by Matt Dunn
‘Yes, Amy,’ I say, crossing my fingers childishly under the table. ‘There’s a possibility.’ About a one per cent possibility, I reckon, but don’t dare say that out loud.
‘And what happens if it all goes wrong?’
‘Why would it go wrong?’ I say, unable to imagine anything Amy ever doing not working out.
Amy shrugs. ‘They do, don’t they. Statistically, I mean. So, if we’re going to go into this as some arrangement, then we need to make contingency plans, don’t we?’
‘That’s not very romantic, is it?’
Amy puts her hand on mine, a gesture that seems rather inappropriate, given the subject matter. ‘I’m just being practical, Ben.’
‘Ah. Right.’ I don’t quite know what to say. Normally people only plan the details of their wedding. Not what’s going to happen if they split up. But maybe she’s right. Maybe this is the way to go about it, rather than risk becoming one of that ever-growing statistic. This way, there won’t be any surprises. Although why does that last sentence fill me with a sense of dread? Perhaps because I like surprises. ‘Fine. Well, we can sign one of those agreements, if you like.’
‘And when are we going to do it?’
I look at my watch. ‘Well, I hadn’t worked any of that out, actually. I mean, a wedding takes planning, doesn’t it? Organization.’
‘Leave that to me,’ says Amy, as if she’s mentally ticking items off a list. ‘It is supposed to be my big day, after all. And what about children?’
‘Well, sometimes they can spoil it, can’t they? I mean, crying in the church, and then messing around at the reception, or being sick from eating too much cake . . .’ I stop talking, because Amy is shaking her head slowly.
‘No, Ben. Not at the ceremony. Our children. I mean, that’s one of the reasons for getting married, isn’t it? To start a family.’
‘Of course. But I thought we might want to have some . . .’ I stop myself adding the words ‘fun’ and ‘first’. ‘I mean, thought we’d have some. Obviously.’
Amy smiles, showing me her perfect teeth this time, which tells me I’ve said the right thing. ‘Because neither of us is getting any younger. And it’s something we need to think about sooner rather than later.’ She stops talking herself and looks at me strangely, possibly because when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror on the wall behind her, I’ve gone a deathly shade of white. ‘You do want kids, Ben, I take it.’
‘Of course,’ I say, realizing that to say anything else would be to risk Amy getting up and walking away from the table – and, in fact, the whole arrangement. ‘I was just wondering how . . .’
Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Well, the traditional way. We have sex, and nine months later . . .’
‘No. How many.’
‘Well, I think two is a good number,’ says Amy, who unlike me, has quite clearly thought about it. A lot. ‘A boy and a girl. You can’t really just have one, and with three, you risk the two-against-one scenario. No,’ she says, as if her decision is final, ‘three isn’t really fair.’
On the parents, I want to say. Because then they’re outnumbered. ‘Right.’
‘Which means we ought to start looking,’ she continues. ‘Soon.’
‘Looking? For . . . a baby? Can’t you, I mean, are you . . .?’
‘For a house, silly. And one with at least four bedrooms. Because we don’t want to have to move. Not with young children.’
‘Right,’ I say, thinking I don’t want to have to move ever, with or without young children.
For a moment, this strikes me as ridiculous. Here we are, talking about how many children we’re going to have, when we don’t even know if we can have them, whereas Amy has already assumed – and wants to plan for – what’s going to happen when we do. And this strikes me as so funny, that I can’t help but laugh. Which clearly is the wrong thing to do.
Amy pulls her hand away, folds her arms and stares angrily across the table at me. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘No, sorry, I was thinking of something else.’
‘What else?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Come on. Something was obviously funny. So share it with the rest of us.’
It’s like being told off at school, and I cringe in my chair, wondering if this is how all women think, and how far they plan in advance. ‘I’m sorry, Amy. It’s great that you’re being so, er, professional about all of this. Really it is. It’s just, well, don’t you think we should be a bit more spontaneous? Try to have at least a little bit of, you know, fun?’
