The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  As she leads me up the garden path – which I’m hoping isn’t a metaphor – I wonder whether perhaps it’s the wine finally kicking in. To be honest, I’m wishing I hadn’t had those three pints myself, as I’m desperate for the toilet, and as Dawn leads me into the lounge, I start to ask if I can use her bathroom, but before I can get the words out she jumps on me – literally – and the two of us crash down on the sofa in a heap. And while the sudden presence of her tongue down my throat and her hand inside my jeans isn’t completely unwelcome, the weight of her pressing on my bladder is.

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, breaking away breathlessly. ‘I really need to use your bathroom.’

  Dawn looks up from where she’s unbuttoning her cardigan to reveal the briefest of lacy black bras, which seems to be defying the laws of physics given what it’s managing to keep contained. ‘Up the stairs,’ she pants. ‘First door on the right. And don’t be too long.’

  I jump up from the sofa and make my way awkwardly up the stairs, although that’s as much down to my hard-on as the three pints I’ve had, and make it into the bathroom with a sigh of relief. Who’d have thought that quiet, church-mouse Dawn would turn out to be like, well, this? It’s a bit like jumping behind the wheel of a Ford Mondeo, and finding that it drives like a racing car.

  Of course, the problem is, I’m so turned on by this unexpected turn of events that I can’t get my hard-on to go down, which of course makes it impossible to pee – except vertically upwards, that is – and I’m not sure the bathroom’s big enough for me to stand far enough back from the toilet to make a suitable arc. Plus, Dawn’s bathroom has carpet on the floor, and my aim’s not that good. Especially after three pints.

  As the pain in my bladder gets worse, I start to panic. I could go in the bath, I suppose, but then I’d have to run the tap, and that might seem a little suspicious. And there’s no way I can have sex like this. If only I could think of something to calm things down. But what?

  Suddenly, there’s a scratching sound on the outside of the bathroom door. For a second, I think it might be Dawn, but unless she’s on all fours in the hallway – or has unusually long toenails – it can’t be.

  I open it a crack, and a mangy-looking cat walks in, pads across the bath mat, then rubs itself against my leg. With a shudder, I get a sudden flashback to the events at Lisa’s house last night, and I’m just about to shoo it out, when thankfully I start to feel the first subsidence in my groin.

  After a couple of minutes, and with a sigh of pleasure, I relieve myself, and I’ve just flushed – and scratched the cat affectionately under its chin – when there’s a knock on the door.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asks Dawn.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I’ll be out in a moment or two.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ comes the reply. ‘In the bedroom.’

  I look down at the cat, noticing for the first time that it’s black, and as it stares back up at me, think that maybe, just maybe, this could be my lucky night.

  Or maybe not, as sadly my previous assessment of ‘fifteen minutes’ when Ash asked me ‘How long does sex last?’ proves to be way out. In fact, it’s 4 a.m. before I finally manage to extricate myself from the tangle of limbs and make my way downstairs, nearly tripping over the damn cat in the process. I’ve had to leave one of my shoes in Dawn’s bedroom because I couldn’t find it, and didn’t want to turn the light on and risk waking her, and therefore initiating another session. Mind you, given how enthusiastically she ripped my clothes off me and threw them around the room, it’s a miracle that I’ve managed to find so much of the rest of what I was wearing.

  As I tiptoe along the hallway, I don’t know whether to be happy or sad. Yes, I’ve had sex, but it’s been so energetic, so frantic, so demanding, and so painful, that there’s not a part of my body that doesn’t hurt. And I mean not one part.

  I’m a little hurt emotionally, too. Because towards the end of the third – or it could have been the fourth – time, by which point I was just grateful that I could still go through the motions, Dawn had called out ‘Oh, Brian’, and I’d been too polite – and knackered – to point out her mistake. When I’d made a joke of it afterwards she’d laughed, and explained that Brian was her boyfriend, and although I’d sat up suddenly, worried he might come round and catch us, she’d told me not to worry – he doesn’t get out for another four months – before rolling over and starting to snore noisily before I could ask any more.

