by Dunn, Matt
I stand there, staring at my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe, until Dan appears at the bedroom door.
‘My God!’
‘What?’
‘I’m having the strangest feeling of, you know . . .’
‘Déjà vu?’
‘I knew you were going to say that!’
‘Yes, very funny, Dan. Again.’ I reach round and try and do up the flapping bits of latex behind my neck, which seem to secure the thing’s many chins. ‘Gah!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t get it to fasten properly.’
‘Hang on. There’s a knack to it.’ Dan picks up a felt-tip pen from the table next to his bed and walks round behind me.
‘What’s that for?’
‘I just need it to mark the position of the straps,’ he says, drawing what feels like a series of lines on my back, before pulling the fasteners together. ‘There.’
As he stands back to admire his handiwork, I inspect my profile in the mirror, struggling a little to breathe. The fat suit feels a little snug, and more than a little warm, and I’m already starting to feel uncomfortable. ‘Happy now?’
‘Nearly.’
When I turn back round, I’m temporarily blinded by a number of rapid-fire flashes, and when my vision eventually clears, the first thing I see is a smirking Dan sitting on the bed, flicking through a selection of images on his digital camera.
‘What the . . . ?’
‘You mug. I never thought you’d fall for it.’
‘Fall for . . .’
‘I was worried about not having enough material for the speech, especially since you vetoed all the juicy Jane stuff, but now . . .’ He holds the camera up as if it’s a trophy. ‘These will come in very handy, thank you.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
I make a lunge for it, but not surprisingly, the thirty pounds of latex means I’m not as agile as I thought, and I end up almost knocking over one of Dan’s expensive hi-fi speakers.
‘This isn’t funny, Dan.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ he says, easily managing to keep away from my flailing attempt at a rugby tackle.
I try to reach round and undo the straps Dan’s just tightened between my shoulder blades, but can’t free myself, and eventually just flop down on the bed. ‘Okay. I give up. How do I get out of it?’
Dan grins. ‘You should have thought about that before you put it on.’
‘I’m not joking, Dan. Take it off me.’
‘Not until you’ve tried it out.’
‘Dan, I . . .’ I pause for a second, then suddenly leap towards him, but he jumps out of reach again.
‘I’m serious. I’m not letting you out of it until you’ve given it a go. In public.’
‘Dan!’
‘See you at the pub,’ he says, side-stepping past me in the doorway, before running out of the flat, me in not-so-close pursuit.
As the door slams shut behind him, I stop to catch my breath, then stare at my reflection in the hall mirror, still shocked that I really used to look this bad, then make an attempt to undo the fastenings again, but with no success – the fat suit’s too tight to wriggle out of, and there’s no way I can reach the fasteners without help.
I lumber round the flat for a minute or two trying to find a solution, but the only idea I come up with is to use one of Dan’s dangerously sharp kitchen knives to cut myself out, but even though they’re hardly ever used for cooking, I don’t really want to damage either them or the suit. Or myself, for that matter.
With a resigned sigh, I walk back into the bedroom. There’s a extra-large T-shirt on the bed with the words ‘Stag Night’ printed on the front, although the ‘t’ in ‘stag’ has been crossed out and replaced with a ‘he’. Reluctantly I pull it on, followed by the tracksuit bottoms Dan’s left for me, and then my shoes – tying my shoelaces with difficulty – and head for the pub.
7.22 p.m.
I’m in the Admiral Jim, doing my best to ignore Wendy’s shrieks of laughter.
‘Haven’t you got somewhere else to be?’ I say. Sam’s having her hen night this evening too, and I’d been hoping Wendy might be long gone by now.
‘What?’ she says. ‘And miss this? Besides, we’re not meeting until eight.’
‘Not in here, I hope?’ I say, anxious for Sam not to see me like this.
‘Don’t worry, Edward. Some place in town. The G-Spot.’
‘Never heard of it,’ says Dan, who’s using the pool table as a barrier to prevent me getting at him.
