by Matt Dunn
‘What makes you such an expert?’
Terry looks at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘Hello? Married twice, don’t forget.’
And divorced twice too, I feel like reminding him. ‘Sorry, Terry. How does it happen, then?’
‘Accidents. Coincidences. Most people say “I wasn’t looking, and there she was”. For example, I met my second wife when she was working on the checkout in Sainsbury’s – and I had my first wife with me at the time, so I certainly wasn’t looking. But the minute she smiled up at me and asked if I wanted a “bag for life”, I just knew she was the one.’ He grins. ‘Although it turned out she was talking about herself, which is why we ended up getting divorced. But, seriously, it’s all about accidents. And how do accidents happen? When you’re not paying attention, or looking where you’re going. Trust me, I know.’
I make a mental note not to use Terry’s taxi service again. ‘Yes, but accidents are mainly bad things, aren’t they?’
He shrugs. ‘Depends on your point of view. But I’m serious. Stop focusing on this like it’s the most important thing in the world, and I guarantee you’ll meet someone sooner rather than later.’
‘You’ll guarantee it? What on earth does that mean?’
‘You know, that you’re bound to . . .’
‘No, it doesn’t. A guarantee suggests that if it doesn’t work out, I’ll get it fixed. Or some replacement. What’re you going to do? Find me someone yourself if I take your advice and nothing happens?’
‘Well, no, but . . .’
‘Exactly,’ I say, getting up and pacing around the classroom. ‘And this is what I resent. People who’ve already won life’s lottery by actually managing to meet someone who’ll have you – and twice, in your case – getting all smug. And then you preach from this position of experience that this is the way to do it, or that’s how not to. It’s like saying, yes, all you need to do is pick these six numbers and you’re guaranteed to be a winner. Well, I’m afraid life doesn’t work like that. And more importantly love doesn’t work like that either.’
Terry looks at me until he’s sure I’ve finished, and even then has to check to make sure. ‘You done?’
‘Yes.’ I sit back down. ‘I think so. But I’ve been trying to let it happen naturally for most of my life, and it hasn’t. Which is why I’ve been doing this.’
Terry smiles. ‘But there’s your problem. If you’re trying, then it’s never going to happen naturally, is it? I tell you, the minute you stop all this “find me a bride” rubbish, the next woman you see is probably going to be your perfect woman.’
‘Really?’ I walk over and peer out of the window myself, to see Lesbian Lizzie appear round the corner, and raise my eyebrows at Terry.
‘Okay, maybe not the next person,’ he says. ‘But you take my point.’
‘That I’m hardly going to find Pamela Anderson walking down Margate High Street?’
Terry laughs. ‘And that’s another of your problems.’
‘What is?’
‘Pamela Anderson. Would you really want to be married to her?’
‘Too bloody right I would.’
‘Terry looks at me in disgust. ‘Have you ever heard of “the marrying kind”?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Well, there are those women who you’d like to, you know, get intimate with. And those who’ll make good wives. And sometimes, one isn’t the other.’
I lean heavily against the wall, and stare at the ceiling. ‘Terry, please, don’t confuse the issue further.’
‘I’m sorry, Ben. But you need to know. Your expectations are just a little . . . unrealistic.’
It’s not the first time I’ve been told this. But why, I always want to ask. So I do. ‘Why?’
‘Simple,’ says Terry. ‘If you’re George Clooney, or Brad Pitt, then you can get the Pamela Andersons of this world. But you’re not. You’re Ben Grant. A struggling artist from Margate. And I’m afraid that nowadays that’s not quite enough to cut it where Pammie’s concerned. Or most women, to be honest.’
‘So you’re saying I should look past the physical?’
Terry nods, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Yes. Or stop being a struggling artist.’
‘But if that’s the case, then why can’t they?’ I say, ignoring Terry’s second suggestion.
‘Why can’t they what?’
‘Look past all that?’
Terry gives a wry smile. ‘Because they’ve got the power, Ben. They’re in charge. It’s them who’re selling, and we’re the overanxious buyers.’
‘Okay, okay. I get the picture.’
Terry shrugs. ‘It’s one of life’s great unfairnesses, and the sooner you get used to it, the better.’
‘But . . . that’s not fair,’ I say, winning the ‘stating the bleeding obvious’ prize.
Terry shrugs again. ‘Welcome to the real world.’
‘So let me get this straight. I’m never going to meet someone to settle down with, because currently I’m trying too hard.’
He nods. ‘Yup.’
‘Plus, my expectations are too unrealistic, and until I change them I’m going to end up being disappointed?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘But the minute I’m more realistic, and start targeting women who are more . . .’
‘Appropriate.’
‘. . . then I’m going to have a lot more luck? Especially if I stop actively targeting them.’
‘Exactly,’ says Terry.
I’m a little confused. ‘But what about women? Why don’t they have this problem? I mean, surely they all start out wanting Brad Pitt, and go through the same process we do?’
‘Aha,’ says Terry. ‘But then the old biological clock starts ticking, and someone who previously might not make the grade becomes prime marriage material. And because women are a lot more practical than us blokes, they know that, and therefore are prepared to compromise a lot earlier.’
