by Matt Dunn
It’s not like kissing your mother, I tell myself, as I lean in towards her. I can do this. You’re not my mum, I repeat, under my breath. You’re not my mum. ‘You’re not my mum.’
‘Pardon?’ says Sarah, taking a step back from me.
Bollocks. I’ve said it out loud. ‘I said, um, “It was fun.”’
‘No, you didn’t,’ says Sarah angrily. ‘You said “You’re not my mum.” What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What are you? Some kind of pervert?’
As Sarah stares at me, then fumbles in her bag for her car keys, I realize that’s probably a rhetorical question, and wonder whether I can still salvage the evening, but I’d be an idiot if I couldn’t work out what the complete change in body language means.
‘Well, I’ll, er, call you.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she says, jumping into her car, and slamming the door behind her. ‘Weirdo.’
I watch Sarah as she screeches off down the road, still wearing my jacket, then stand there for a few moments, gazing at the empty space where her car’s just been, before sighing loudly, and starting the walk back home.
As I reach the corner of my street, I’m startled by a voice behind me.
‘How did it go, son?’ says my dad, still wearing his dark glasses. ‘Marks out of ten?’
‘Yes, Ben. Any “spark”?’ asks my mother. Fortunately she’s removed her blonde wig, strands of which I can see protruding from her handbag, as if she’s smuggling a small animal in there.
‘Er . . .’ What do I say? How do I tell my dad where he went wrong, without insulting my mum? ‘No. Not really.’
My dad’s face falls. ‘Really? Why not?’
‘She, I mean, I . . .’ I stare at my shoes. ‘Just not compatible, I guess.’
‘Never mind,’ says my mum, patting my cheek affectionately. ‘And you haven’t heard from either of the other two?’
‘Nope,’ I say, making for my front door, my mum and dad trailing up the path behind me. ‘Although given the manner in which each of the dates ended, maybe that’s not so surprising.’
My mum and dad follow me wordlessly into my flat, and then, as we get into the front room, my dad reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a piece of paper. ‘Here.’
I stare at the folded sheet of A4, which looks suspiciously like another one of the CVs I had to choose from the other day. ‘What’s this?’
‘Just read it, son,’ he says, handing it to me.
I slump down on the sofa and scan through the details disinterestedly, then perk up a little, because at first glance, this one looks pretty good. Better, perhaps, than all of the other three. No apparent flaws, a good career, and under ‘hobbies’ she’s listed ‘the gym’, which can’t be bad. ‘She looks . . .’
‘Perfect?’ suggests my dad.
‘Well, yes. What’s her name? And more importantly, when can I meet her?’
My mum smiles as she walks into the kitchen. ‘You already have,’ she says, filling the kettle up and switching it on.
‘Huh?’ I think quickly, wondering whether there’s some long-lost distant cousin I used to frolic with in my paddling pool. But if there is, I’ve obviously forgotten her.
‘It’s Amy,’ says my dad.
I drop the piece of paper as if it’s radioactive. ‘You haven’t spoken to her, have you? About this, I mean.’
‘Of course not,’ says my dad. ‘We just wanted to make a point.’
‘Which was?’
My mum clears her throat. ‘It’s just that, well, your father and I, we think you might be being a little . . .’
‘Fussy,’ says my dad, picking up the biscuit tin from the coffee table and helping himself to a HobNob.
‘What do you mean, fussy?’
My mum reaches across to take the biscuit from my dad, and puts it back into the tin. ‘You want everything “just so”. From day one. And if you don’t like it, you think nothing of just moving on.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes, it is.’ My dad nods towards the coffee table, where I’ve deposited my mobile phone. ‘Look at that, for example,’ he says, picking up the shiny iPhone. ‘What was wrong with your old model?’
‘Well, nothing. I just fancied—’
‘A new one. Exactly.’ My dad puts it back on the table. ‘And sometimes that prevents you from sticking with something you’ve already got that’s quite frankly good enough. Because you always think the next one will be better.’
I know what he’s talking about. And it’s not phones. ‘Well, that’s because it can be a little . . . scary. Not knowing if what you’ve got is actually what you want.’
My mum pats my arm sympathetically. ‘Remember when you left college, Ben. And you decided to go inter-railing?’
Anything to avoid starting my accountancy training, I seem to remember. ‘Er, what about it?’
‘And you met that lad on the ferry, and ended up travelling round Europe with him, and having a great time. What was his name again?’
‘Mike. So?’
‘Well, think of marriage like that,’ she says, heading back into the kitchen to make the tea.
‘I should just pick up a stranger on a boat?’
‘No.’ My dad gives me his usual long-suffering smile.
‘See it as a journey, where the two of you have just met, and you’re embarking on a long voyage together. You don’t know anything about each other, so it’s exciting, and a challenge, but, ultimately, it’s one of life’s great experiences.’
I don’t like to remind him that while Mike and I did have a great time for most of the trip, we ended up falling out when we got to Berlin, and one night he stole the last of my money and left me without anywhere to sleep. Which is the way most marriages go, according to Terry. ‘Yes, but . . .’