As soon as that particular ‘f’ word has left my lips, I worry I’m in trouble. But Amy seems to see the funny side of it.
‘Oh, there’ll be a lot of fun, Ben,’ she says, although she makes the word sound a little scary. ‘I’ll make sure of that. I mean, you still fancy me, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’ That’s easy to answer. Amy’s pretty, with a nice figure, and breasts that are slightly too large for the rest of her – what’s not to fancy? Plus her attractiveness is amplified by the fact that apart from Dawn, where I nearly died in the act, I haven’t had sex for a while. But judging from her reaction, ‘of course’ isn’t the correct response.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What’s what supposed to mean?’
‘“Of course”.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said do you still fancy me, and you said, “of course”. As if you were bound to. Not “oh yes”, or anything positive like that, but “of course”, as if I ticked a few of your standard boxes. Like it was an automatic response, or something.’
What do I say now? Because while I know Amy is making me work a little, and looking for a compliment or two, to be honest, with most men, it is an automatic response. But I have a sneaking suspicion that’s not going to be a good enough explanation.
‘Well, er, what I meant was that, you know, physically, there are obvious elements of your body shape, that do, you know, turn me on.’
I’ve meant it as a compliment. But judging by Amy’s reaction, she hasn’t taken it as one. ‘But that sounds like you’re just objectifying me. Like you have no control over whether you get a hard-on when you stare at my chest.’
‘I don’t. Mean that,’ I add, quickly. ‘I mean, for us blokes, a lot of it is to do with the physical response. Don’t blame me, blame a hundred thousand years of evolution. I mean, what do you want me to say, that I’m turned on by your intellect?’
‘Some men find smart women sexy.’
Ah. And while she’s partly right, in that some men say they find smart women sexy, that’s actually because they like their tits, and want to charm them into bed by saying they’re turned on by their intellect, whereas, actually, they’re playing on the fact that they’re stupid enough to be taken in by that sort of lame line. But I can’t explain this to Amy. Not without giving away secrets that are passed down from generation to generation. And at least I’m smart enough to recognize that I have to tread carefully here.
‘Amy. You are. Very sexy, I mean. And smart. And while even if you were brain dead, or admitted to liking Emmerdale, or something, which amounts to the same thing, I’d still fancy you. And that’s not a bad thing, but a compliment. Physically I find you very attractive. And certainly more than attractive enough to sleep with.’
I look at her carefully, hoping I’ve got away with it, even though as a man, that description would probably apply to more than seventy-five per cent of the female population. Maybe more, depending on how long it’s been.
‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ she says, visibly relaxing a little. ‘It’s just that, well, it’s not the same for a woman. We’re not quite so, you know, fickle.’
Yeah, right, I’m thinking. If Brad Pitt suddenly walked in and sat down at the next-door table, I’m sure I’d have your full attention.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘So you shouldn’t be so attractive, should you?’
Amy smiles at me, then reaches over and t
akes my hand again, and because I’ve seen that smile from her before, I know I’m home and dry. It’s been easier than I thought – a little too easy, perhaps – and maybe a little
scary at the same time. But there’s nothing for it.
‘So, you will?’
She raises one eyebrow. ‘Will what?’
‘Go back out with me. With a view to, you know, a more permanent arrangement.’
She squeezes my hand even tighter, squashing my car keys – which I’d forgotten I was still holding – painfully into my palm. ‘Of course I will, you idiot. I don’t know what took you so long.’
‘Great. Well, we ought to celebrate,’ I say, for some reason feeling the opposite. ‘Champagne?’
Amy looks at her glass of wine, and I notice that she’s hardly touched it. ‘Not for me. I’ve got a Yogalates class first thing in the morning. You go ahead, though.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I’m suddenly reminded of one of the reasons I got Amy to dump me, to use Ash’s words. We didn’t do anything spontaneous. And while the fact that she won’t even celebrate our getting back together is more than a little depressing, it also occurs to me that maybe she’s right. Why should we do what everyone else does, and drink a glass or two of expensive fizzy wine just to toast the fact that we’re going to get married? Far better that we just celebrate by drinking in each other, so to speak. ‘Well, should we at least kiss? You know, to mark the occasion?’
