, I got intexticated.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I started texting my ex. My big ex. The exest of them all. I know, I know, I’m a total idiot …’

  Poor old Sarah, I think, really feeling for her. Haven’t we all been there? The fatal cup, I call it. You know, when you just have that one drink too many, which sets you over the edge? Next thing you know, you’re home alone, deciding it’s a great idea to pick up the phone to the man you think is the love of your life, in spite of the fact that he was the one who broke up with you and hasn’t even bothered contacting you to see how you’re doing. There but for the grace of God …

  ‘Honey, let me stop you right there,’ Ira says to her, gently but firmly. ‘You need to ask yourself this. Does this man ever get intexticated, as you say, and contact you? Does he call you late at night when he’s lonely and missing you?’

  ‘Never.’ Sarah sniffs. ‘Not once.’

  ‘So what does that tell you? Ladies, you must always remember my femininity rule. While you’re all learning to position yourselves in the marriage market, a certain amount of good, old-fashioned restraint still applies. Put simply, when a man is interested in you, he’ll call you, and when he’s not, he won’t. Men like to be the pursuers. They like to feel that they’ve somehow won you. This means you gotta box clever. You’re learning to sift potential husbands from time-wasters, but without aggressively hounding down any man you’ve targeted. There’s no surer way to scare him off.’

  Five hands immediately shoot up in the air and Ira is hit by a barrage of questions. When should you call? How long should you wait before you realize a man isn’t calling you? Isn’t the whole let-him-be-the-one-to-do-the-phoning/chasing/pursuing/rules notion obsolete in the twenty-first century?

  I drift off again, doodling on the notepad in front of me as Ira clarifies herself and attempts to calm down all the ruffled feathers.

  You’ll never guess what my doodle is … yes. Me in my Vera Wang with my headless groom by my side …