‘No buts, son. Eventually you’ve just got to bite the bullet. Make your choice. Pick someone you think you’ve got a decent chance of making a go of it with, and set off on your journey. Sure, you’re going to have to make compromises on the way, maybe even change your itinerary. But remember, it’s all about the journey. Not the destination.’
I hate it when my dad gets all philosophical, and it’s at times like these that I want to tell him that it’s not fair for him to lecture me. From what I can tell, he and mum were head-over-heels in love when they decided to get married, which must have made it a no-brainer. And while that’s an inspiration for me, it’s also a burden. Because it’s made me realize that that’s what I want too.
My dad smiles at me. ‘Ben,’ he continues, ‘the most important thing in life is to be happy. And having a good woman at your side . . .’ He nods towards the kitchen, where my mum’s struggling to locate three clean mugs.
‘Well, most men don’t know it, or perhaps don’t want to admit it, but it’s the thing that makes you happiest in the world. Plus, if I didn’t have your mum, I wouldn’t have you. And I’d have hated to have missed out on either of those two things.’
For a moment, I can’t make eye contact. We’ve never been the best family at talking about our emotions, and to hear my dad making such a heartfelt statement, well, I just don’t know how to respond, so instead I get up and start pacing around the lounge.
‘But that puts more pressure on me to make it succeed. Because say Amy and I had got married, and it didn’t work out? I couldn’t leave her then, could I? Because of you two.’
My dad shakes his head. ‘And that’s precisely my point. All relationships go through tough times. Even your mum and me have had our share of disagreements.’
‘No, we haven’t, Alan,’ calls my mum from the kitchen, trying to inject some humour into the situation.
‘And if you’re married, what you do is simple. You deal with them. Because what’s the alternative? Live with a simmering resentment that means you end up hating the other person? And let’s face it, most arguments are simply differences of opinion. Whereas if you’re just goi
ng out with someone and the same thing happens, you see it as the worst thing in the world, and’ – he points to my mobile phone – ‘decide to move on.’
The worst thing about what he’s saying is, it’s all true. When I think back to all of my past relationships, the minute we’ve started to argue, I’ve kind of assumed that that was it – the relationship was on its way out, and it was only a matter of time before we’d split up, so of course, we always did. And when I remember the level of some of the arguments that had been the beginning of the end, I’m more than a little embarrassed: What DVD to rent. How to load the dishwasher properly. Even the merits of McDonald’s versus Burger King. Because I always saw them as symptomatic of the bigger picture, when in actual fact, they were simply differences. And thinking about it, who wants to be with someone who’s exactly the same as them? Suddenly, what my dad is saying starts to make sense. Because when you’re ‘coupled’ together as man and wife, or even with a baby, you don’t have the choice but to try to work through your problems, or find a solution. And any fool can see that that’s a better situation to be in than just thinking ‘next’.
‘But none of them have been, well, right, in the first place. And I don’t just mean the women you’ve been lining me up with. I mean them all. Including Amy.’
‘Well, maybe it is you, then,’ suggests my dad.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Maybe you pick the wrong kind of women. Not enough of a challenge. Too easy.’
I think I know which context he means ‘easy’ in, and it’s probably not the same definition that I’d use. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, women want to be wooed.’
‘They can be as rude as they like, as far as I’m concerned. Although maybe Dawn was a bit over the top ...’
‘No, “wooed”, Ben. Romanced. Like I did with your mother. Rather than just a sure thing placed in front of you. And the fact that you can’t be bothered, or don’t care when you split up with them, proves that you didn’t really want them in the first place, maybe because they just weren’t enough of a challenge.’
‘Dad, I . . .’ I hold my hands up, trying to put off a story I’ve probably heard a hundred times before, but it’s too late, as my dad’s already in full swing.
‘When I first met your mother, I mean, she didn’t want to know. But then, gradually, I wore her down . . .’
‘And I still find him wearing today,’ interrupts my mum from the kitchen.
‘But I worked at it, and in the end, when I finally got her, I appreciated her much more, than if she’d been . . .’
‘Easy?’
‘Exactly.’
I start to mentally count elephants, betting that he’ll come out with his ‘moped’ story before ten seconds have passed. And sure enough, even though he must know I’ve heard it a thousand times before, by the time I’ve counted three of the long-nosed mammals, he’s already launching into the old familiar tale.
‘I mean, you remember when we bought you that moped for your sixteenth birthday?’
‘And I’d had it for two weeks when you decided to show off by pulling a wheelie on it in front of Mum, and ended up crashing into the back wall of the garage.’
As my mum walks back into the lounge carrying three mugs and a carton of milk, my dad reddens a little. ‘Yes, but what did that teach you?’
‘Never to let you ride it again, for a start, if I wanted to look after it.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? In fact, you hardly ever cleaned it, or had it serviced. It’s a wonder it lasted for as long as it did.’
I know what he’s talking about, of course. He’s alluding to the fact that I might just be the same where relationships are concerned. Once I’ve actually got the ‘bike’, if the getting it hasn’t required much of an effort, I might not take care of it. Which is why it lets me down. Or, more accurately, won’t let me ride it any more.
