by Matt Dunn
‘Good. That’s nice to hear. Well, lovely to see you.’ I start to walk off, but she blocks my path.
‘Not so fast, Ben. I had an interesting conversation with your dad the other day.’
‘What?’
‘Your dad,’ says Hope. ‘He phoned me.’
For a second, this doesn’t compute. ‘My dad? Phoned you? How?’
‘By picking up his telephone and dialling my number, I imagine.’
‘No, not how . . . I mean, where did he get your number?’ And yet, as soon as I say this, I realize exactly how. And why my dad asked to borrow my mobile phone the other day, under the pretext of wanting to get a new one himself.
She sighs. ‘I don’t know, Ben. But he was asking some rather strange questions.’
‘Really?’ I feel my face start to drain of colour. ‘What, er, kind of questions?’
‘Just about you and me, really. Why I dumped you. In the end, he seemed quite surprised why you wouldn’t want to make more of an effort, seeing as . . .’
‘I’m sorry. My dad phoned you to ask you why you dumped me?’
Hope nods. ‘Yes. It was quite funny really. We were chatting about our relationship for ages.’
‘Ages? And, er, what did you tell him?’ Hope and I had a rather active sex life, a lot of which revolved around her preference for bondage – which wasn’t something I really shared.
She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. Just about the way you behaved when we were going out. That kind of stuff. Nothing too personal.’
‘Nothing too personal? How can any of that kind of stuff not be too personal?’
Hope puts a hand on my arm, then removes it quickly, as if she’s suddenly worried that I might be overcome with passion as a result. ‘He seemed very concerned about you, Ben. We all are.’
‘What? Why? And who are “we all”?’
‘Oh yes. He’s spoken to Melissa too, apparently. And Louisa. And Holly.’
As Hope reels off a list of my most recent exgirlfriends as if they’re members of some kind of club, I curse under my breath. I knew I should have deleted their numbers from my phone. ‘But . . .’
‘And like I said, we had a good old chat. And I think the conclusion we came to – all of us, that is – was that you’re too much of a commitment-phobe to ever get married.’
‘What? Me? Rubbish.’
Hope looks at me. ‘You are. You just won’t admit it. The minute anyone asks you to get serious, you blow more hot and cold than a broken hairdryer. And let’s face it, that was pretty much the reason you and I split up.’
‘No it wasn’t.’
‘Yes it was,’ she says, accusingly. ‘You said so yourself.’
I’m about to open my mouth and let her have it with both barrels. Tell her that no, the actual reason we split up was because she was a borderline manic depressive, and that I was worried about telling her that and making her even more depressed, and in fact I’d only accidentally started the ‘Where is this relationship going?’ conversation by telling her I felt uneasy about being tied down. I’d meant in bed, whereas she’d thought I’d meant to her, and to be honest, when I realized she was prepared to dump me over it, it seemed like a pretty good get-out opportunity.
‘Hope, that’s . . .’ I sigh, then decide to lie. After all, I want to spare her feelings, plus I’m conscious how much rope she’s got at home. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It wasn’t you, it was me.’
Hope smiles – a rare occurrence. ‘That’s exactly what your dad said,’ she says, almost skipping off down the High Street.
Twenty minutes later, I’m confronting him across the kitchen table.
‘How could you?’
‘I just thought it might be helpful,’ he says sheepishly.
‘How could trawling through a list of my embittered exes possibly be helpful? They’re hardly going to be objective, are they?’
‘Okay,’ says my dad, folding his arms. ‘Look at it another way. What was it about these girls that stopped you proposing to them?’
‘What, apart from the fact that they all dumped me before I could?’
He exhales loudly. ‘Yes, Ben. Apart from that. And remember, they might have simply have dumped you because you didn’t get around to proposing to them.’
‘Huh?’
‘Well, they weren’t getting any younger, were they? And what with you dithering . . .’
For a moment, I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. ‘So, you’re saying that because I didn’t propose to them, they went and did the completely opposite thing and dumped me? That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? I mean, talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. And why on earth didn’t they just propose to me instead?’
My dad looks at me as if I’ve just asked the most obvious of questions. ‘Because it doesn’t work like that, does it? Women proposing is like the Olympics.’
‘What – if it happens to you, you deserve a medal?’
‘No. I mean women are only allowed to propose once every four years. In a leap year, or something. It’s the law.’
‘Yes, well, that’s not very fair, is it?’ I say, not sure that it’s a legal thing. ‘I mean, what happened to equal opportunities? Burning your bra, and all that?’
He grins. ‘Your mother burned her bra once. Not on purpose, mind. We were having this candlelit dinner, and things got a bit out of hand, and . . .’
‘Dad, please!’
‘Sorry, son. All I’m wondering, is why you never got down on one knee. That’s all.’
I shrug. ‘But that’s the other thing. Why do we have to go down on one knee when we do it? Because it’s the “begging” position. And that can’t be right, surely?’
My dad raises both eyebrows. ‘Why not? After all, it’s the biggest question we can ever ask of someone. Because what we’re saying to that person is “This is me. And can you consider spending the rest of your life with someone like me . . .” Well, not someone like me. I mean actually me. Or you, if you see what I . . .’