Wendy laughs. ‘You and most men, unfortunately.’
I manage a couple more circuits of the pool table after Dan, then give up, and collapse onto the nearest chair, which almost collapses itself.
‘Why did they make it so heavy?’
Dan shrugs. ‘Authenticity, I suppose. And given the amount you’re sweating, it obviously works.’
‘I can’t wear it for the rest of the evening.’
‘Why not? You wanted me to make sure nothing happened to you, and trust me, as long as you look like that, nothing will.’
‘But . . .’
‘Besides,’ says Dan. ‘You remember you told me you wished you could be a bigger person where Sam’s affair is concerned?’
‘Yes? So what?’
Dan grins, picks up a pool cue, leans over the table, and pokes me in the stomach with it. ‘Well, now’s your chance.’
9.31 p.m.
I’m sitting in a booth in the Honey Club, one of the many nightclubs just off Brighton seafront. We’ve just come from the lap-dancing bar round the corner, where Candy and Bambi were certainly as impressive as Dan had made out, even though their attempts to give me a lap dance were somewhat thwarted by the fact that wearing the fat suit, I don’t actually seem to have a lap. What was also thwarted was Dan’s attempt to chat Candy up, although that was self-inflicted, thanks to his comment about who had the most silicone: me or the two of them, and by ‘two of them’ I think he was just referring to Candy – which is why we’re sitting here somewhat ahead of schedule.
It’s still quite early, so there aren’t that many people in the club, which is just as well given how self-conscious I’m feeling about how I look. At least I don’t have a long embarrassing journey home later, given the rooms at the Grand we’ve had the good sense to check in to on the way here. I’d have been quite happy to go home to Sam, but Dan’s observation that being sick over your fiancée a week before your wedding probably wasn’t the smartest of moves convinced me that the hotel option made more sense.
I check the clock on the wall for about the fiftieth time. Dan’s been gone for the best part of ten minutes, and I’m peering through the gloom, trying to ignore all the people pointing in my direction and laughing, when I spot him on his way back from the bar. He’s carrying two bottles of beer, but when I try and take one from him, he slaps my hand away.
‘What are you doing?’ he says, squeezing himself into the booth.
I shrug, which sends a ripple effect down through my belly. ‘I thought one of those might be for me.’
‘Nah. They’re both for me. Courtesy of Kelly and Kate over there.’ He waves at two women at the bar. ‘They’re big fans, apparently. And they both wanted to buy me a drink. How could I refuse?’
‘Would you like to give me one?’
He smirks. ‘Funnily enough, that’s just what Kelly said. But I can’t. Give you one, I mean. Kelly, on the other hand . . .’
‘Dan, please. And, why ever not?’
‘Don’t you think it would be a little bit rude? To give one of them away to you? Seeing as they were presents. Anyway.’ Dan nods towards the half-full pint glass on the table in front of me. ‘I was about to make a toast.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I pick my glass up. ‘To the end of an era, you mean?’
‘Oh,’ says Dan, following it with a longer, ‘Ohhhh.’
‘What?’
‘It’s just that it is the end of an er
a, isn’t it?’
I nod, happily. ‘My single life.’
‘Not that, dummy. You and me. No more just the two of us. Now that you’ve got the old ball-and-chain, I mean.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Things change, don’t they, when you’re married.’
‘Not necessarily. Sam and I will still be the same people . . .’
‘No. I’m talking about between you and me.’ Dan puts both beer bottles down in front of him. ‘Before you know it, you’ll be preferring nights at home with her indoors to a drink at the Admiral Jim with your old mate Dan. And that’s fine, really it is. So don’t worry about me . . .’
‘Stop being ridiculous,’ I say. ‘I already prefer nights in with Sam to nights out with you, but we still see each other, don’t we? Besides, I’ve been in one sort of relationship or another pretty much all the time you’ve known me. Things are hardly going to change between us just because I’m married.’