Amy looks horrified. ‘Not here, Ben. Some of my clients might be watching.’
I look around the deserted bar, and apart from a bored-looking Marcello, there’s no one else around.
‘Well, shall we go back to mine?’
‘No, thank you,’ says Amy.
‘Well, what about yours?’ I say, hoping her reaction is to do with my flat.
She lets go of my hand. ‘Weren’t you listening, Ben? I’ve got an early class. Besides, we’ve only just met.’
Yet again, Amy’s matter-of-factness slaps me in the face, or, rather, pours a bucket of cold water over my groin. ‘What do you mean, only just met? We went out for the best part of a year.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t want you thinking that I’m easy, do I? I mean, you could just be spinning me a line.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘You’re a man, Ben. Of course you would.’
‘But . . .’
‘In fact, I’ve just had an idea. So it’s “yes” on one condition. You’re going to have to prove yourself to me.’
‘Prove myself? How?’
‘If you’re really as committed as you say you are, then you’ll just have to wait until we’re officially engaged.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Sex.’ Amy sits back in her chair and folds her arms, obviously pleased with the brilliance of her plan. ‘Yes. If you can wait until you’ve actually put a ring on my finger, then that’ll prove to me that you’re serious.’
‘Are you serious?’
Amy looks at me across the table. ‘Deathly.’
As I meet her gaze, I tell myself that I can do this. Even if it means not doing it, if you see what I mean. And besides, the jeweller’s will be open first thing Monday morning.
Chapter 29
First I have to tell my mum and dad, of course, and after the fun they’ve had over the past few weeks, I’m hoping they’ll be pleased, not to mention relieved. But when I let myself in through the kitchen door, the first thing I hear is a strange noise coming from the front room, followed by my dad’s voice.
‘You’re not holding it in the right way.’
‘I’m holding it just like it says in the book,’ says my mum. ‘And, anyway, I’m the one on top. So you keep your comments to yourself. And watch your aim.’
My dad laughs. ‘I’m pointing it at the hole,’ he says. ‘But I can’t seem to get it in. And why is it making that funny noise?’
‘It vibrates when you do it wrong.’
‘I’m not doing it wrong.’
‘Well, maybe you’re doing it too hard,’ says my mum. ‘No wonder your balls are flying everywhere.’
Oh no. It sounds like they’re, well, I don’t want to think about what it sounds like they’re doing, particularly given the strange porno-film music I can hear in the background. Telling them about Amy and me can wait, I decide, and what’s more, I’m going to have to make my escape as quietly as possible. But as I tiptoe back towards the kitchen door, I accidentally bump against a chair, which makes a loud scraping noise on the floor. Bollocks.
‘Is that you, Ben?’ calls my mum. ‘Because we’ve already had our dinner.’
For a moment, I think I might be better off not answering, but then they might think they’re being burgled, and I don’t want to frighten them. ‘Er, yes.’
My dad pops his head through the serving hatch. ‘Come and join us,’ he says, looking a little red in the face. ‘You can have a go with your mum. Give me a rest. Although be warned, she’s rather good.’
‘How about it, Ben,’ calls my mum. ‘Want to play around?’
Oh. My. God. I’m either having a nightmare, or I’ve stumbled into the kind of thing that apparently happens round at Dawn’s parents’ house. ‘Er, no. That’s okay.’
‘Well, come and watch me and your mum at it,’ says my dad, disappearing back through the hatch.
‘No. Thanks,’ I say, thinking about making a run for the door, when my dad walks into the kitchen. Fortunately, he’s fully dressed.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘It’ll be fun.’