‘Whereas we’re too fickle.’
Terry nods. ‘You want a babe. They just want babies. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Well, surely all I need to do is wait until Pamela Anderson gets that urge, and make sure I’m hanging around at the appropriate time, and . . . bingo.’
‘You might be waiting a long time. Besides, doesn’t she already have kids?’
‘I was talking figuratively.’
‘And she’s got quite a figure.’
‘You know what I mean, Terry. And besides, I’m just worried that unless I really fancy them, then I’m not going to be able to, you know, do it.’
‘There’s a reason why most married people keep the lights turned off during sex. It’s so they don’t get turned off. My ex wife? When we first got together, we were at it like rabbits, and whenever we were in bed I had to think of football just to stop myself from, you know, peaking too early. By the end of the marriage, all I had to do was think of her, and it had the same effect.’
‘Not that. Marriage, I mean. Because it’s an important part of it for me.’
‘Well, maybe it is too early for you. Maybe you’ve still got some wild oats to sow. Trust me, even after all I’ve been through, if I had my time again, I’d still do exactly the same thing.’
That surprises me. ‘What? Why?’
He considers this for a moment. ‘I guess that’s just one of life’s great mysteries.’
And while it may be a mystery to Terry, unfortunately, things are becoming clearer for me.
Chapter 27
When I call round at my parents’ house after class, my mum and dad are sitting watching University Challenge. As usual, my dad is waiting until one of the teams has answered correctly before nodding, and saying ‘That’s right’, as if he knew the answer all along. Which given that he’s an English teacher, and most of the questions seem to be about applied mathematics or particle physics, seems a little unlikely.
‘Here,’ I say, handing over the chilled bottle of c
hampagne I’ve picked up on the way.
‘What’s this for?’ says my mother.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ asks my dad, hopefully.
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘But you are.’
My mum looks at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Pardon?’
‘And they say romance is dead.’ I point to the two cards on the mantelpiece. ‘Happy anniversary?’
‘Oh,’ says my dad. ‘Right. Thanks. But there was no need to buy champagne.’
‘No need?’ I head off into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with three glasses. ‘But it’s a special one this year, isn’t it?’
My dad looks uneasily across at my mum, as if he’s worried he’s forgotten some important date. ‘Is it?’
I nod. ‘Your thirtieth?’
My mum frowns. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Yes, it is,’ says my dad quickly.
‘It must be,’ I say, peeling the foil off the top of the bottle. ‘I’m going to be thirty next year. Which means this year is your thirtieth.’ I smile at the two of them, and start to lever the cork out of the bottle. ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’
My mum and dad exchange anxious glances. ‘Alan?’ says my mum.
I stop what I’m doing. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ says my dad, although he suddenly can’t make eye contact with either of us.
‘Is this anything to do with me?’
As my mum sits there silently, my dad reaches for the remote control, and switches off the television. University Challenge hasn’t even finished, so I know it’s going to be something serious. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘Yes, and no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Listen, son.’ My dad indicates for me to sit down on the sofa. ‘There’s something we haven’t told you.’
Normally, I’d be taking the mickey out of a comment like that. But there’s something about the expression on their faces that makes me think that this is important. I put the half-opened bottle down on the coffee table, and do as instructed. ‘What?’
‘Me and your mum. It’s not quite our thirtieth anniversary today.’
‘Yes, it is. I was born in nineteen eighty, which makes me twenty-nine. You were married in nineteen seventy-nine. That makes thirty years. And . . .’
‘No, son,’ says my dad. ‘It’s actually our twenty-ninth anniversary. Not thirtieth. We got married in nineteen eighty.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, although I’m beginning to worry that I do. ‘Please tell me I’m a year younger than I think I am.’
My mum and dad stare at each other, until she eventually breaks the silence. ‘No, Ben. I’m afraid not.’
For a moment, I can’t quite believe this. ‘You mean, I was a b ...’
‘. . . lessing in disguise,’ says my dad. ‘And no, we were married when we had you.’
‘Just,’ says my mum. ‘As you can probably guess from the wedding photographs.’
I look over to the mantelpiece, where there’s a photo of my parents on their wedding day, and only now do I realize why it’s just a head shot. ‘But . . .’
My dad stands up and walks over to the mantelpiece. ‘We’d only just met, your mum and I, and then she fell pregnant . . .’
‘Fell pregnant? What on earth does that mean?’
‘Well,’ says my dad. ‘I’m afraid one night we’d had a little bit too much to drink, and I got a bit carried away. Your mum was a real looker in those days, and I’m afraid I couldn’t control . . .’ There’s a loud bang, and my dad stops talking, because the champagne cork has decided to fire itself out of the bottle at that precise moment. ‘Well, you get the picture.’
‘Dad, please.’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘So, I was an accident?’
‘Yes. But a happy accident,’ says my mum, fetching a cloth from the kitchen. ‘We were both really pleased.’
‘Eventually,’ says my dad, eyeing the champagne thirstily. ‘So, anyway, your mum and I decided we should make the best of it, and get married. And here we are, thirty years later.’
‘Twenty-nine,’ I say, looking at the two of them incredulously.