‘You say that now. But wait till the kids come along. Then the chances of you escaping for a swift one are going to be pretty much zero.’
‘You can still come round. You know where we live. And besides, kids will be ages away. And even then, I’m sure they’ll love their uncle Dan.’
‘Uncle Dan.’ He brightens a little. ‘They will, won’t they?’
‘So, tell me something,’ I say, feeling like I’m about to give him a ‘facts of life’ talking to. ‘Has this made you think about your own situation at all?’
Dan stares morosely at his beer bottles, as if he can’t decide which one to have first, then eventually picks the left-hand one. ‘That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re gaining a wife, but for me, it’s like I’m losing a best friend.’
‘No, I mean your own situation where women are concerned.’
He glances over at Kelly and Kate, possibly trying to make the same decision as he’s just done with his drinks. ‘I still like them, if that’s what you mean.’
‘In terms of you meeting someone. Long term. And maybe settling down yourself.’
‘Me?’ Dan starts to do a little dance under the table, as if to indicate how footloose and fancy free he is, then stops when he sees I’m being serious. ‘With who?’
‘Whom.’
Dan frowns. ‘She some foreign bird, is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Home. Or whatever you said.’
‘Never mind. But seriously, how are you finding the current dating scene?’
He shrugs. ‘Fairly quiet, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course not,’ says Dan. ‘I’m still having to beat them off with a shitty stick. But there’s no one, you know . . .’
‘Special.’
As usual, Dan mimes sticking his fingers down his throat at the mention of that word. ‘No. So I hope you’ve lined up someone tasty for me at the wedding.’
As he picks the other beer bottle up and takes a swig, I decide now might be a good time to impart a certain snippet of information.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I have.’
‘Really?’ Dan stops, mid-swig. ‘Who?’
‘Polly. I got her RSVP this morning. ‘
‘What about the small matter of what’s-his-name?’
‘Steve? She’s not bringing him.’
‘Why not?’
I decide to play my trump card. ‘Why would she want to bring someone she’s not seeing any more?’ I say, using it as a diversionary tactic to snatch Dan’s other beer from the table and quickly pour some lager into my glass.
‘I’m sorry?’ Dan slams his bottle down in shock, nearly missing the edge of the table. ‘She’s single?’
‘I believe so.’
‘So she’s coming on her own?’
‘Yup.’
‘You have told her I’ll be there?’ he says, eyeing me suspiciously.
‘I think she’ll have assumed that already,’ I say enjoying seeing Dan a little nervous where a woman is concerned.
‘And yet, she’s still coming . . .’ Dan’s face goes through a range of expressions, as if he’s trying to work out the flavour of a boiled sweet. ‘Although that might be because she feels she can’t miss your wedding,’ he says, eventually. ‘Rather than because she wants me back.’
‘I’d say that’s spot on,’ I say, remembering the size of Dan’s ego, and realizing what an effort that admission must have been for him. ‘But what would you do if she did?’
‘Did what?’
‘Want you back.’
He picks his beer up and starts to pick distractedly at the label. ‘That’s hardly likely, is it?’
‘Why not? It might be the reason she’s coming.’
‘Fuck,’ says Dan. ‘Now I’m going to be spending the whole time worrying about Polly.’
‘No you’re not,’ I correct him. ‘You’re actually going to be spending the whole time worrying about me and Sam, and ensuring everything goes well from our point of view. Then and only then can you go and do what you have to do with Polly.’
‘That’s not very fair, is it?’ He sniffs.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Dan. I forgot that the only reason Sam and I were getting married was so we could set you up with your ex-girlfriend again.’
He glares at me. ‘It’s all right for you. You’re going to be going to bed next Saturday as a married man, and with the surest guarantee of a shag that evening that anyone could ever have. Me? I’ll be doing the home-alone thing. And I’m not referring to that McCauley thingummy film. That’s going to make for one fun evening, I can tell you.’
‘Or, you could look at it this way,’ I say. ‘Polly finished with you . . .’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hisses Dan.
