The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ says Ash.

  ‘But what if they turn out to be like Amy? You know, wanting me to be someone I’m not?’

  Ash swallows the last of his coffee. ‘There’s an old wedding joke, where the bride tries to remember what she has to do on the day – walk up the aisle, stand at the altar, and sing a hymn. Trouble is, when she gets there, and whispers this to herself, what the groom hears is “aisle”, “altar”, “hymn” and he’s off like a shot. Well, they’ll know they can’t do that this time around. So you’re bound to have a better shot.’

  As I smile at Ash’s joke, I have to admit, it sounds like a plan. ‘But where on earth can I meet these women? After all, there’s hardly a directory listing the recent divorcees, is there?’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘The Internet.’

  ‘What – I should just Google “divorced women” and see what comes up?’

  ‘No. Try one of those dating websites. You have to put your status on there. Apparently.’

  ‘And won’t that seem a little creepy? Me targeting divorced women on the Internet?’

  Ash shakes his head. ‘Not at all. After all, anyone looking to have their portrait painted in Margate can use Google to find you,’ he says, referring to the website he’s in the process of setting up for me. ‘Just treat this like that.’

  As I stare at Ash across the table, it occurs to me that this might just work. I’m a decent guy, so if I appear all nice, trustworthy, and ready to commit, then I might be the perfect antidote to their cynicism, and it’ll be me who’s beating them off with a stick – assuming they ever want to get married again. ‘But, what site do I choose? There’s hundreds of them.’

  ‘Sign up with them all,’ he says excitedly. Or rather, the ones where you can search on “divorced”. That way you can be a bit more . . .’

  ‘Cynical?’

  ‘Targeted.’

  ‘I don’t know. It just feels a bit . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I lean heavily back in my chair. ‘Possibly because I’m looking for love. Not a car.’

  ‘No,’ says Ash. ‘You’re looking for a wife. And I’m afraid those two things are a little different.’

  ‘You mean “love” and “a wife”, not “love” and “a car”, I take it?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he says, gazing adoringly out of the window at his BMW.

  ‘Yes, but, Internet dating . . .’

  Ash shrugs. ‘So? Everyone’s doing it nowadays.’

  ‘Everyone’s also fiddling their tax returns. It doesn’t make it right, does it? I mean, where’s the romance? How do I tell people that we met?’

  Ash smiles. ‘What would you tell them if you’d met in a bar? It’s hardly romantic, and yet you’re prepared to take that approach. Trust me, in ten years’ time, there’s more people going to be saying they’ve met their partners this way than any other. And besides – what’s more embarrassing? Saying that your parents found you a woman because you couldn’t find one of your own?’

  ‘What – like yours did?’

  ‘Aha,’ says Ash. ‘But then again, I always expected them to.’

  I have to admit, he’s got a point – particularly on the ‘divorced women’ angle. And I’m just wondering whether that might include a certain divorced woman who works in Boots when my mobile rings, although I’m momentarily puzzled when the name ‘Kerry’ appears on the screen.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, putting the phone down on the table as my memory finally kicks in.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ I say. ‘It’s the girl my dad spoke to at Tramps. Although I don’t know how she got my number.’

  ‘She might be nice.’

  ‘I’m sure she is, Ash,’ I say, as the phone thankfully stops ringing. ‘But I didn’t fancy her, so what’s the point? I mean, you need a spark, don’t you?’

  ‘You do,’ he says, as it starts ringing again. ‘Do you want me to answer it? Get rid of her for you?’

  ‘No. Just ignore it. I don’t want to be nasty.’

  Ash raises one eyebrow, then darts his hand out and picks my mobile up. ‘Ben’s phone,’ he says, grinning across the table at me. ‘Yes, he is. Just one second.’

  ‘What? No!’ I wave the phone away, but he thrusts it into my hand.

  ‘Just talk to her.’

  I stare daggers across at him, then hit the ‘speakerphone’ button, and put it down on the table. ‘Er . . . Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Ben,’ says the voice on the other end. ‘It’s Kerry.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. Then, when she doesn’t say anything else, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m just returning your call,’ says Kerry.

  I frown across the table at Ash. ‘My call?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You left me a message the other day. And I wasn’t going to call you back, seeing as you left it so long to phone me, but you sounded insistent.’

  ‘I left you a message? What did I say?’

  ‘Can’t you remember?’ she says crossly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kerry. My dad’s been . . .’ I stop talking, not quite sure how to explain what my dad’s been up to.

  ‘Oh, of course, Ben,’ she says, suddenly concerned, and obviously jumping to the wrong conclusion. ‘You must have a lot on your plate, what with your dad being, you know, terminal. You apologized for not being in touch sooner, said you’d still love to take me out, and wondered whether I was interested. And I wouldn’t be, if not for the fact that your dad’s dying.’

  Great. A sympathy date. I roll my eyes at Ash, who’s struggling not to laugh. ‘And did I say anything else?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Kerry. ‘But you sounded funny.’

  ‘Funny how?’

  ‘Well, your voice sounded different, for one thing. A bit muffled. As if you’d been crying.’

