by Matt Dunn
‘Yes. Well, no. I mean, I want to get married, and he’s trying to help.’ I smile pathetically at her. ‘Pretty tragic, huh?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Yes, but . . . Facebook?’
‘At least it’s original. I mean, it got me here, didn’t it?’
‘You don’t think it smacks of . . . desperation?’
Amanda smiles. ‘Not really. Internet dating is all the thing nowadays. I’ve even been on a couple of dates myself, with guys I met on there. Mind you,’ she says, checking herself, ‘they turned out to be losers.’
‘You see?’ I say. ‘That’s my point. The kind of people who have to resort to this kind of thing are losers.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘No,’ I say, quickly. ‘Not you. And not most women. But the guys who can’t meet anyone normally.’
‘Nor can us girls,’ says Amanda, slipping her laptop back into her bag. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Tell me. Why would someone as, well, attractive as you look for dates online? I mean, I can’t believe that men don’t stop you in the street and ask you out.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ says Amanda, blushing a little. ‘Besides, it’s probably our fault.’
‘Women?’
‘No,’ laughs Amanda. ‘The media.’
‘How so?’
‘You know – how women are portrayed nowadays as strong, independent, and how we don’t need men nowadays, even if we want to have a baby, while in actual fact, for most of us the opposite is true. But the problem is that it’s scaring you lot off. And that’s the last thing we want.’
‘But what is it you do want?’
‘What everyone wants, Ben.’
‘Which is?’ I ask, feeling I’m on the verge of finding out something momentous.
Amanda looks at me levelly. ‘To be loved,’ she says, before standing up and making for the door.
And as I walk back to my studio later, I can’t stop thinking about what she said. Because surely it’s not just about being loved, but about being in love. It’s a reciprocal thing, after all; you can’t ever be in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same way about you. And equally, sadly, just because someone says they love you, it doesn’t mean you automatically love them back.
However much you wish you did.
Chapter 23
It’s seven o’clock on Wednesday, and I’m just finishing up for the evening, having spent the afternoon trying – not very successfully – to make a portrait I’ve painted of someone’s baby look more like a cute child and less like Winston Churchill when my mum and dad knock on the door.
‘What do you want?’ I say, still a bit mad with my dad over the Facebook/Kerry incidents.
‘Your father’s come round to apologize,’ says my mum. ‘Haven’t you, Alan?’
‘Er, yes. Sorry, son,’ says my dad, frowning at the picture I’ve been working on. ‘What’s this one called – “We shall fight them on the beaches”?’
‘It’s actually a good likeness,’ I say, showing them the photograph I’ve been working from. ‘I’m just trying to make her look less like . . .’
‘It’s a her?’ says my dad. ‘Well, best of luck.’
I snatch the photo back. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
‘Actually, no,’ he says. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I might be,’ I say, conscious that all I’ve had to eat all day is a Snickers bar and a packet of peanuts. ‘Why?’ ‘We thought we’d take you out to dinner this evening. You know, to make it up to you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he says. ‘Anywhere you like. You choose. And it’s on us.’
‘Well . . .’ I look at the two of them suspiciously. ‘Anywhere I like?’
‘Sure,’ says my dad.
‘And you’re paying?’
‘Of course,’ says my mum. ‘Aren’t you, Alan?’
‘Well, there’s that new Thai restaurant that’s just opened up on the seafront. Why don’t we go there?’
My mum and dad exchange glances. ‘Not the Indian Queen?’ asks my mum. ‘I thought you loved it there.’
‘I could really go a curry,’ says my dad, rubbing his stomach exaggeratedly.
‘Well, what about a Thai curry?’
‘I’m not sure.’ My dad makes a face. ‘Aren’t they a bit spicy?’
‘Yes. I’d prefer Indian,’ says my mum.
‘But I thought you said anywhere I liked?’
‘We did,’ says my mum. ‘But we thought you might fancy an Indian.’
If only you knew, I think. ‘I do. But I’d quite like to try that Thai.’
My dad shrugs. ‘Yes, but seeing as we’re paying . . .’