‘Sorry. You and Polly split up because she thought you were immature. Too self-centred. Too selfish. Well, this is your big chance to show her you’ve changed.’
After the few seconds it takes to sink in, Dan looks at me as if I’m a genius. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ he says before frowning suddenly. ‘How, exactly?’
‘By being the perfect best man,’ I say. ‘By running the show. By giving the world’s best speech. By making sure everything goes smoothly, and that everyone – especially Polly – has a great time. That way, she can’t help but be won over. Then you can decide how you really feel about her.’
A change comes over Dan’s face. ‘I can, can’t I?’
‘Yup.’
‘Excellent,’ says Dan, draining the last of the beer he’s holding, then doing the same with the bottle on the table. ‘In fact, that calls for a drink.’
I stare at him for a second or two before realizing that – as usual – that’s my cue.
10.18 p.m.
When I get back from the bar and deposit a bottle of beer on the table in front of him, Dan seems not to notice, possibly because he’s engrossed in blowing over the top of the one he’s currently halfway through drinking, as if he’s just discovered it makes a sound when he does.
‘What are you so lost in thought about?’
‘Me?’ Dan drinks a bit more, then blows again, and seems delighted that the note has changed. ‘Oh, nothing. Well, something, actually.’
‘Come on. Penny for them.’
‘Cheapskate.’ He blows a couple more times, then puts his bottle down before I can snatch it away from him. ‘I was just thinking about this marriage lark.’
‘What about it?’ I say, wishing he’d stop referring to it as a lark. Particularly because it’s been feeling like anything but.
‘You know. And why some people do it and some don’t. I mean, I know why they do it, but marriage. Why they do that.’
‘Thank you for clarifying that for me, Dan.’
‘You’re welcome. So, come on then.’
‘Come on then what?’
‘It’s just that . . . I mean, do you think some people just aren’t cut out for it? Ever, I mean?’
‘You’re talking about you, right?’
Dan drains the last of his beer. ‘Yeah. Because I can’t see the point of giving all this up,’ he says, nodding over to where Kelly and Kate are still watching him from the bar, ‘just so one woman can take up permanent residence in Davis Villas.’
Pushing my rubber belly to one side, I lean over and move Dan’s empty bottle out of arm’s reach to stop him from blowing into it again. ‘Let me explain something to you. You seem intent on seeing marriage as bad, because you think it’ll restrict you from doing whatever – or rather, whoever – you want. For the rest of us – us normal people – we want to get married because we’ve found someone we think it’s worth giving all that up for.’ As I let what I’ve said swim through the beer-soaked synapses towards Dan’s brain, I hope, pray, he’ll finally realize that this person needs to be someone who can see through all this celebrity bollocks. Someone who’s unaffected by all the glitz and glamour surrounding him. Someone who can help him keep his feet on the ground. And more than ever, I’m convinced it needs to be someone he was interested in before all this started. Someone who he’s interested in more than all of it. Someone whose name begins with a ‘P’, perhaps. And maybe now’s the perfect time, given his current unemployed state. ‘And they’re out there, Dan. Believe me. Even for you.’
‘So it’s not that I’ll never meet the right person?’
‘Not at all. Maybe you have already, but you weren’t ready for her at the time. But you’ll recognize her when she comes,’ I say, instantly regretting my choice of words as Dan can’t help but snigger.
He shakes his head slowly. ‘I mean, I just can’t see it. It’s like becoming a vegetarian.’
‘What is?’
‘Me getting married.’
‘Huh?’
‘You know. Asking me to give up meat. Because I really like meat. And I don’t think I could do it.’
‘Yes, you could. You just need the motivation.’
‘Yeah, but’ – Dan searches for an example – ‘people usually become vegetarians because they’ve visited an abattoir, or seen some programme about how badly animals are treated, not because they suddenly decide they like salad so much that they’re going to stop eating bacon sandwiches ever again.’