Unable to see a way out of this, I follow him nervously back into the lounge, only to find my mum standing in front of the television. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Your dad and I are weeing,’ says my mum, proudly. ‘It’s great fun.’
‘What?’
‘It’s one of these new Nintendo game things,’ says my dad, pointing to the small white box plugged into the TV. ‘Your mum and I won one. In the bowls club raffle.’
‘And I’ve just beaten your dad at golf,’ announces my mum.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ says my dad, winking at me.
‘And tennis. And ten-pin bowling,’ says my mum proudly.
‘Yes, well,’ huffs my dad, picking his remote control up. ‘Did you want a game, son? Or were you just after something to eat?’
‘No. Thanks. I’ve, er, got something to tell you.’
My mum smiles, then turns back to the screen. ‘Oh yes?’ she says, practising a couple of golf swings, narrowly missing the light fitting with the white plastic golf club she’s holding.
‘Yes. Well, Amy and me. I’ve, I mean, we’ve decided to give things another go. In fact, more than another go. We’re, er, getting married.’
For a moment, my mum and dad don’t say a word, but just stare at each other, and then my dad puts the remote control down on the coffee table and walks over to where I’m standing. ‘Congratulations, son,’ he says, shaking me firmly by the hand.
‘Yes, Ben,’ says my mum, following him over and enveloping me in a huge hug. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You don’t seem that pleased,’ I say, a little surprised at their muted reactions.
‘Neither do you, Ben,’ says my mum.
‘I am. I’m just trying to get used to it. That’s all. But you’re okay with it?’
‘Of course,’ says my dad. ‘We love Amy.’
‘Just as long as you do too,’ says my mum enigmatically.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘I’m sure.’
‘You will?’ says my dad. ‘But you don’t now?’
‘Well, we’ve only just got back together, haven’t we? I mean, it’s all a bit, well, sudden.’
‘You haven’t got her pregnant have you, son?’ asks my dad.
‘No, of course not. Or at least, not yet.’
He folds his arms. ‘So, you’re doing this for the right reasons?’
I look at them both. ‘Yes,’ I say, perhaps still trying to convince myself. ‘Yes, I am.
Because the one thing this whole process has taught me is that marriage is just an arrangement whereby we men give up our freedom in return for companionship. And that’s the best we can ever ask for. So marriage, kids, the whole nine yards, here I come.’
My dad sits down on the sofa, and indicates for me to sit down next to him. ‘An impartial observer might say you were a little bit cynical.’
‘Or realistic,’ I say. ‘In fact, I’m just repeating how Amy feels about it. She’s a businesswoman, after all, and that’s what this is to her. Just another deal. An arrangement. And we’ve done our due diligence, or whatever it is when two companies decide to perform a merger, and it looks like being a goer.’
‘A what?’ says my mum.
‘A goer,’ I say, even though Amy quite obviously isn’t. Although, as I say this, I start to get a little worried. Because what if this is the way Amy feels about everything. What if I really am just a hopeless romantic who happens to believe in a little more than this? But then again, look where that’s got me. In fifteen years of dating, I’ve not met anyone who’s made me feel that way. So maybe it’s me who’s wrong. And Amy’s got it right.
My mum sighs. ‘Why you’ve remained unmarried for so long amazes me. And how many children does Amy want?’
‘One of each.’
‘Three, then?’ jokes my dad.
‘Really?’ My mum widens her eyes. ‘She’s that specific?’
‘Yup,’ I say, sure that she’s probably even picked out names for them.
‘And when is she planning to start this family, exactly?’ asks my mum. ‘Assuming you’re not – what is it you young people say – firing blanks, that is.’
My dad puts a protective arm around my shoulder, which makes a pleasant change from the usual hair-ruffling. ‘No son of mine would fire blanks.’
‘Er, well, she’s just been made a partner at work, so I imagine she’ll want to consolidate her position there for a while, and then maybe fit them in around the end of the financial year.’
My mum rolls her eyes. ‘That’s very organized of her.’