Mr. Commitment

by Mike Gayle

  All in all, I had a crap time from start to finish, but I suppose it didn’t really matter where on earth I’d disappeared to, my mood would’ve been just the same.

  Mel had absolutely refused to listen to reason. The night that she told me she was pregnant, I’d stayed round at her flat until four the next morning just holding her and crying. Nothing changed, though. She still believed that it would be best for both of us to go our separate ways. During my time away I’d tried really hard to put myself in her shoes. To understand what it was she was feeling. Here she was, twenty-nine, single and pregnant, with a ex-boyfriend whose track record for reliability wasn’t exactly perfect. Of course she’d be scared to rely on me; to let me back into her life when she wasn’t sure whether I had what it took to go the distance. Given my past performance, I’d failed her. Why would she believe in me?

  That was only one side of the story though. My side was equally complicated. I hadn’t set out to be unsure of my ability to love one person for the rest of my life—it had just happened. Unlike Mel, who seemed to have been handed a map and compass of her emotional landscape at birth, I didn’t know what I was capable of, and it felt like I was being punished for my deficiency.

  Mel and I were a badly dubbed, out-of-sync kung fu movie, with Mel as the action and me lagging behind as the dialogue. I thought I’d never catch her up. But which was more important: us reaching the same conclusions, or us reaching the same conclusions at the same time? Mel had arrived at the idea of marriage before me, but now I’d reached the same point that she’d been at, she’d raced ahead again. Once again, it seemed, everything came down to timing.

  Mel told me that she needed time alone, and I agreed that space was probably what I needed too. So I went home and told Dan everything that had happened—the splitting up with Alexa, abandoning comedy, my road to Damascus conversion to commitment, and of course my impending fatherhood. He asked me if there was anything he could do to help and I replied, rather melodramatically, “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do to help me now.” That’s when I decided I needed to go away. Why Paris? Why not?

  Initially I’d intended not to tell anyone when I was coming back home, but Charlie and Vernie wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’d harangued me vigorously when they dropped me at the airport to catch my flight, so I gave in and promised to contact them from France. I wasn’t trying to be enigmatic. I just didn’t want to come back to England until I’d vaguely sorted my head out. This level of intense emotional trauma was all new to me and I hadn’t the faintest idea how long a decent head-sort would take, but given that I’d only packed twelve pairs of pants and loathed hand-washing with a vengeance, my time away was always going to be limited.

  In the end, the thing that made me come back (other than hating the food, boredom or running out of clean underwear) was Dan. Before I’d left he told me that he was thinking about going to Meena’s wedding after all. He didn’t ask me to go with him. He would never do that. But if at the age of twenty-eight I was allowed to have anything approximating the playground title “best mate,” then Dan was it, and I wasn’t going to let him go through something like that alone.

  As soon as I came into the arrivals lounge I found a phone booth and dialed Mel’s number. I’d felt like calling her a million times a day when I was in Paris, but had always resisted for fear of making her feel like I was crowding her. The phone rang out and eventually her answerphone picked up. I put the receiver down without leaving a message and made my way to meet Charlie and Vernie outside the Sock Shop.

  “How are you?” said Vernie. Her stomach was now so round with her pregnancy that I had to hug her from the side when she greeted me.

  “I’m fine,” I replied unconvincingly. “I’m still standing, as they say.”

  “It’s good to have you back,” she said, holding on to my arm. “I wouldn’t say this under normal circumstances, but because I’m about to pop a sprog any time in the next fortnight I think I can get away with it—blame it on hormone imbalances or something.” She paused and smiled. “Baby brother Ben, I have missed you.”

  “Me too,” said Charlie, giving me a blokey hug. “It’s been weird coming home every day to find there’s still food in the fridge, beers in the cupboard and no one hogging the remote control. It’s unnatural, just didn’t seem right.”

  “Are you excited?” I said, looking at Vernie’s stomach.

  “Of course I am. I’m going to be a brilliant mother.” She paused. “Talking of brilliant mothers, Mum’s coming down to stay with us in a couple of weeks. Charlie can’t get that much time off work, and when the baby arrives I’ll be rushed off my feet, so she’s volunteered her services for a while.”

  “Great. With Mum only up the road there’ll be no hiding how messy my flat is!” I protested jokingly. “Mother’s intuition doesn’t stretch from Leeds to London, but Crouch End to Muswell Hill will be a doddle for her. She’ll have psychic visions of the state of the kitchen and she won’t be able to rest until she’s nagged me to death to clean it up or done it herself. How much do you want to bet that when you pick her up from the train station she’ll arrive with a mop, a duster and twenty quid’s worth of cleaning products?”

  Vernie laughed. “Pregnancy might mean my brain is shrinking, but not even in this condition would I bet against a dead cert like that!”

  Charlie wandered off, trying to remember which of the NCP car parks he’d left the car in. Vernie and I, meanwhile, sat down on a bench outside and waited. I could tell that she wanted to ask more about how I was feeling but was holding back for fear of her concern being interpreted as nagging.

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “I can see that you’ve got something to say, so you might as well say it.”

