by Mike Gayle
The Importance of Being a Bachelor
Mike Gayle
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
1
Copyright © 2010 Pizza FTD LTD
The right of Mike Gayle to be identified as the Author of the Work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher,
nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 9781848949348
Book ISBN 9780340918500
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
Thus we never see the true state of our condition, till it is illustrated to us by its contraries; nor know how to value what we enjoy, but by the want of it.
Robinson Crusoe Daniel Defoe
To C. for everything
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble and all at Hodder, Simon Trewin and all at United Agents, Phil Gayle, The Sunday Night Pub Club, Jackie Behan, The Board, Ron Davison, Danny Wallace, Chris McCabe and everyone who took the time to drop me a line this year. And thank you, above all, to C, for pretty much everything.
Part 1
‘But are they happy?’
‘Do you think we’ve done OK?’
It was just after six on a balmy Saturday night in June and sixty-eight-year-old pensioner and former GMPTE bus driver George Bachelor was settling down to watch his all-time favourite film that was just starting on Channel Five when Joan, his wife of nearly forty years, asked her question. George, who was more than a little bit concerned about missing the beginning of the film, considered the mug of tea in his left hand (strong and sweet just the way he liked it) and then the TV remote control in his right. George took great comfort in the fact that he knew the buttons on the remote control if not better than the back of his own hand then at least better than any hand belonging to any other member of his family. Since they had first bought their thirty-two inch Sony Bravia TV just over eight years ago, George had spent a lot of time with its remote control and considered it possibly the single most useful tool that he owned. He often found himself remembering with disdain the days before TVs had remote controls. Obviously life had been simpler back then as there had only been a handful of channels but he recalled with perfect clarity just how much effort it sometimes took to summon up the will to leave the comfort of his chair (the very same chair in which he was sitting now) and rise to his feet (having endured the stresses and strains of a day at work on the buses) and turn over the channel at nine o’clock so that he could watch the news.
‘Did you hear what I just said?’
George looked over at his wife. She appeared as though she was expecting some sort of reply but to what he couldn’t begin to fathom. His hearing wasn’t quite what it used to be plus he’d done all that thinking about tea and remote controls in between so the thread of whatever thought he might have had about whatever Joan had been going on about had long since been lost.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course I heard you.’
‘So what do you think?’
George shrugged and turned off the sound on the TV. If he heard the dialogue he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. ‘I don’t mind. Whatever you think is best is fine by me.’
‘You weren’t listening, were you?’ said Joan.
‘You’re sat less than a yard away from me. Of course I was listening. I heard every single word you said.’
‘So what did I say then?’
‘How am I supposed to know?’ said George, looking at the TV forlornly. He hated missing the beginnings of films and that included films of which he had previously seen the beginnings. It made him feel unsettled. ‘You asked me a question and then started with a million and one questions about the first question followed by a lot of accusations about whether or not I was listening. I can’t be expected to keep all that lot in my head can I?’
Joan sighed in the manner of a woman well versed in the art of communicating non-verbal displeasure. ‘You were thinking about the film weren’t you? It’s only Bridge On the River Kwai.’
‘Which is my favourite film.’
‘Which you also happen to own on both videotape and on one of those DVD things too that came free with the Sunday paper.’
‘It’s not the same,’ said George. ‘I like films when they’re on TV. They just seem better somehow.’
Joan said nothing and so George found himself feeling guilty. ‘So what is it that you were asking?’
‘If you thought that we’d done OK.’
‘With what?’
‘The boys of course: Adam, Luke and Russell.’
‘I know who they are,’ he said impatiently. ‘You don’t need to remind me of our children’s names. What about them?’
‘Do you think we’ve done OK with them. You know, done a good job of raising them to be decent young men.’
‘What a thing to ask right at the beginning of Bridge On the River Kwai! What’s brought all this on?’
‘There was an item on the radio this morning while I was ironing. Jenni Murray was interviewing a lady who had written a book about the difficulties women face in raising sons and then they opened it up to the panel that they had in the studio. It was very interesting actually and it just got me thinking about what kind of job I’d done with the boys. I mean, look at them. All three of them are grown men and yet none of them are married.’
‘It’s different now,’ explained George. ‘Times have changed.’
‘But are they happy?’
‘How would I know?’ shrugged George. ‘They seem fine to me. Why don’t you ask them tomorrow when they come for lunch?’
‘Oh, you know what they’re like. I can never get a straight answer out of any of them. I ask Adam why he’s never brought anyone home to meet us and he just rolls his eyes like I’m some kind of lunatic. I mean it’s not exactly a daft question, is it? He’s never brought a single girl home! Then I ask Luke if he and Cassie have ever talked about making things official and he gives me the run-around saying that after last time “marriage just isn’t on the agenda”. And as for Russell, what am I supposed to think? The only girl he ever brings around here these days is that friend of his, Angie, and she’s got a boyfriend! I don’t understand it, do you, George? Why is a twenty-nine-year-old man spending so much time with a young woman who’s in a relationship with someone else? It doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?’