  Or been holding a handkerchief over the receiver, more likely. ‘Listen, Kerry. I’m sure you’re lovely, but I’m afraid it wasn’t me who called you the other day. It was my dad, pretending to be me. And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Why? Is he . . . Dead?’ asks Kerry, hesitantly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ending the call, then dialling my dad’s number. ‘Yes, he is.’

  Chapter 22

  It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m back in Mr Bean, drinking a cappuccino while waiting for my dad, who for some reason has told me to meet him here. He’s late, and I’m just about to call him to find out where he is when I notice a woman standing next to me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Are you Ben?’

  I look up to see a dark-haired girl, about my age, standing next to my table, holding a cup of coffee in one hand, and a laptop bag in the other. She’s not someone I recognize, but then that’s probably not surprising, seeing as she’s had to ask who I am. ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘I’m Amanda. I work for the Gazette?’

  I’m not sure exactly how I’m supposed to respond to that. And? seems a little too rude, and Congratulations seems a little too, well, cheeky. ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘I thought I recognized you,’ she says.

  ‘Recognized me?’

  ‘You know, having seen your pictures. On the Internet.’

  ‘My pictures?’ I have to think quickly, then realize she must be referring to my new website. Finally, Ash has done something right, although he seems to have neglected to tell me it’s actually up and running. And while I’d rather refer to them as my ‘paintings’, I don’t want to appear anal. ‘Oh. Of course.’

  Amanda nods towards the empty chair opposite. ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I say, noticing for the first time how attractive she is. ‘So, you liked my, er, pictures?’

  Amanda sits down, pulls a tape recorder out of her bag, which she puts down on the t
able in between us, and then smiles at me. ‘Oh yes. Although I have to say, you look younger than I was expecting.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, warming to her immediately. Not only has she seen my work, but evidently it looks like it was painted by someone a lot more mature. Which I can only take as a compliment.

  Amanda taps the tape recorder with her fingernail. ‘You don’t mind if I record this?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ I say, thinking what a stroke of luck this is. Ash has been trying to get the local paper to do a piece on me for ages. Plus, it’ll fill the time until my dad gets here.

  ‘So,’ says Amanda, pressing the ‘record’ button, then taking a sip of her coffee, ‘you must feel quite chuffed.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Having such a lot of fans.’

  I find myself blushing slightly. ‘Well, I don’t know if I’ve got that many.’

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ says Amanda. ‘I’ve seen the pictures, and some of them are lovely. It must be difficult, though, deciding which ones to go with. How do you choose? From them all, I mean.’

  I think about this for a second or two, not remembering how many of my paintings Ash was planning to put up on the site. ‘Well, normally I just have them up against the wall of my studio.’

  Amanda looks at me strangely. ‘Against the wall?’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s the best way to tell what they’ll be like. And then, once I’ve mounted them, I get my dealer to come round and tell me what he thinks.’

  ‘Your dealer?’

  I nod. ‘That’s right. After all, he gets a piece of each one too.’

  Amanda shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Really? And how many of them have you, well, done?’

  ‘I’ve done them all,’ I say proudly.

  Amanda looks shocked. ‘All forty-seven?’

  I sit back in my chair, more than a little impressed at both my evident output, as well as Ash’s uploading efforts. ‘Well, I can sometimes knock them up pretty quickly. Especially if someone pays for me to do them.’

  Amanda frowns across the table at me. ‘I’m sorry. You’re expecting them to pay?’

  ‘Well, how else do you think I make my living?’ I say, taking a sip of my coffee. ‘My studio might be in an old charity shop, but I don’t actually do them for charity, you know.’

  At that, Amanda’s whole attitude seems to change. ‘I see,’ she says, pressing the ‘stop’ button on the tape recorder crossly.

  I put my cup down nervously. ‘Is, er, something the matter?’

  ‘Sorry, Ben,’ she says, glaring across the table at me, before picking up her bag, ‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘But . . . What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing. I just hadn’t expected you to be so cynical, that’s all.’

  ‘Cynical? Wait a minute. How is it cynical to make money out of a talent that you have?’

  ‘And arrogant as well,’ says Amanda. ‘Well, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.’

  ‘But . . . Don’t you want to see my work? Or I could do you? This afternoon, if you like. And for free? It won’t take long.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ says Amanda, standing up suddenly and emptying the rest of her coffee over my head. ‘I know there are some weirdos on the Internet, but using Facebook to, well, sell your services?’ she says, before making for the door.

  ‘Facebook?’ I stare at her retreating figure in surprise, cappuccino running down past my ears. ‘I’m an artist. I don’t do Facebook,’ I say, then realize just how pretentious that sounds. ‘I mean, I don’t use a computer much. And, anyway, even if I did, what’s wrong with using the Internet to sell a few paintings?’

  Amanda stops in her tracks, then wheels round to face me. ‘A few paintings?’

  ‘Yes. I’m a painter.’

  Amanda stares at me for a moment or two. ‘You are Ben Grant, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Six foot one, twelve-and-a-half stone?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say hesitantly, wondering where she’s getting her information from.

