Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  It’s all very well and good my feeling sorry for Sarah, but if I’m really honest, I haven’t exactly been a model student myself up until this, have I? I’ve been doing this course for weeks now and am about as far away from my goal as I ever was. And it’s not as if I’m learning a huge amount from my past mistakes, is it? Unless my life lesson is that the past is destined to repeat itself ad nauseam?

  OK. To recap. In chronological order.

  Number 1: was a cheater at the age of eighteen and is a cheater now.

  Lesson: I make bad choices.

  Number 2: was always a bit self-absorbed when I knew him and is now, officially, out and out gay. Oh, and he hit on Jamie who turned him down.

  Lesson: I still make bad choices and Jamie’s screening process is miles better than mine any day. (Mind you, in my defence, he does have an awful lot more practice with gay men than I do.)

  Number 3: He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken. Yes, strictly speaking, he is my most recent ex, but this is when he chose to foist himself back into my life. Oh, and, for added entertainment value, on to my road.

  Lesson: This is the man I really, honestly thought I was going to marry. He dumped me claiming that he couldn’t commit to anyone, not just me, then six months later is engaged to a teeny-bopper. The only lesson I can deduce here is that my instincts are up my bum.

  Number 4: fell in love with the spiritual life and became a monk.

  Lesson: Not to be too hard on myself. Even if I’d been St Thérèse the Little Flower, I wouldn’t have stood much of a chance here.

  Number 5: was a tad possessive and creepy when I dated him and is now in a psychiatric home.

  Lesson: Yes, I make crap choices, but occasionally I do have the odd lucky escape.

  Number 6: my emotional-pension-plan man. I’m cheating as I haven’t actually dated him, but fingers crossed he’s still single …

  Lesson: No lesson here. I haven’t had a chance to mess this one up. Yet. Thank God for him, though. The thought of seeing him again is just about the only thing that’s keeping me sane these days.

  Number seven: Tim Singed-Underwear—

  ‘Amelia? Would you care to join us?’ says Ira.

  ‘Oh … emm … sorry … I was … ehh …’

  ‘Daydreaming?’

  ‘No … I was …’ I pick up the piece of paper I’ve been scribbling on as proof that I haven’t been snoozing at the back of the class. ‘I was just … recapping.’

  ‘Recapping? Good. So tell us about the ex-boyfriend you spoke to this week.’

  The class are all looking at me, grinning, dying for a good laugh.

  ‘Well, Ira, you see, the thing is, I didn’t actually make steps to contact him. Nor would you, if you knew the story. I was afraid he and his family would set a team of highly trained Alsatians on me.’

  ‘Can’t be worse than what you told us last week. Come on. We’re all in the same boat and we’re all here to share.’

  I tell them about Tim in edited form. And, predictably enough, they howl.

  ‘Why aren’t you producing comedy shows?’ asks Sarah beside me. ‘You’d be a natural.’

  ‘Sounds like that movie Gosford Park,’ someone else from the front laughs.

  ‘Amelia, there is no easy way out in this class,’ says Ira crossly. ‘Do you wanna entertain everyone or do you wanna find a husband? Are you on my program or aren’t you?’

  Well, I’m sitting here, aren’t I? I want to shout at her in frustration, but instead, coward that I am, I opt for ummming and ahhhing under my breath instead. Thank God I have an emotional pension plan, that’s all I can think. It’s a lovely, warm, smug feeling, to know that at least I have one trump card up my sleeve …

  ‘Amelia? Are you listening?’

  ‘Emm … yeah.’

  ‘You must contact this Singen-Underwood man so you can learn from your mistakes. Otherwise, all you’ve got for me is that it didn’t work out because he came from a different social background. How is that going to help you?’

  I look at her in silence.

  ‘How did you do at the party? I know you were the hostess, but I still expect you to have a result for me.’

  ‘Oh, disaster,’ I start, warming up for a good story-telling session. ‘I did identify one potential target – that is to say, I clocked a dishy bloke I really fancied, but just as I was about to chat him up, my boss arrives. So we pretty much ended up talking about work for most of the night.’