‘I think she’s a lovely girl,’ said George, resigned to the fact that there was little or no chance of his being able to watch this film. ‘He says they’re friends. There’s no harm in that, is there?’
‘Well,’ replied Joan. ‘I don’t think it’s right.’
There was a long silence. George wondered if he could be bothered to put in the effort it would take to search out that free DVD Joan had been on about and recall his middle son’s instructions on how to work the DVD player that he and Cassie had bought him for Christmas. He looked at h
is wife and then at the remote control. It might only take a minute or two to get into the film if Joan had actually finished with her questions for the evening.
‘So, do you really think we’ve done OK with our boys?’
For the sake of a quiet life George considered the question carefully. ‘I think we’ve done fine,’ he said at last. ‘They’re just late developers, that’s all.’
‘Not exactly girlfriend material.’
At roughly the same time that George Bachelor found himself considering the question of his and his wife’s ability to raise their children his eldest son, Adam Bachelor (bar owner, man about town and current holder of the title ‘second best-looking bloke in Chorlton’), was standing at the crowded bar of Cheshire’s exclusive Forest Hill Golf Club at the wedding reception of his friend Leo listening to his friend Jon proffering the following question: ‘Which of us do you think will be the next to get hitched?’
As the laughter began and various theories were put forward Adam closed his eyes and yawned not just because he wasn’t interested in getting into any debate that involved matrimony but also because right now all he wanted was to go to sleep. He was more used than most of his friends to the occasional late night, but the previous evening had been something of a marathon even for him.
Gathering together the boys for what was ostensibly Leo’s second (and secret) stag do, Adam had led his friends into a night of monumental drinking that had taken in all their old haunts that still existed. The night had crawled to a conclusion some time after six that morning where, following breakfast at an all-night café in Rusholme, they had climbed into the back of the limousine that Adam had rented for the night and were dropped off at their own front doors before Adam finally allowed himself and the groom to be taken back to Adam’s flat in Chorlton.
With eight hours to go before the actual wedding Adam and Leo assured themselves they would have plenty of time to recover from their evening of festivities. But when, sometime after seven, Leo’s fiancée called Adam on his mobile with a long list of things that needed doing in his role as best man, Adam had to concede that he was well and truly up the creek. For the next seven hours he barely had a moment to himself as he ran around south Manchester undertaking all manner of errands before finally arriving back at his flat to pick up a suited, booted (and incredibly well rested) Leo and taking him to the church. And even though there had been times when he had wanted nothing more than to be sick or fall asleep (and on one occasion both at the same time) he had executed his duties like a true professional. He handed the rings to the groom at precisely the right moment, was charming to any elderly people passed to him for safe keeping, delivered a memorable and witty best-man speech and – when it looked like Joanna might get into a slanging match with one of the caterers over the fact that they had ‘under-ordered’ on the vegetarian main courses – he sorted that out too without even the slightest hint of bloodshed to offend the aforementioned meat-shy. All in all he had done a top job of being best man even if he said so himself.
‘My money is definitely on Martin,’ said Jon as Adam tuned back into the debate.
‘No chance,’ laughed Martin. ‘Kay gave up all hope years ago, mate. For what it’s worth my money is on Rich and Emma. He doesn’t think we noticed but Emma’s been sporting a big old rock on her left hand for a good few weeks now.’
‘It’s just a dress ring!’ protested Rich. ‘At least that’s what she told me! Moving swiftly on, my money’s on Del and Jen. The way Del’s missus was talking up matrimony with Em over a chicken bhuna at mine last week makes me think he’s got six to eight months tops!’
‘No way!’ said Del. ‘No way at all. The way I see it is this: obviously discounting those of us that are already hitched, namely Fad, Leo of course and Dave, I reckon it’ll be Rich and Emma first; me and Jen second; third Jon and Shelley; fourth Martin and Kay; and fifth Ade and Lorna.’
Adam looked at Del. ‘What about me?’
Del looked confused. ‘What do you mean what about you?’
‘Exactly what I said: “What about me?” ’
As one Adam’s friends turned to him wearing the same expression of disbelief and confusion.
‘What?’ he said defensively. ‘Why does one simple question cause you all to look at me like I’m a dog that’s just walked into a bar on its hind legs and ordered a pint?’