  She walks back over to the table. ‘And you’re looking to get married?’

  ‘Well, er, yes I am,’ I say, wondering how on earth she knows that. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything. And Facebook in particular?’

  ‘You didn’t send me a message asking me to meet you here this morning? To see if I was interested in doing a piece on you?’

  ‘No. Why? What sort of piece?’

  Amanda doesn’t answer, but instead hands me a packet of Kleenex from her pocket. ‘I think you might want to see this,’ she says, slipping her laptop out of her bag, firing it up, tapping in a few details, then swivelling it round to face me.

  I scan the page quickly, dabbing the coffee from my hair and face with a tissue as I do so. From what I can tell, it seems to be a Facebook group, and what’s more it’s a group dedicated to me. And while the picture of me at the top of it is worrying enough, the name of the group makes me wide-eyed in shock.

  I’m Ben Grant – Marry Me I read. ‘What is this?’

  ‘You really have no idea, do you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ says Amanda, sitting back down opposite me, ‘I’d say someone’s playing a joke on you.’

  I scroll down the page in stunned silence. Beneath the personal details is a paragraph about my relationship history, and the fact that I’m looking for a bride. And Amanda’s right – there are in fact forty-seven people who have joined, or ‘become a fan’, as the page says.

  While reassuringly – at first glance, at least – most of them seem to be women, as I read on through I’m a little mystified as to who’s set this up. That is, until I click on the ‘photo gallery’, and understand there’s only one place these pictures could have come from.

  ‘Excuse me a moment, will you?’ I say, my voice faltering slightly, then pull my mobile out of my pocket and dial the familiar number. After a couple of rings, my dad answers.

  ‘Hello, son.’

  ‘Hi, Dad. See if you can guess where I am?’

  There’s a few seconds of silence, and then, ‘Bali?’

  I stare at the phone, wondering why on earth that would be my dad’s first guess, before putting it back to my ear. ‘No, I’m in a cafe waiting for you, but someone else has turned up instead. And they’ve just shown me a certain Facebook page.’

  There’s another pause, longer this time, before my dad’s voice comes back on the line. ‘It’s rather good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Good? Just what were you hoping to achieve? Apart from making me a laughing stock, obviously.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, son. I think it’s flattering that all those women are interested in you.’

  ‘They’re not “interested” in me, Dad. They’ve probably just signed up to make fun of me.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative. There’s a few nice ones on there. Why don’t we invite some of them round? Have a big party, maybe, and you can choose . . .’

  ‘Dad, please,’ I say, imagining him running some kind of X-Factor audition process. ‘Don’t you remember anything that Ash’s parents said? What if some of them are gold-diggers?’

  ‘Have you got any gold?’

  ‘Well, no, but . . .’

  ‘So what have you got to lose?’

  I stare at the phone in disbelief. ‘You’ll be suggesting I get myself one of these mail-order brides next.’

  ‘You can do that?’ he says.

  ‘Just delete it, please.’

  ‘Oh.’ My dad sounds a little hurt. ‘What does your lady friend think? Amanda, isn’t it?’ he says, the rustle of paper in the background suggesting he’s consulting his notes.

  ‘She’s not my lady friend, Dad. And even if she was, I’d be surprised if she ever spoke to me again after your little stunt.’

  ‘Does she still want to do a story about you? It might help, you know. Widen the net a little.’

  ‘Dad
, I don’t want to marry someone who’s responded to a story they’ve read about me in the local paper.’

  ‘Why not? You never know. They might be nice.’

  ‘Or an axe-murderer.’

  He laughs. ‘Listen, son. You never know whether that special person is going to be the next person you bump into in the street. All I was trying to do was increase the odds of that happening.’

  ‘Yes, but if I’d wanted to place an advert in the paper, I’d have done it myself. This whole scheme isn’t about that. It’s about trying to meet someone suitable. Not trying to meet anyone, and hoping they might turn out to be suitable.’

  ‘Why not just give a few of them a go?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I sigh loudly down the phone. ‘I’m tired of giving girls a go, and then having them tell me where to go. I want someone who I’ve a better chance of having a long term future with. Not someone who’s responded to a piece in the bloody Gazette. No offence, Amanda,’ I add, looking up at her.

  ‘None taken,’ she mouths back at me.

  ‘But don’t you see,’ says my dad. ‘That’s why this is a good plan. Because the reason they might respond is because they’re looking for someone for the same reason. And surely that’s the biggest hurdle?’

  ‘For the last time, I don’t want my face splashed all over the papers. I’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘Well, why not at least stay and have a coffee with her.’

  ‘We’ve already shared one,’ I say, wiping a splash of cappuccino off the end of my nose.

  ‘That’s my boy. And have you asked her if she’s single?’

  ‘Goodbye, Dad.’

  I put the phone back in my pocket, and look up to where Amanda is gathering her things together again, although a little less angrily this time.

  ‘Let me guess. Your dad’s idea?’

  ‘One of many,’ I say, shaking my head slowly, which only serves to drip more coffee on my shirt. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He’s trying to get you married off?’