  I feel guilty about leaving like this, of course, and think about writing Dawn a ‘thank you’ note, but don’t want Brian to find it – and then come and find me – so just let myself quietly out of the front door. But as I walk home in my socks, carrying my other shoe in my hand to avoid an awkward limp, I find myself bemused by the evening’s events. Ignoring the fact that she already seems to have a boyfriend, could I ever marry someone like that? To know that the sex was always going to be that . . . Intense. Physical. And – convict-boyfriend aside – dangerous? Probably not – I wouldn’t make it to forty. Let’s face it, if I want a ride that scary, I can always go the amusement park on the seafront. And who wants to go there every night?

  As to how I’m going to explain it to my parents, I’m not so sure. I’ve already given them a report on my disastrous date with Lisa, which for some reason they seemed to think was my fault, so this time I need to come up with something that’ll put the blame on Dawn. Unfortunately, I don’t get a lot of time to think about it, given the first thing my dad says to me is ‘How was she?’ when the two of them call round at my studio on their way to Aldi the following morning.

  ‘Er . . . Okay.’

  ‘You got on, then?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, stopping short of adding ‘so did she. Several times.’

  ‘Do I need to buy a hat?’ says my mum, as we sip the tea that she’s brought round in a Thermos flask.

  Maybe I do, I think to myself, if I see Dawn again, but it would be a crash helmet. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ My mum sounds a little disappointed.

  For a moment, I wonder what to say, and then realize that unless I start providing my parents with honest feedback, things aren’t going to get any better. ‘She was a bit, well, rough.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ says my mum. ‘I’ve known her mum and dad for ages. And they’re lovely people.’

  ‘No, Mum.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Rough in bed. With me.’

  As my mum doesn’t quite know where to look, my dad folds his arms. ‘Don’t tell me you slept with her?’ he says sternly. ‘And on the first date?’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, Dad,’ I say, giving him an edited version of the previous evening’s events. ‘Besides, it would have been rude to say no.’

  He picks his tea up, and blows on the top. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You’re sure she wasn’t just trying to impress you?’ says my mum.

  I shake my head. ‘Impress? No. Asphyxiate, maybe.’

  ‘So what am I going to say when I see her mum and dad again?’ she says anxiously. ‘I mean, they’ll be at the tennis club this weekend.’

  ‘I don’t know. Just tell them it’s me, or something. Or tell them I’m not into threesomes,’ I say, explaining the other thing it would have been useful to know before yesterday evening.

  My dad purses his lips. ‘You know, I’ve always thought that family were a bit funny. Remember that Christmas drinks party of theirs we went to, and there was that big bowl on the dining table, and when I asked what it was for, Martin smiled and said that it was so we could all throw our car keys in it.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ says my mum. ‘Some people are always losing their keys.’

  ‘That’s not what he meant, Sue.’ My dad sighs. ‘I bet they’re the kind of parents who walk around the house naked. It’s no wonder she’s turned out like that.’

  ‘Turned out like what?’ I say, feeling the need to leap to Dawn’s defence. ‘I mean, what she did was hardly illegal, was it
? It’s just a different way of doing things.’

  ‘Doing it, don’t you mean?’ says my mum, still a little shocked. ‘And can you imagine conceiving a child that way? The poor thing’s bound to come out traumatized.’

  My dad puts a consoling arm around my shoulders, which makes me wince as it’s the exact spot where Dawn’s scratched me. ‘So, you’re not seeing her again, then, son?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘Tonight, in fact. To discuss our engagement.’

  My mother almost drops her tea. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Ha.’ I get up and help myself to a custard cream from the Tupperware container on the windowsill. ‘You should have seen your faces.’

  My dad grins. ‘Well done, son. Very funny.’

  ‘Yes, well. If you could do your research a little better next time?’

  ‘We’re sorry, Ben,’ says my mum. ‘We had no way of checking that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ I say, popping the rest of the biscuit into my mouth.

  My dad clears his throat, then pulls his notebook out of his coat pocket. ‘So, neither of them?’ he says, crossing their names off his list.

  ‘Nope. Sorry.’