‘Probably because the likelihood of you getting married is about the same! Mate, with the best will in the world there are two chances of you getting married before any of us – no chance and slim chance. And do you know what? Slim’s out of town.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Adam as the boys all laughed at Jon’s well-worn joke. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Ade and Lorna – a woman who, let’s not forget, once threw a carving knife at Ade’s head – are more likely to get married than me?’
‘Not that old one again,’ interrupted Ade. ‘First off, it was a long time ago; second, she missed; and third, she didn’t really mean it. She was just a bit annoyed.’
‘Ade, mate,’ said Adam. ‘She threw a knife. At. Your. Head. The fact that she’s a rubbish aim is the only reason you’re standing here tonight. When most women get angry they slam doors or smash china. They do not throw knives!’ Adam turned back to Del. ‘So as I was saying you’d give Ade better odds of getting married than me?’
Jon chipped in. ‘How deluded are you? Of course Ade’s got more chance of getting married than you have. For starters he’s actually got a girlfriend.’
‘And?’ questioned Adam, unwilling to let small details like ‘girlfriends’ get in the way of him making his point.
‘What do you mean “and”?’ said Jon in his best withering tones. ‘Have you lost the plot, mate? One of the prerequisites of getting married is that you have somebody to get married to, otherwise, well, you’re just a bloke in a suit throwing a party for all your mates.’
‘I’ll have you know that if I actually wanted a girlfriend I could get a girlfriend just like that.’ Adam proceeded to snap his fingers like a latter-day Paul Daniels as though he was about to conjure a girlfriend out of thin air.
‘Mate,’ said Del, placing a deliberately patronising hand on Adam’s shoulders. ‘We all know that you have a gift with the ladies. We all know that you can and indeed have pulled some of the most amazing women we could ever hope to see. But there’s one thing we’re sure of: you will not be getting married in this or in fact any other century.’
‘And your reasoning is?’
Del shook his head in despair. ‘Mate, are you really trying to say that you don’t know?’
‘If I did I wouldn’t be asking the question, would I?’
‘But you’re not really going to make us spell it out for you, are you?’ chipped in Fad. ‘Surely you can’t be that dense.’
‘Well I must be, because I have no idea what any of you are on about. So come on. Take a moment out from your world of mirth to explain why out of all my oldest friends I am apparently the one least likely to take a walk down the aisle?’
The friends exchanged wary glances before staring contemplatively into their pints. Del then drew a deep breath, which Adam took as a signal that he had nominated himself the chief deliverer of home truths.
‘Listen mate,’ began Del, ‘I just want to say that in no way do we see this as a deficiency in you. In fact it’s the total opposite. We’re completely envious of you. You’re like . . . I don’t know . . . the Fonz . . .’
‘Or the bloke from Cheers,’ said Fad.
‘Or better still Warren Beatty in Shampoo,’ added Rich.
‘So what you’re saying is I’m a womaniser?’
The boys all winced at Adam’s use of such an old-fashioned pejorative word and shook their heads in unison.
‘You’re not a womaniser as such,’ said Del diplomatically.
‘What then?’ asked Adam. ‘I’m like the bloke out of Cheers only I’m not a womaniser . . . you’re not saying anyth
ing really, are you?’
‘The thing is,’ said Del tentatively. ‘It’s not you. It’s them.’
‘Them who?’
‘You know . . . the girls you go out with . . . or rather the kind of girls you go out with.’
‘What’s wrong with the kind of girls I go out with?’
‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, while the girls that you go out with are undoubtedly attractive and usually well turned out, none of them are exactly girlfriend material, are they?’
‘“Not exactly girlfriend material”?’ spluttered Adam. ‘I don’t even know what that means.’
‘Just that. They’re great to look at and all that but . . . they’re not the kind of girls you want to grow old with, are they? Your problem is, mate, that you are quite plainly addicted to the wrong kind of girl.’
‘Truly hopeless.’
While Adam Bachelor was debating the whys and wherefores of the women he dated with his friends over in Cheshire, back in south Manchester his youngest brother Russell (tall, thin, with a face that nine out of ten girls would describe as ‘thoughtful’) was turning down the volume on the TV before opening the two bottles of Grolsch sitting on the coffee table in front of him and handing one to his best friend, Angie. ‘So come on then,’ said Russell, leaning back in the sofa. ‘What’s going on?’
It had been over an hour since Russell had logged on to Facebook via his laptop to discover the message that ‘Angie McMahon is no longer listed in a relationship.’ Announcing to the world (or at the very least her one hundred and twenty-three Facebook friends) in such a dramatic fashion that she had split up with her boyfriend when her previous Facebook status update at ten the night before had read: ‘Angie is . . . . loved up!’ was, thought Russell, a very Angie thing to do and one of the many reasons that he liked having her in his life. Angie was always so random, so haphazard, so frequently lacking in any kind of sense of self-preservation that she was always fun to have around.