‘And yet, when you wanted your first car,’ continues my dad, ‘it was different, wasn’t it? We could have bought you one, of course, but instead we decided to teach you the value of hard work. So you went and got that job at the local swimming baths, and worked every weekend, and saved, and saved, and eventually you got enough money to buy one. And you loved that car. Every weekend, you’d be out there, polishing the bodywork, checking the oil with your dipstick . . .’
‘Okay, Dad. I get the point,’ I say, trying to ignore the imagery.
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. You’re saying that I don’t put the work into my relationships. So it’s no wonder they go wrong.’
‘Not only that. I’m saying that perhaps you’re also choosing the wrong kind of cars. And then, when they go wrong, you can’t be bothered to fix them, and so you just get any old one to replace it, instead of going for the model you really want. Like I did with your mother.’
‘Really?’ That comes from my mum, not me.
‘Of course,’ he says, pinching her affectionately on the backside as she leans over him to put the teapot on the table, before heading off to use the bathroom. He waits until she’s shut the door, then lowers his voice. ‘I mean, when I first saw her, I fell hook, line, and sinker. At least, I assumed that’s what it was. But after a while, you realize that what you thought was love is actually lust. And while the symptoms may be the same, the cause is something totally different.’
‘Are you going somewhere with this?’
He nods. ‘My point is this. I’d been out with lots of girls before your mother. Hundreds, even. I don’t mind telling you, when I was your age, people used to call me ...’
‘Dad, please.’
‘Yes, sorry,’ he says, snapping out of his reverie. ‘The point is, these other women, they were fun, and all that. But when I met your mother, I knew she was different.’
‘No fun, you mean?’
He ignores me. ‘And I think maybe that’s the problem you’ve been having. None of the girls you’ve met has been like your mum.’
Apart from Sarah this evening, I feel like saying. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean that somehow, you’ve just known they weren’t right.’
I think about what he’s said for a second or two. ‘Subconsciously, you mean? So while we may have connected on a physical level, the emotional side of things just wasn’t right?’
‘Stop complicating it with all this New Age rubbish.’ My dad thumps himself on the chest. ‘Here, I mean. In your heart. I mean, I still get butterflies every time I see your mum across a crowded room.’
‘Only because you’re worried she’ll see what you’re up to.’
‘And that’s why you’ve not worked hard to keep them,’ he continues. ‘Because as far as you’ve been concerned, they haven’t been keepers.’
I frown. ‘But why? I mean, what’s been wrong with them?’
‘God knows. Maybe nothing. Maybe it is you. Or maybe you’re just not at that point yet.’
‘What’re you two talking about?’ says my mum, walking back into the room.
‘Cars,’ says my dad quickly.
My mother looks at me reproachfully as she pours the tea. ‘Ben,’ she scolds. ‘You’re not thinking of changing yours again, I hope?’
‘Well, Dad and I were just talking it over.’
She walks over to where my dad’s sitting, resting an affectionate hand on his shoulder as she hands him his mug. ‘Why can’t you be more like your father? He’s been happy with the same one for years?’
And as I watch my dad sip his tea contentedly, I can’t help but ask myself exactly the same question.
Chapter 18
I don’t hear much from my parents for the rest of the week, which is actually a good thing, because to be honest, even though I don’t seem to be any closer to finding a bride, let alone a date for Ash’s forthcoming engagement party, I could do with a rest after what’s been an eventful few days. Plus, the cost of replacing the various items of clothing I seem to be losing is starting to add up.
By Saturday lunchtime, I’m feeling somewhat recovered, and I’m walking along the High Street when I spot Hope – the girl I went out with before Amy – heading towards me. Hope is probably the most inappropriately named person I know, because she always struck me as the world’s most pessimistic, glass-half-empty, it’ll-all-end-in-tears person. Though to give her some credit, when it came to our relationship, she was spot on.
I glance left and right quickly, but it’s too late to hide, and unless I want to dart into Boots and risk bumping into Seema again, I’m going to have to brazen it out. Besides, by the look of Hope’s suddenly stern expression, she’s already seen me.
‘Ben,’ she says curtly, as we draw near each other.
‘Hope. Hi.’ I think about leaning in and kissing her on the cheek, but I’m never quite sure about ex-girlfriend etiquette. She dumped me, after all, so am I even allowed to make the smallest of physical gestures towards her? And this always strikes me as ridiculous. Here’s someone who used to let me, well, I won’t go into detail, and then suddenly, after a word from them, everything’s off limits, as if splitting up with them puts you in a worse situation from where you started. And, because she dumped me, I can tell that Hope is worried about even letting me kiss her on the cheek, as if I might take that as some sort of encouragement that she wants me back. Mind you, when I started going out with Amy, Hope used to cross the street to avoid me, so I suppose the simple fact that she’s remained on the same bit of pavement must mean that the ice is melting a little bit. ‘How have you been?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Hope is one of those people you should not ask that question, because she usually tells you, and in great detail. But fortunately not today. ‘Getting by.’