  I look up to the front of the class and see Mags waving her hand in the air. ‘Ira, can I just interrupt here, please?’ she asks.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘His name is Philip Burke and I brought him. He’s an old friend. I just want to say for the record that I think he likes Amelia. And there’s something else …’

  ‘Yes?’ asks Ira.

  Mags and I look at each other and all of a sudden it’s like being back in primary school and the class swot is about to rat me out.

  ‘He told me he called Amelia to ask her out and that she turned him down.’

  ‘Mags!’ I shout at her. ‘Thanks a bunch!’

  Mags folds her arms, resolutely sticking to her guns. ‘I’m sorry, Amelia, but this is for your own good. You helped me and I want to return the favour. He’s a good guy,’ she adds to Ira, as if I was about to tell the class he was an axe-wielding sociopath.

  ‘Is this true?’ Ira asks me, glaring over her glasses and making me feel very small. ‘You rejected a perfectly good man?’

  ‘Emm … well, you see, it’s not that simple, he’s my boss and … well …’ I glare over at Mags again.

  ‘Well what?’ says Ira.

  ‘He can be a little bit hard to talk to,’ I say in a small voice. ‘Some of the clangers he comes out with, you’re left there thinking: Did he really just say that? The last conversation we had, he compared a single woman in her late thirties to a starving piranha fish.’

  ‘I know,’ Mags agrees. ‘You just tune that stuff out after a while.’

  ‘Well then, Miss Amelia,’ says Ira looking down at me triumphantly. ‘Your homework for the coming week couldn’t be more clear-cut. You are to contact this aristocratic ex of yours’ – the class are already giggling – ‘you are to track down your next ex-boyfriend, but most importantly of all, you are to arrange a date with Mr Philip Burke. Otherwise, don’t bother coming back to my class next week.’

  Mags is polite but firm as we trundle back downstairs when the torture’s finally over. ‘One date won’t kill you,’ she says. ‘Bet you’ll end up having a great time with him.’

  I’m too gutted to answer her.

  How in the name of God am I going to manage this? Bad enough to have to ask a guy out in the first place, but Philip Burke? I can’t even lie and pretend to the class that he’s away or that he’s emigrated or that he’s suddenly going out with someone else, because Mags will land me in it all over again. However, as we walk back outside to the wet, drizzly car park, I do see something that gives me just the kick up my backside I need.

  There’s a car parked, right beside us, waiting. The window rolls down and I see that it’s Damien. ‘Mags, dear!’ he calls. ‘I so worried about you out in this awful rain. I was terrified you’d catch your death so I came to collect you. Oh, hello there, Amelia. Thank you so much for a most delightful party.’

  Mags waves me goodbye, hops elegantly into the passenger seat and kisses him lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Let me take you out to dinner, my dear,’ I hear Damien say before she bangs the door shut with an expensive clunk. ‘I want to hear all about your day.’

  As I make my rain-drenched way to my car, alone, I make up my mind. I’ll do Ira’s bloody homework. I’ll go on the bloody date with Philip weirdo. I’ll bloody well contact Tim Singed-Underwear and I’ll do my best with number eight on my hit list. I’ll stick with the course, even though to date I have absolutely nothing to show for it. If Mags can have a perfectly good fella patiently waiting
to take her out after class, then you know something?

  So can I.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Heaven in Blue Jeans

  Right. To work. With a fresh spring in my step, I get into work and get cracking. I call directory enquiries and get the number for Ashton Hall, Co. Monaghan.

  ‘Would you like to be connected to the number?’ asks an irritating, automated voice.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I answer chirpily. What the hell: even if Tim is living on the Falkland Islands tending sheep, at least some of his family still have to be living in that awful barracks of a house and they can put me in touch with him. At least, that’s the plan.

  As the call goes through and the phone rings and rings and rings, I remember back to when I contacted my first ex, Greg lying, cheating Taylor, all those weeks ago. I’m almost snorting at how nervous I was then, whereas now I’m so used to the whole drill, you’d swear I was best friends with every single ex-boyfriend I ever had in my whole life. Embarrassment wears off remarkably quickly when desperation is snapping at your heels. Next thing, I’ll be having them all over for Christmas dinner.