  My parents exchange glances. ‘And you’re sure it wasn’t . . .’ My dad clears his throat. ‘You?’

  ‘As sure as I can be.’

  He sighs. ‘Well, you better hope this evening goes a little better. She’s our favourite, this one.’

  ‘Your favourite, Alan,’ says my mum.

  ‘Well, it couldn’t go much worse, Dad,’ I say, in an attempt to reassure myself as much as them.

  My dad smiles grimly back at me. ‘There’s such a thing as tempting fate, son.’

  Chapter 17

  Sarah’s thirty, and although I’ve never dated an older woman before – even if it’s only by a few months – I’m possibly a little more excited than I should be. She’s one of Dad’s colleagues at school – the science teacher, in fact – and so I’ve had to listen to the same joke from my dad time and time again about whether there’ll be any chemistry between the two of us this evening.

  Not surprisingly, given the previous two dates, I’m a little apprehensive, even though my dad actually knows Sarah, and, in fact, I’m wondering whether I do too, because the more I look at her photograph, which of course I’ve brought with me so I can recognize her, the more she seems familiar. But she’s not unattractive, and according to my dad, when he suggested she and I go out for a date she was certainly ‘up for it’, to use his words. Whether she’s ‘up for it’ in the sense I’d mean, we’ll just have to wait and see, although of course, given my experience last night with Dawn, I’m not sure I am.

  We’ve arranged to meet at The Cottage at seven o’clock, and I’m just about to leave my flat when my phone goes. It’s my dad, ringing to check up on me. Again. He’s calling from his mobile, and I’m having a little difficulty hearing him, as there’s a strange echo in the background.

  ‘Now, don’t mess it up,’ he says, sounding more nervous than me. ‘I’ve got to work with her, remember.’

  ‘Mess it up? How am I going to do that?’

  ‘You know.’ My dad sighs. ‘Get drunk. Or bore her. Or try any funny business.’

  I feel myself blushing, even though I’m on the phone. ‘I won’t, Dad.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Jeans and a shirt. Why?’

  ‘Jeans?’ I can hear the exasperation in my dad’s voice. ‘Have you never heard the term “dress to impress”?’

  ‘Dad, it’s not like that any more.’

  ‘More’s the pity. At least look like you’re making an effort. Put a tie on or something.’

  ‘Dad, ties . . .’ I stop talking, realizing that this is one argument I won’t win. ‘Okay. And there’s nothing wrong with her, right?’

  ‘Of course not,’ says my dad, a little offended. ‘She’s very nice. In fact, if I was twenty years younger . . .’

  ‘. . . and not married to Mum.’

  ‘Quite,’ says my dad. ‘You have a good time, now. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I say, grimacing at the thought of what that might mean.

  But in the end, my fears are unfounded, as Sarah and I get on fine. After an initial embarrassed few minutes, when we both joke about what we’re doing here, we find out that, actually, we’ve got rather a lot in common. And more than that, there’s a strange sense of déjà vu about Sarah. A kind of comfort, like I’ve known her all my life. And by the end of the evening, I’m starting to think that even after a couple of false starts, maybe there’s some merit in this approach, and that I might just owe my parents a big thank you. Which I’ll give them during my speech on the big day, of course.

  It’s getting late, and I’m planning to offer to walk her home, so I excuse myself to go to the toilet to avoid a repetition of last night’s bladder problem, and I’m standing at the urinal, when a familiar voice surprises me.

  ‘How’s it going, son?’

  I wheel around in shock, nearly peeing on my shoes in the process, to see my dad – wearing one of my old baseball caps and a pair of dark glasses – peering over the top of one of the cubicles. ‘Jesus, Dad, you scared me. What are you doing here? And what’s with the outfit?’

  He emerges from the cubicle, then checks his reflection in the mirror. ‘I didn’t want to be recognized, did I?’ he says, walking over to the urinal next to me and unzipping his trousers. As he feels around in front of him to try to locate the wall, I realize that he can’t see where he’s aiming, and so move one urinal to my left.