Ten minutes later, we’re walking into the Indian Queen, to be greeted at the door by Ash’s dad. ‘Well, if it isn’t the Grants,’ he says. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Table for three, is it?’
‘Yes, please, Sanjay,’ says my dad, as if they’re best friends now. ‘For three.’
I follow the three of them into the dining room, trying to ignore the lack of ‘sold’ stickers on my paintings, when my dad suddenly stops in his tracks, causing my mum and me to bump into him. ‘Look, Sue,’ he announces, pointing to the large table in the corner, where a middle-aged couple are sitting. ‘It’s Tony and June.’
‘Joan,’ whispers my mum.
‘Of course,’ says my dad, walking over to their table, and beckoning for us to follow. ‘Tony. How lovely to see you.’
‘Alan,’ says Tony, standing up awkwardly, and phrasing my dad’s name like a question. ‘Nice to meet, I mean, see you too. This is my wife . . .’
‘Of course,’ interrupts my dad. ‘Nice to see you again, June.’
‘Joan,’ hisses my mum.
‘I don’t think you know Ben, my son,’ says my dad, putting his hands on my shoulders and pushing me forwards, as if he’s presenting me for an award. ‘Ben did all the paintings you see up on the walls here.’
‘And very nice they are too,’ says Joan. ‘We’ve been sitting here admiring them.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, shaking them both by the hand, then standing there awkwardly, as nobody seems to know what to say next.
Fortunately, Mr Patel coughs. ‘I’m sorry, Alan. I’ve just checked the diary and we seem to be fully booked this evening.’
‘I knew we should have reserved a table,’ says my dad rather loudly. ‘And I so fancied a curry. Didn’t you, Sue?’
As my mum nods enthusiastically, I glance around the restaurant. Apart from Tony and Joan, there’s no one else here. ‘Oh well,’ I say. ‘Thais Are Us here we come.’
‘Unless you’d like to join us,’ suggests Tony suddenly. ‘We’re just waiting for our daughter, but I think this table will comfortably sit six people.’
‘That’d be lovely,’ says my dad, as if on cue. ‘Why don’t I sit next to June here . . .’
‘Joan!’ says my mum.
‘And Sue, you sit opposite Tony. And Ben,’ he says, pulling out a chair for me at the end of the table. ‘You sit here, so you can keep Catherine company when she arrives.’
‘Caroline,’ says Joan.
I look down at the table. There are already six places set. ‘Mum? Dad?’ I say, deliberately not taking a seat. ‘Can I have a word with you?’
‘Sure, son,’ says my dad.
‘Outside?’
‘What’s wrong with here,’ he asks nervously.
‘Come on,’ I say, marching them back into the reception area, leaving Tony and Joan sitting awkwardly at the table.
‘What’s going on?’ I say, once we’re out of earshot.
‘What do you mean?’ says my mum, as innocently as she can. Which isn’t very.
‘With Tony and Joan.’
‘June,’ says my dad.
‘Whatever her name is. You’ve quite plainly never met them before.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ splutters my mum. ‘They’re old friends.’
‘So where do you kn
ow them from, then?’
‘The, er, bowls club,’ says my mum, although unfortunately at exactly the same time as my dad says the word ‘tennis’.
‘Dad, the table’s plainly laid for six people, the restaurant’s obviously not fully booked, and Mr Patel’s certainly not that good an actor. I recognize a set-up when I see one.’
My parents stare at each other accusingly, as if each thinks it’s the other one’s fault that I’ve seen through their brilliant plan. Eventually, my dad sighs.
‘Okay, son. Guilty as charged.’
‘Yes, Ben,’ says my mum. ‘We just thought this would be a good way for you to meet her.’
‘Who?’
‘Ca . . .’ My dad starts to say her name, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out what looks suspiciously like a printout from a Facebook page. ‘. . . roline.’
I scowl at the piece of paper, then at him. ‘I thought I told you to delete that?’
‘Yes, well, I’ve told you to do hundreds of things over the years, and you haven’t paid much attention to me.’
‘And so she’s the best of the responses, is she?’
‘Well, we hope so,’ says my mum. ‘Only . . .’