  ‘Hello, Ashton Hall, how can I help you?’ An elderly-sounding woman’s voice, which seems familiar, somehow.

  ‘Hello. Emm … that’s not … Sheila, the housekeeper, by any chance?’ I ask. No, it can’t be. Sheila would be well past retirement age by now … wouldn’t she?

  ‘Yes, it is. Who’s speaking please?’

  ‘Hi, Sheila, I thought I recognized the voice. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but my name’s Amelia Lockwood. We met, oh, a hundred years ago.’ I’m about to say, ‘I can’t believe you’re still working,’ but I stop myself just in time.

  ‘Amelia Lockwood? Of course I remember you. Sure, every time I see your name coming up on the credits after Celtic Tigers I say, “I once cleaned up her vomit.” ’

  ‘Emm … yeah, I’m really sorry. I was kind of half hoping you’d forgotten about that little … emm … episode.’

  ‘Did you want to book a room? Is that why you’re phoning?’

  Book a room? I’m thinking. Are the Singed-Underwears, sorry I mean Singen-Underwoods running a bed and breakfast now? You mean they’re actually charging people to stay there? ‘Ehh … no, I was just wondering if I could speak to Tim? That’s if he’s still living at the Hall?’

  ‘If he’s still living here?’ She laughs. ‘Sure, isn’t he the general manager! Hang on, I’ll get him for you.’

  General Manager? Well, maybe after all these years, they’ve finally done a massive renovation on the kip and now it’s a five-star palace and all of Hollywood want to have their weddings there … Odd, though, that there’s no switchboard or proper reception or muzak for me to listen to while I’m waiting to speak to Tim …

  Then I hear Sheila screech at the top of her voice, ‘TIM! Get down here you big oaf! You’re wanted! It’s Amelia Lockwood!’

  Right. Obviously not being run as a five-star hotel then.

  Then Sheila picks up the phone again. ‘Tell me this and tell me no more,’ she says, ‘just as I have you there. What happens between Glenda and Sebastian on Celtic Tigers? I nearly died when they broke up, you know. Couldn’t believe it. Especially after that big fancy wedding they had. I’ll tell you who’s great though, is that new one that’s Glenda’s mother. What’s this her name is? Oh yeah, Sadie Smyth. Now there’s an actress. Will you tell her I think she plays a great part. Now, how in the name of God do they learn all them lines? Sure, God love them altogether.’

  Then I hear Tim’s voice. Unmistakably him. ‘Give me that phone, you silly woman. Hello? Amelia Lockwood? Is that really you?’

  The same plummy tones, the same Robert Morley-style inflections: it’s Tim all right. ‘Hey, Tim, how are you?’

  ‘Bloody glad to hear from you, old thing. Perfect timing.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There I was the other night watching one of those documentary things on the telly box about my cousins across the pond, the Woolseys. Couldn’t believe it. Old William Woolsey, swearing and cursing into the cameras, giving out about how he hasn’t got a bean to keep the old stately pile going.’

  ‘Yes, I think I saw that show too,’ I say, although how in a million years I did, I couldn’t tell you. The Weird and Whacky World of the Woolseys it was called, basic fly-on-the-wall stuff about an aristocratic family and their struggles to keep the family home afloat. Interesting that William Woolsey and Tim are cousins I think … although I have to admit, they do look a bit alike. The same portly Hanoverian gait, the Habsburg jaw, that slightly … well, over-bred look about them. (Sorry, that sounds awful, but there’s no other way of describing it.)

  ‘Delighted you saw it too, old thing,’ Tim goes on. ‘Do you know it’s absolute serendipity that you just phoned now?’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, after the show, I instantly remembered that you were working as a big TV producer, so I turned to old Flo and I said—’

  ‘Sorry … do you mean Florence? The same Florence that I met all those years ago?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You must remember Flo.’

  He’s married to her, my inner voice says. He has to be. She’d never in a million years have let another woman even approach the airspace around him, or if she did, she’d then go out of her way to make sure that woman’s life was a living hell.

  ‘Yes, I remember Florence.’

  Like I could forget?