‘I get the point, Dad.’
‘Anyway in those few seconds, we’re laying ourselves bare, asking if they think we’re worthy. And that’s tough to do.’
‘But isn’t it a bit unfair? Asking someone all that – putting them on the spot like that? Out of the blue.’
‘Aha,’ says my dad. ‘But that’s just it. You’re not putting them on the spot at all. Because every single woman, pretty much from the moment you met them, has already had that discussion with herself about you. And she knows exactly what her answer will be.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because while we men initially look at women just to have some fun, and then eventually decide whether we want to get married to them or not, women look at us as whether we’re worthy of marrying from day one. And in most cases won’t have anything to do with us in the first place unless we are.’
‘Well, at least that’s a good sign, then, surely? I mean, if I can get women to go out with me, and stay going out with me, then that must mean they think I’ve got potential. And if I’ve got potential, then I can work on that. Now if I could only work out what it is that’s wrong with me . . .’
‘That’s the thing,’ interrupts my dad. ‘There’s probably nothing wrong with you. But in your mind, there’s obviously been something wrong with them, which is why you’ve never found yourself interested enough to actually make it more permanent. And I don’t mean that there’s actually something wrong with them – like a club foot, or something – although that Louisa girl did have a rather strange . . .’
‘Dad!’
‘But just that they’re not right, for you. Or so you thought.’
I stare at him helplessly. ‘But how do you know? When they are, I mean?’
My dad shrugs. ‘You just do, son.’
‘But I can’t accept that out of all the women I’ve gone out with, none of them has been right. Why haven’t I been able to choose one?’
He smiles at
me. ‘It’s the same as when you were five.’
‘When I was five? What has that got to do with it?’
‘We used to give you your pocket money, then take you down to the sweetshop on the corner. You’d stand there for ages, trying to make a choice between the CurlyWurlys and the Sherbet Fountains. Sometimes we had to threaten to take you home empty-handed before you’d actually decide what to buy.’
‘Yes, well, that’s because there was so much to choose from. And you’ve got to choose correctly, haven’t you? After all, you can’t have everything.’
He laughs. ‘You’d have bought the whole shop if you’d had enough money. Well, all except for those little pink shrimp-shaped ones. You never liked those. I remember, your gran bought you a bag of them once and you cried your little eyes out.’
‘Dad, as fun as this trip down memory lane is, is there actually a point to your story?’
My dad sighs. ‘You’re still that kid in the sweetshop, which is why you’re still having the same trouble. And you know what? Sometimes, you’ve just got to make a choice. Because there’s going to be a time when you go back to that shop, and it’s going to be closed. Or running out of stock. And the last thing you want to be left with is a jar of pink shrimps.’
‘Yes, well, it was important. To get the right ones, I mean.’
He folds his arms. ‘The irony was, you’d go back the next week – every week, in fact – and you’d still be none the wiser, and that’s when it was just for sweets; something that was only supposed to last you a few days. This?’ He looks at me earnestly. ‘This is for life, son. And you’re too worried that you’ll get it wrong. Which is why it’s even harder for you to choose.’
‘But that’s my problem. Because there’s even more choice nowadays – in everything.’ I stare up at the ceiling, wondering how I can get my dad to understand how difficult it is for my generation, and how the modern world is more of a sweetshop than ever, wanting him to understand that I haven’t been ‘fussy’, then have an idea.
‘Come on,’ I say, picking up my car keys. ‘I’ll show you what I mean.’
Chapter 19
So this is what I’m reduced to on a Saturday afternoon. Taking my dad clothes shopping. I only hope no one I know sees us, but then I suppose I could pretend I’m doing one of those ‘care in the community’ charity programmes – as long as he doesn’t open his mouth. But then again, given the amount of rubbish he’s been spouting over the last few weeks, maybe it’s better if he does.
‘So, where are we going?’ he asks, as I point the car towards Westwood Cross, the shopping centre just outside town.
‘Westwood.’
‘Cross?’
‘No. Just a lot on my mind.’
It’s my father’s favourite joke, so I indulge him. The fact that he still giggles at it given the number of times he’s heard it actually makes me laugh too.
‘It’s quite exciting, isn’t it?’ he says, sticking his head out of the car window like a dog being driven to the park.
‘What?’
‘You and me. Going shopping together. For a pair of jeans.’
‘Dad, if we were mother and daughter and I was ten years old, then maybe. In reality, it’s quite sad. We should be going to the football instead, not bonding over men’s fashion.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says. ‘It’s a significant moment, this. The handing over of the baton, from father to son. Suddenly, the tables are turned. You’re giving me advice.’ He swallows hard, then turns and stares out through the windscreen. ‘It’s quite touching, really.’
‘Oh, please.’ I roll my eyes, then flip the indicator to take us into the car park, deciding not to tell him that what he regards as a significant father–son event, I see as a few steps away from me choosing his retirement home.
‘So, which shop?’ he asks, as I pull into the first available space.
‘For jeans? Depends whether you want to look your age or not.’