‘. . . we haven’t met her yet,’ admits my dad.
‘What? So what are Tony and Joan doing here? Or are they setting her up as well?’
‘They responded on her behalf,’ says my mum. ‘Sounds like she’s in the same boat you are. So we thought we’d see if we couldn’t make something happen between the four of us. And this seemed like the best way.’
‘What – tricking the two of us into some strange happy families dinner? No, that wouldn’t have been awkward at all.’
‘But she looks very nice,’ says my dad, handing me the Facebook profile. ‘On paper, at least.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum, Dad, but I just can’t,’ I say, buttoning my coat up. ‘Not like this. No matter how nice she is.’
‘She works at the lap-dancing club on the seafront,’ says my dad, desperately.
Against my better judgement, I snatch the profile from him, and scan quickly through her details. ‘As a receptionist, Dad.’
‘Made you look, though, son.’
I ignore his childishness. ‘And besides, even if she was one of the performers, would you really want a lap-dancer as your daughter-in-law?’
‘Well . . .’ For a moment, I can tell my dad has a dilemma as to what his answer should be.
‘Of course not, Ben,’ says my mum, answering for him. ‘But why not stay and meet her anyway? You don’t want to disappoint her.’
‘Does she know I’m going to be here?’
My dad looks guiltily at his shoes. ‘No.’
‘Well, in that case, she won’t be disappointed when
I’m not, will she? Besides, I’d only end up disappointing her eventually.’
‘How do you know that?’ says my mum.
‘Because I disappoint them all,’ I say, making for the door.
‘Don’t go, son,’ pleads my dad. ‘At least stay and have something to eat.’
‘No, Dad. Thanks. I’ll see you both later.’
His face falls. ‘But I thought you were hungry?’
And the truth is, I’m starving. But I’m beginning to suspect I’m going to have to make my own dinner.
Chapter 24
‘How’d you get on with her?’
‘Who?’
‘You know,’ Ash says, as we walk up the High Street towards The Cottage the following lunchtime. ‘That woman who wanted you to paint a picture of her house.’
‘Ash, she wanted me to actually paint her house.’
‘Ah.’
We walk on in silence for a second or two, and then Ash clears his throat. ‘But you’re still doing it, right?’
‘What do you think? And next time you have the great idea of printing me up some business cards, try putting ‘artist’ rather than ‘painter’ on them, please.’
‘Sorry, Ben. But decorating can be quite lucrative . . .’
‘So can having a decent agent, apparently. Oh, and speaking of women,’ I say, as we stroll past Boots, ‘I bumped into your sister the other day.’
Ash looks at me suspiciously. ‘Define “bumped into”.’
I desperately try to keep the colour from my cheeks. ‘I was buying some deodorant, and remembered you saying something about having a sister who worked in Boots, and would you believe it I just happened to be in the queue at her till?’
‘What sort of deodorant?’
‘What has that got to do with it?’
‘Because whatever it is, it can’t quite mask the smell of bullshit that’s wafting over me.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ I say, holding my hand up and giving a little salute, unable to remember what the correct hand signal is supposed to be. I’ve already decided not to own up to the ‘condom’ saga. In truth, I’ve had the box sitting in my hallway for a couple of days now, but I haven’t quite had the nerve to take it in for my refund. ‘But why is she called “Mistry”?’
‘It was her married name,’ says Ash. ‘And I don’t think she’s got around to changing it back yet. Or maybe it’s her way of getting back at my parents. Who knows?’
‘Oh. Right. Maybe she won’t have to. Change it back, I mean.’
‘Huh.’
‘Well, if she’s going to be changing it to “Grant”, eventually . . .’
Ash stops walking, and looks at me pityingly. ‘For Christ’s sake, Ben, if you’re going to ask her out, just ask her out. In fact, I’ve got an idea.’
‘What?’ I start to panic, thinking that Ash is going to drag me into Boots to confront her, but instead he just retrieves his mobile from his pocket.