  “I just want to know that you’re okay. You’re the only baby brother I’ve got.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Admittedly I’m not brilliant but I am okay.”

  “You don’t look fine, Duffy. You look terrible.”

  “Cheers,” I said sarcastically.

  “I know you told me not to say anything to Mum, but with her coming to stay you know that you’re going to have to tell her about Mel being pregnant, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” Even the idea of telling my mum all about this made me feel ill. “But not yet, eh?”

  “If you don’t tell her, she’ll find out somehow. That’s what mothers do best. If she does find out about it by accident, it’ll really hurt her that she didn’t hear it from you.”

  “I know,” I said. I glanced up at Vernie to see if she’d finished. “I’ll sort it out.”

  All right, mate!” yelled Dan triumphantly as I walked into the living room and dropped my rucksack on the floor.

  “You look like a stick insect,” grinned Dan. “I’ll get you a lard drip feed to fatten you up while you’re asleep. You look way too healthy.” He sat up and rubbed his head. “How was it, then?”

  “Not too bad,” I replied as he handed me a tin of Red Stripe. “Six out of ten at a push.”

  “I’ve got three pieces of news for you, all of which will make you believe that there is a force working for the greater good against all the evil in the world.”

  “Give me the news that will make me most happy first.” I sloped into the armchair. It felt good to be back.

  “Well, Alexa called while you were away. She said she had some news that she just couldn’t wait to tell you. It turns out that the telly job Greg got wasn’t as good as it sounded after all. Apparently the producers decided against using him to write gags and sketches, and instead preferred to utilize his skills as . . . wait for it . . . the voice of one of the program’s studio puppets! I taped it last week, and honestly, Duff, I nearly had a heart attack I was laughing so much. You can tell it’s Greg from a mile off. Who says there’s no justice?”

  “What’s the other news?” I said, laughing. “It can’t be anywhere near as good as that, surely?”

  “Greg update number t
wo. I bumped into the lovely Anne last week in the Haversham, and guess what? She’s dumped him!”

  “Result! So she came to her senses after all?”

  “Not exactly. It was more a case of her having no other choice. Get this.” Dan leaned toward me as if too shocked to impart the news in the normal way. “Apparently Anne had thrown a party at their flat to celebrate Greg’s new job and invited all their mates. Half cut on Jim Beam, who should try it on with Bethan Morgan—Anne’s best mate—but Greg! Anne hit the roof and chucked him out!” Dan paused. “I wish I’d been there.”

  “So what’s the third piece of good news?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve got your own sitcom?”

  “Better than that. Guess what’s on in half an hour on BBC2?” he said, pointing at the TV with the remote.

  “Dunno.”

  “The Italian Job.”

  “Nice one,” I said. It was mine and Dan’s all-time favorite film. “Any other phone messages?”

  “Nah,” said Dan.

  I was still hoping Mel would’ve called by now. I looked at my watch. It’s late—if she’s gone out she’ll be back by now. How many places can a pregnant woman be at this time of night? Getting up off the floor I went to the phone and dialed her number. Her answerphone was still on. I left a message telling her I was back and that I’d try to call her again when I knew whether Dan and I were going to Meena’s wedding. Dan must have overheard the last bit of the message because when I turned round he was looking at me pensively.

  “You don’t have to come with me tomorrow, you know,” he said solemnly. “I still haven’t made up my mind about the wedding, but if I do go I’ll be all right on my own.”

  “I know you will,” I replied, “so you won’t mind if I tag along, will you?”

  Realizing that it was futile to argue, he laughed and said, “Cheers. At least I’ll have someone to talk to.” He sat up straight and turned off the TV. I looked at him questioningly, and he said, “There’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Us,” he said.

  “Us?”

  “Yeah, let’s talk about us.

  “I don’t know what conclusions you came to out in Paris about you and Mel or about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life, but I’ve been thinking seriously about my own future while you’ve been away. I’ve also been thinking about you leaving comedy, and it’s a really bad idea. The worst you’ve ever had. I know we’ve both got a lot of other stuff going on in our lives, but the comedy has always been a laugh. We’re not too old to stop having a laugh, so what I’m trying to say is . . . I think we ought to try working together.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Be partners? Form a double act?”

  “Like Abbott and Costello.”

  “Morecambe and Wise.”

  “Hope and Crosby.”

  “George and Mildred.”

  We ran out of double acts.

  The only conclusion I’d come to in Paris was that Alexa was right. The minute I took any permanent job with no hope of escape I would be banging my head against the walls, constantly calling in sick or being escorted off the premises by security guards within a week. Some people can do the nine-to-five thing and not worry, but I knew I couldn’t.

  Dan took my hand and laughed. “Do you, Benjamin Dominic Duffy, take Daniel Aaron Carter to be your lawful wedded partner in comedy?”

  “I do,” I said, grinning like an idiot. “Do you, Daniel Aaron Carter, take Benjamin Dominic Duffy to be your lawful wedded partner in comedy?”