‘M&S?’
I point at the shop in front of where we’re parked. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of H&M.’
My dad peers at the garish window display. ‘Won’t that be a bit . . . young? For me, I mean?’
‘Well, seeing as there’s no middle ground . . .’
He nudges me. ‘Pity there’s not a shop called S&M, eh?’
I look at him as we get out of the car, wondering if he knows what he’s just said. ‘Quite.’
As we walk into the shop, my dad winces at the music. ‘A little loud, isn’t it?’
‘Just turn your hearing aid down. You’ll be okay.’
He looks at me for a second. ‘Point taken,’ he says, before starting to jig a little to the beat, so much so that a couple of shop assistants stop what they’re doing and point at him.
‘Dad, please. We’re not out clubbing now, so try not to embarrass me,’ I say, having to stop myself from adding the word ‘again’.
‘Sorry, son,’ he says, before doing exactly that by marching straight into the women’s section.
I wave him back over. ‘This side, please.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, adopting a serious face, then picking up a chequered trilby hat, and walking towards one of the mirrors.
I grab it from him before he can try it on, then lead him over to the jeans section, and stand him in front of the display. ‘Any that take your fancy?’ I say, nodding towards the table.
He stares at the various piles of different styles as if wondering where to start, then walks slowly around the display, selecting various pairs, then holding them up to the light, and even on a few occasions, fingering the material. ‘What about these?’ he says, handing me the pair he’s chosen.
I take them from him, and examine the label. ‘No good. Boot cut,’ I say, putting them back on the pile.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Do you have any boots?’
‘Well, wellies, obviously.’
I glance at my watch, realizing that this might take some time, but then again I’ve got nowhere else to be. ‘Try again. Remember, these are supposed to be a fashion statement, not something to replace your gardening pair.’
‘Okay. A statement.’ My dad frowns, then circles the table again, obviously bewildered by the number of styles on offer. Several times, he reaches out a hand as if to pick up a particular pair, then recoils, as if they’re hot.
I tap the face of my watch. ‘Get a move on, will you?’
My dad looks up desperately. ‘It’s difficult. There’s too much choice. I can’t make a decision.’
‘And why is that?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just can’t tell what will suit me.’
‘Aha.’
For the first time, I think he understands my problem. Because there is too much choice. Back in his day, you pretty much married the first girl that let you put your hand up her jumper, but nowadays most people lose their virginity before they lose their milk teeth, and by the time you leave college, you’ve probably had more partners than your parents have had in their entire lifetime – unless your dad’s Mick Jagger, of course.
‘Well, maybe I should try some on for size.’
‘Which ones?’
My dad looks at me helplessly. ‘You choose.’
‘Here,’ I say, walking round the table, and pointing to a pair with ‘Original’ written on them. ‘What’s your size?’
My dad pats his stomach. ‘Thirty-four,’ he says, sounding a little wheezy from the effort of holding it in.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Here you go,’ I say, handing him the appropriate pair, then pointing him towards the changing rooms at the far end of the shop. ‘Go and try them on.’
I watch him go, then turn round and flick absentmindedly through some shirts on the rail behind me, but a few moments later, feel a tap on my shoulder. Not surprisingly, it’s my dad.
‘What’s the matter? Didn’t they fit?’
&nb
sp; ‘No. It’s the changing rooms.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re, you know, mixed.’
‘So?’
‘Someone might see me. You know, one of my pupils.’
‘You get your own cubicle once you’re in there, Dad. It’s not like at school.’
‘Oh. Good,’ he says, heading back towards the changing rooms. But two minutes later, he’s back, looking slightly red-faced.
‘What’s the matter now? Weren’t they any good?’
He looks suspiciously at the pair of jeans he’s carrying. ‘No. They seem to be faulty.’
I take the jeans from him and examine them. They look all right to me. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘Well, the label says thirty-four, but they feel much smaller than that.’
I just about manage to stop myself from grinning. ‘Maybe you’d better try another pair, then,’ I say, rifling through the pile and pulling out some others.
‘And maybe a pair of thirty-sixes,’ says my dad sheepishly. ‘Just in case.’
I hand him the bigger pair as well, then stroll round the store as I wait for him to try them on, although I’ve hardly had time to look at anything before he’s striding along the aisle towards me. ‘How do they look?’ he says, in a voice a little too loud for my liking.
I have to admit, they’re not bad. ‘Fine.’
‘They don’t make my bum look big?’
‘That question would assume that I’m going to look at your bum. Which of course I’m not.’
‘That’s not very fair, is it, son?’ he says, admiring his reflection in the mirror. ‘Considering that I had to wipe yours when you were growing up.’
‘Thanks, Dad. That makes me feel much better. Anyway, they’ll do. You can take them off now.’
‘Great. Will do,’ he says.
‘In the changing rooms, Dad.’
Five minutes later, he’s back, carrying his intended purchase proudly. ‘Ta-da,’ he says, holding them up against his legs, and doing a little dance.
‘Let’s just pay for them and get out of here, shall we?’
‘Good idea,’ he says, still wincing a little at the music. ‘How much are they?’