  ‘So I turned to her after the TV show and said, “What a wonderful idea for a programme! This is exactly the type of thing the licence payer is absolutely gagging to see! Why don’t we get an Irish crew to come here and film Ashton Hall? We could certainly do with the cash, old thing. Roof’s about to fall in on us any day now, you know.” Then I said, “Do you know who I bet would steer us in the right direction? Good old Amelia Lockwood, that’s who.” ’

  ‘Yes, it’s certainly an … interesting idea, Tim, but you see I’m working over in drama now, you know, so it’s not really my thing.’

  ‘Well, you must know somebody who you could suggest the idea to. Be a big ratings winner, you know. I’d even be prepared to let my family appear, how’s that for a nice juicy carrot?’

  His family? Makes sense. He and Florence must have a load of kids by now …

  Oh, bugger it, I have to find out. Why else am I making this highly uncomfortable phone call?

  ‘So how long have you been mar—’

  ‘Or here’s another pitch for you,’ he barrels over me. ‘You know all those ghastly Big Brother -type shows? We set one here, a Big Brother is Haunting You sort of thing. You get the idea.’

  ‘Tim, I’ll certainly pass on your suggestions, but, as I say, it isn’t really my department. So, changing the subject, how many children do you and Flo—’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got it in one,’ he says and I swear I can hear him smacking his podgy hand off his forehead. ‘You do one of those Celtic Tigers Halloween specials and you film it here at Ashton! There’s plenty of room for the entire cast, you know, and I’ve always had a bit of a thing for that scrummy Cara O’Keefe. I very much know what I should like to do to her if she ever came to stay … I say, is she single? Do you think she’d give me a whirl?’

  ‘Tim? Aren’t you married? What would Florence say?’

  ‘Dear me, no. You are funny! Did you really think that old Flo and I were married? No, not by a long shot, old thing. Still a bachelor, me, I’m afraid. I’ve had heaps of girlfriends over the years, but you know how it is, I just never seemed to find the right one. They all come to stay here, meet the family, meet Flo and then that invariably seems to be the end of them, somehow. There’s not many of my GFs that can survive the Flo test, you know. Can’t imagine why.’

  Towards the end of the day, however, events take a dramatic turn for the better. I’d wound up an exhausting script meeting and popped over to the canteen for a quick take-out cappuccino. I’m just paying for it, looking over my s
houlder all the while for Philip Burke (no sign … phew!), when Suzy, our lovely production secretary, calls my mobile.

  ‘Hey, Amelia, are you done with the script department for the day?’

  ‘Yeah, just finished. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Ummmmm … yeeeeeees,’ she says, drawing out the ‘yes’ for so long, it set off an alarm bell in my head. ‘So you’re on your way back up to the office, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I just stopped off for a coffee. I think I’ll be burning the midnight oil tonight, so anything to keep me awake. Do you want me to get you one?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she almost sings down the phone. ‘OK, so your plan is to work late tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, I need to check the edited episode we shot last week. Emm, why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh nothing, nothing. Just … well, your plans could easily change, that’s all.’

  I go back upstairs and gingerly open the office door, half expecting to find Philip Burke sitting there and not quite being able to figure out how I feel about this. But it’s not Philip at all.

  It’s the only person I know who could (a) put the beam back on my face and (b) make me doubly thankful that I washed my hair that morning and am wearing make-up.

  Jack Keating.

  My very own emotional-pension-plan man.

  ‘Well, hello, gorgeous,’ he says, as smooth as ever, swivelling around in Suzy’s office chair and looking a million dollars himself, all casual in jeans and a T-shirt that shows off how muscly he’s got since I saw him last.

  ‘Jack!’ I almost throw myself at him, I’m that delighted to see him.

  ‘Well, well, well, let me look at you,’ he says, jumping up and swirling me around. ‘Jesus, you’re stunning. You must be in love to look this well. Who is he? I’ll beat the crap out of him. Do you think I’ll stand by and let another man make you happy?’

  He’s messing, of course, but by now half the office are watching the happy reunion side show, probably wondering, Who’s this big ride that Amelia secretly has on the go? There’s a bunch of red roses plonked on the desk, which Jack presents to me theatrically, on bended knee.