  ‘Take the sunglasses off. At least in here. You look like one of the Village People. Which is not a good thing in a gents’ toilet for a number of reasons.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, removing his Ray-Bans. ‘You’re right. Sarah’s hardly likely to follow you in here, is she?’

  ‘I should hope not. And what are you doing here, again?’

  My dad nods towards the urinal. ‘I had to go. The old prostate’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘No. Here in the pub.’

  He shrugs. ‘We just thought we’d come along and see how you were doing.’

  ‘We? Mum’s here?’ I zip myself up and peer around the toilets anxiously, but if Mum’s the old man washing his hands at the sink, then it’s a hell of a disguise.

  ‘I’ve left her at the bar. So she can keep an eye on Sarah. See if she’s interested or not.’

  ‘How’s she going to tell that?’

  ‘Well, if she leaves while you’re in here, for one thing.’ My dad laughs. ‘Plus, we’ve been making some notes. How much she yawns. Her body language. And your mum’s out there checking to see if she falls asleep, or if she calls someone else to get them to rescue her. Plus . . .’

  ‘Plus?’

  ‘Well, we wanted to check up on you, too. See that you’re doing everything right. Nothing that’ll scare her off, or anything. After all, we don’t want to go to all this trouble if you’re not going to pull your weight.’

  I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure exactly where to start. ‘Dad, I . . . I don’t need you checking up on me. I can have a normal evening with a woman without her thinking I’m a madman, you know?’

  ‘Yes, but I thought you might benefit from some tips from your old man. I know a few things about the art of seduction, don’t forget. I mean, when your mother and I first met . . .’

  The old guy at the basin has finished washing his hands, and is quite obviously listening in to our conversation. ‘Dad, just take Mum and go home, will you? But let me leave first. Sarah’s already going to be thinking I’ve got a bladder problem.’

  My dad shrugs, zips his trousers back up, and replaces his dark glasses. ‘Suit yourself.’

  I hurry out of the Gents and get back to the table, taking advantage of the fact that Sarah appears to be sending a text message to scan the room, and eventually spot my mother, wearing a badly fitting bl
onde wig, sat at the bar. And it’s then that it hits me. The reason that something about Sarah feels so familiar is because she’s a younger version of my mum. Everything about her, from her mannerisms to the way she smiles, even the tone of her voice. And it’s especially noticeable given my mum’s disguise.

  So this is why my dad picked her. And of course, it makes sense. He’s looking for someone for me who reminds him of Mum, because subconsciously or otherwise, that’s who he’d choose. And while I can see where he’s coming from, at the same time that’s the last thing I want – although thinking about it, someone who reminds me of him might possibly be worse.

  As I sit back down, Sarah puts her phone away, and looks at her watch. ‘Well, thank you for a lovely evening,’ she says. ‘But I have to go. After all, it is a school night.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Especially with you being a teacher, and all that.’

  As I realize I’ve made just about the dumbest observation possible, Sarah smiles. ‘It’s been fun.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘So . . .’

  Ah. What on earth can I say now – Yes, it has been fun, and if I hadn’t suddenly realized that you looked, acted, and even sounded just like my mother, then I’m sure I’d be asking you out again, and we’d possibly end up having a lot more fun, some of it even of the horizontal variety? Because the way it stands at the moment, I don’t think I’d ever be able to give her anything more than a peck on the cheek.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Walk me to my car?’

  ‘Er . . . Sure.’

  As we stroll along the pavement, it’s a little chilly, and Sarah doesn’t have a jacket, so I offer to lend her mine, which she accepts gratefully, but as we near her car, I start to get increasingly nervous. Of course, given that she’s invited me to accompany her the twenty yards down the High Street to where she’s parked, she’s going to expect a kiss goodbye. And judging by the fact that she’s walking slowly, occasionally brushing against me, she’s going to want a proper kiss.

  I try to look at her objectively. Apart from her face, her body’s different, and so that’s what I try to concentrate on, although of course thinking about my mum’s body in comparison is even more of a passion dampener. But as Sarah stops by a silver Ford Focus and turns round to face me, it’s obvious what she’s expecting.