My mum puts a hand on my arm. ‘It’s not such a big deal, though, Ben, when you think about it.’
‘Not such a big deal?’ I look at them both, wanting to say that, in actual fact, it is – particularly now. I’ve spent the last however many years following my match-made-in-heaven – or so I thought – parents’ example, and believing that like them, I’d eventually meet my one true partner, when in actual fact, their whole marriage is a sham. Or not a sham, exactly, but it hardly started under the most romantic of circumstances. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, noticing the looks on their faces, suddenly feeling like I’m the guilty one. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock.’
‘Not as much of a shock as it was for us back then,’ says my dad. ‘I mean, there we were, not knowing whether we’d have a future together, and then suddenly we didn’t have any choice in the matter.’
‘Thanks very much,’ I say, miserably.
‘No, Ben,’ says my mum, walking over and sitting down next to me. ‘We should be thanking you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because we might not have had these wonderful thirty years together if you hadn’t come along.’
‘Twenty-nine,’ corrects my dad, a split second before I do.
‘And if that’s not worth celebrating,’ she says, picking up the bottle and filling up the champagne glasses, ‘then I don’t know what is.’
My mum hands me a glass, but I stop short of taking it from her. ‘But isn’t it all a little, well, false?’
‘Why?’ She smiles. ‘Who’s to say we wouldn’t have stayed together if we hadn’t had you?’
‘You just did!’
‘Yes, well I didn’t mean it quite like that. Don’t be so sensitive.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I just . . . I mean, I’ve been looking for what you and Dad have for all this time, and all of a sudden, it’s not what I thought it was. And now, I can’t help feeling that I might have been wasting my time. I mean, you just got on with it and made the best of things. Maybe that’s what I should have been doing all along.’
My dad takes the champagne glass from my mum, and presses it into my hand. ‘Ben,’ he says, surprising me with the use of my actual name. ‘Even though your mum and I have been very happy together, we’ve been lucky. And I think if there’s one thing that we’d both agree on, it’s that it’s always better to have a choice.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘So, here’s to us,’ he says.
‘All of us,’ says my mum.
I look at the two of them, force a smile, and reluctantly clink my glass against theirs, downing the contents in one before heading miserably off to the toilet. Of course it’s always better to have a choice, I think to myself, as I stare miserably at my reflection in the mirror. But the problem is, at the moment, I just don’t think I’ve got one.
When I eventually walk back into the lounge, my dad is fiddling with the stereo, playing one of his old Frank Sinatra albums. He’s convinced that music sounds better on vinyl, scratches and all, as opposed to from one of these ‘seedys’ as he insists on calling them. On top of this, he refuses to get a modern stereo, mainly because they don’t seem to have record players on them any more. Instead, his is a hulking great black unit that takes up most of the far wall, full of flashing lights, little levers and knobs, and even a double cassette deck – the kind of thing that wouldn’t look out of place in NASA mission control. When I don’t say a word, but just slump down on the sofa, he comes and perches on the armchair opposite.
‘Everything all right?’
I half-smile back at him. ‘Where’s Mum?’
My dad nods towards the serving hatch. ‘Making us all something to eat.’
‘Oh. Right. I’m not really hungry.’
My dad suddenly looks concerned. ‘You sure you’re okay?
’
I meet his gaze for a moment, and then exhale loudly. ‘I suppose so. I just . . . Well, I didn’t think this would all be so complicated, that’s all.’
He grins, sheepishly. ‘Accidents happen, son.’
‘No, not that. I mean me. Life. Everything.’
My dad shrugs. ‘It’s a difficult thing to get right, son. But it’s worth the work. And when you finally do settle down, and maybe even start a family, it’ll be the best thing you ever do.’
‘But if that’s the case, why did you stop at me?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Why did you just have the one child, if having me was so great? Did you resent the fact that I’d come along and forced you into marrying someone you couldn’t possibly have been in love with?’
As soon as I’ve said those words, I regret them. Because not only are they unfair, they sound particularly harsh. But my dad doesn’t look angry. Quite the opposite, in fact.
‘Well, seeing as tonight seems to be the time for big revelations . . .’
I look up at him. ‘What now? Don’t tell me I’ve had an evil twin all this time, and you keep him locked up in the attic?’
My dad smiles. ‘Not quite. But you remember what your mum used to say to you all the time when you were growing up?’
‘Eat your greens? Or that rubbish about going blind if ...’
‘Not that. I mean whenever you did something bad.’
‘Oh. You mean “You’ll be the death of me”. She still does, from time to time. What about it?’
‘Well, you nearly were. Your mum had a terrible time when she was pregnant. There were times when I thought I was going to lose her – and you, of course – and so I swore that if she pulled through . . .’ My dad swallows hard. ‘Well, I knew I could never put her through that again. And by the time you came along, and your mum had recovered, well, I was so happy that she’d survived, and so grateful to her for giving me you, how could I not be in love with her?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, awkwardly. ‘I had no idea.’
My dad reaches over and ruffles my hair. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, son. It wasn’t your fault. And in fact you coming along made me realize how lucky I was, to have met your mother. And I might have let her get away if not for that.’