  “I do,” said Dan, adding, “Then by the considerable power invested in me I now pronounce us officially a double act. Carter and Duffy. Has a nice ring about it, don’t you think?”

  “Not as nice as Duffy and Carter,” I replied, “but it’ll do for now.”

  The groom’s handsome too

  Iwoke up with a start and studied the alarm clock carefully. My stomach tightened and I put my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. Today was the day. Today was D day for Dan. Before we had gone to bed (after falling asleep halfway through The Italian Job) he had told me that he’d definitely decided to go to the wedding. I knew there was no point in trying to talk him round, so I reminded him I was going with him no matter what, and went to bed hoping that the intervening hours would bring him to his senses.

  Pulling on a T-shirt that had been lying on the floor, I got out of bed, knocked on his door, yelled, “Morning!” and walked in. Though the curtains were closed, chinks of light coming through the gap between them illuminated the room enough for me to make out the shape of Dan sitting up in bed. The sound of Marvin Gaye’s album What’s Going On was coming from his CD player. He turned on his bedside light.

  “Morning,” I said again.

  “Yeah,” he replied unenthusiastically. He looked at his watch but remained silent.

  “I suggest that we stay in London, laugh at Greg on kids’ TV, meet up with Charlie for a drink and count our blessings—and if you’re really good we can go to that café on Archway Road that does those fried breakfasts. I’ll even pay.”

  My transparent attempt to take Dan’s mind off things failed abysmally. “Not today,” he said, rubbing his eyes and stretching. “I’ve a wedding to go to.”

  “So you’re still going?”

  “What do you think?” he said.

  I didn’t reply.

  “I didn’t mean that sarcastically, Duff. I actually want to know what you think I should do. Do you reckon I should go to my ex-girlfriend’s wedding?”

  Even though I already knew what my answer was, I weighed up the situation as truthfully as I could and I still thought it was a bad idea. “No,” I said finally. “It’s not going to do you any good whatsoever if you stay here and mope, and it’s certainly not going to do you any good if you go there and watch someone you still”—I searched around for the right terminology—“someone you still obviously have strong feelings for, marry someone else.”

  “I knew you were going to say that, Duff,” said Dan, turning off Marvin Gaye. “I knew it because that’s exactly the kind of advice I’d give you. Thing is, we’re both so crap at giving and receiving advice that I wonder why we bother. The easy thing would be not to go, which is exactly why I have to go. Sometimes it’s not always about the easy life. I can see that now. All I’ve ever wanted was the easy life. Not too much stress, not too much boredom, a bit of a laugh here, some mucking about there. Nothing too strenuous. Now look where that’s got me. It’s got me losing Meena. It’s got me living here with you for the last eighteen months and maybe for ever. It’s got me living exactly the same life that I’ve always led. I’ve lost her, Duff. She’s going to marry someone else and there’s nothing I can do. So I’m going to act like I’m twenty-eight instead of eighteen. I’m going to go to the wedding and I’m going to wish her well, because it’s the only way I’ll ever learn.”

  Dan put on a suit and tie, which made him look kind of odd. The last time I’d seen him in it was during a momentary lapse in his faith in comedy two years ago. He’d bought it from Burton’s for a job interview with an IT company. Twenty minutes after he got the letter telling him he had a second interview, the suit was back in the wardrobe and he was back in the world of laughs, late nights and hecklers.

  We caught the train to Nottingham and were silent for most of the journey. Dan was obviously wrapped up in thoughts of Meena. Meanwhile, I was wondering how Mel was. I constantly worried about her and the baby, whether she was sleeping okay or how she was getting on at work. She was always on my mind, but it never felt like a burden.

  At the station we caught a taxi to the registry office and twenty minutes later we were there. Large groups of people milled about with that wedding vibe about them: the smart clothes, the anxiety about what time it was, and the facial expressions that managed to combine “This is so exciting” wit
h “These shoes are killing me.”

  Dan and I sat on the wall of the registry office car park and loosened our ties. Although it was September and not exactly hot, I could feel the sweat running down my armpits, and I considered starting a discussion with Dan about the differences between antiperspirant and deodorant, but just at that moment Meena’s brother, Chris, tapped us both on the shoulder. It was a matter of public record that Chris had wanted to give Dan “the kicking of a lifetime” for the way Dan had treated Meena, and if there was anyone that you wouldn’t want to receive the kicking of a lifetime from, it was Chris. The only thing that had prevented him from killing Dan was Meena’s protests that Dan wasn’t worth it.

  “Carter and Duffy,” he said flatly, making us sound like the veritable comedy double act we now were. “There’s a surprise.”

  “All right?” said Dan. “How’s things?”

  “I’m going to say this once and once only,” spat Chris. “This is my sister’s wedding day and you’re not going to spoil it. If you do anything at all to screw this up I will spoil you beyond all recognition.” He jabbed a muscular finger into Dan’s chest. “Do you understand?”

  “I’m not here to spoil anything!” protested Dan, consciously avoiding looking Chris in the eye, as you would any wild animal that was looking for an excuse to tear you limb from limb. “I’m here to see a close friend get married. Okay?”