‘Relax,’ he says, his fingers moving rapidly across the dial pad. ‘I’m just going to give you her number. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll text her yours. Leave the ball firmly in her court.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ I say, getting my own phone out, and I’m just about to type Seema’s number in when it rings.
‘That was fast work,’ says Ash, as I squint nervously at the screen, although I’m both relieved and a little disappointed when my dad’s number appears.
For a moment, I consider not answering it. Even though I know his heart’s in the right place, this whole find-me-a-bride thing just isn’t working out as I hoped it might. My finger hovers over the red button, but I realize that would only delay the inevitable, and that at least this way, I don’t have to pay for the call. But when I press ‘accept’, I can hardly hear him.
‘Where are you?’ I say, nudging the volume up on the handset. ‘And why do you sound like you’re whispering?’
‘That’s because I am whispering,’ whispers my dad.
‘Why?’
‘I’m at the police station.’
‘What?’
‘I’m at the police station,’ he repeats, a little louder this time.
‘That’s what I thought you said.’ My dad is often down there talking about improvements to the neighbourhood watch scheme he runs. ‘What are you doing? Next door’s shed been broken into again?’
‘Not quite,’ he says. ‘Your mum’s been arrested.’
‘What? When? What for?’
‘Kerb crawling, or something.’
‘Kerb crawling? Mum?’
‘I don’t have time to explain. Can you come down here?’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ I laugh, sure it’s another one of his ruses. ‘And don’t tell me – there’ll be a nice young policewoman there who’s keen to take down my particulars.’
‘It’s not funny, son.’
Something about the tone of his voice makes me realize he’s telling the truth. ‘I’m on my way.’
I make my excuses to Ash, then hurry round to where I’ve left my car, and by the time I get down to the police station, my dad’s on his second cup of coffee from the machine in the waiting room. As a result, he’s pacing around so agitatedly that he’s in dange
r of being arrested himself.
‘Calm down,’ I say, leading him towards the bench in the corner.
He glares at the door that leads to the holding cells. ‘That’s easy for you to say when your mother’s in there, surrounded by rapists and murderers.’
‘Dad, this is Margate. The busiest they get is the odd drunk tourist at the weekend. What happened?’
My dad points towards the stern-looking policewoman behind the ‘enquiries’ window, who seems to be doing a good job of ignoring us. ‘You’d better ask her.’
‘Okay. Stay here,’ I say, getting up and walking over towards the far end of the room, then clearing my throat.
‘Yes?’ The policewoman doesn’t even look up from her form-filling, where, worryingly, I can see my mum’s name, along with the words ‘kerb’ and ‘crawling’.
‘I’m Ben. Ben Grant. And, er, she’s my mother,’ I say, nodding down at the form.
‘Ah, yes. Mrs Grant. In for, what is it? Kerb crawling,’ says the policewoman matter-of-factly, although it looks like she’s trying to keep the smile off her face.
‘She’s not in any trouble, is she?’
‘Well, perhaps. We found her propositioning a number of young girls. Working girls, to be specific.’
‘What? My mum? There must be some mistake.’
‘As I’ve been trying to tell them,’ says my dad, who’s suddenly appeared at my shoulder. ‘She’s a member of the bowls club.’
I glance round at him, wondering why he thinks that makes a difference. ‘Sit down, Dad. Where was this?’ I ask the policewoman.
She looks up briefly from her form-filling. ‘Down on the industrial estate. Darwin Road.’
‘But that’s, well, a . . .’
The policewoman raises one eyebrow. ‘A what, sir?’
‘Well, you know, a red light district. Apparently.’
‘Quite. And so what would your mother have been doing down there, exactly?’
‘Exactly? Er . . .’ It’s a good question. And unless she was taking the long way round to Asda, I can’t think of a plausible answer.
The policewoman puts down her pen. ‘We just happened to be doing a random drive through. Saw this woman acting suspiciously around the girls. And when we questioned her, she said . . .’ She takes her notepad out of her pocket, licks her index finger, then flicks through a few pages until she finds the one she wants. ‘“I was only trying to find a girl for my son.” And that would be you, I believe?’ she adds, looking accusingly up at me. ‘Ben, wasn’t it?’