Mr. Commitment

by Mike Gayle

  Chris glared at Dan and then glared at me and then combined his glares for the benefit of the both of us before walking off.

  I turned to Dan, about to remark upon Chris’s ability to walk upright without the aid of his knuckles, when we were interrupted again. Standing next to us was a balding man in his late fifties, with a full beard, who was so large he reminded me of an off-duty version of the wrestlers that my mum loved watching on a Saturday afternoon when I was a kid. The austere-looking woman next to him, in a matching cream suit and hat, I assumed was his wife. They just had to be Meena’s parents.

  “I would’ve thought you’d have had the decency not to turn up,” said Mr. Amos to Dan. He raised his eyebrows when he said the word “you” for emphasis.

  “Your daughter invited me, Mr. Amos,” said Dan. “She’s a friend. It would’ve been wrong not to have come. The coward’s way out.”

  “Well, you still shouldn’t have come,” muttered Mr. Amos, lost for words at his daughter’s stupidity.

  “Why?” asked Dan.

  A look of confusion spread across Mr. Amos’s features. His huge eyebrows suddenly met in the middle, the furrows in his forehead deepened and his lips tightened.

  Mrs. Amos, obviously unfazed by the unexpected, stepped into the fray on behalf of her husband. “Because you don’t deserve to be here,” she said, and then added a loud, dismissive tut to back her husband’s disapproval.

  “Don’t think you’re going to mess things up for our daughter,” Mr. Amos said threateningly. “I promise you this: you will not spoil this day.” He looked at Dan with such scorn that I thought he was going to throw a punch.

  “Look,” I said, and stood up, pushing him back gently, “you’ve said what you wanted to say. Now leave it, eh?”

  “You’d better take your hands off me, son, if you know what’s good for you.”

  The last thing on earth I needed was to get into a fight with anyone. Least of all a man with a son as preposterously homicidal as Chris was. However, he was threatening my friend, so I stood my ground regardless, despite possessing all the pugilistic presence of an eight-year-old girl.

  “Just leave him alone, okay?” I said, trying my best to sound hard.

  Throwing a look of disgust in my direction, he and his wife turned and walked away, leaving me to bask in the glow of winning such a potentially lethal face-off. I sat back down on the wall, my legs were shaking slightly.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing if he had hit me,” Dan said quietly.

  “Nah,” I said. “He would’ve knocked his wig off in the process.”

  “You reckon he was wearing a wig?” Dan looked over his shoulder at the departing Mr. Amos. “Who’d have thought it, eh? I always knew there was something about the old git that didn’t add up. Meena always told me he just didn’t like having his hair cut.”

  For a moment he almost seemed like his old self, but within a few minutes he slipped back into his New Dan depression.

  I was just wondering what to do to cheer him up when a voice from behind us said, “Feeling sorry for yourself?”

  I looked round, semi-startled, at a tall dark-haired man whose distinctive attire singled him out as the groom. Next to him were two other men, who by their dress could only have been ushers. Without a doubt we were once again going to be threatened with violence. I handed Dan a cigarette, and took one out for myself.

  “Don’t,” said Dan, taking control of the situation by refusing to turn around. “Just don’t. There’s no need to, Paul. You’ve won.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “You’ve got Meena, and watching the odd episode of Casualty and The Bill I can see that your acting career has indeed gone from strength to strength since we left college. Meanwhile, I’ve got no Meena, and as for my career . . . well, let’s just say it’s nowhere near as illustrious as yours. So, please, there’s no need to prove your manliness with fisticuffs—I believe you. Let’s just leave it at that, eh?”

  One of Paul’s ushers, eager to prove his solidarity with the groom, shoved Dan in the back, and would’ve followed it up with some other act of violence had I not stood up, dropped my cigarette and pushed him back forcefully. He lost his balance and fell into the other ushers. He was about to launch himself at me and tear me limb from limb when Paul held him back.

  “Leave it, James,” he said. “If we start anything here Meena will go mad.”

  James calmed down, but not before spitting in my direction. “You’re a dead man,” he said, pointing at me threateningly. I nodded, smiled and gave him a silent but effective internationally renowned gesture of disdain. Where all this bravado was coming from I had no idea, but I was going to enjoy it while I had it.

  “I’ll leave you alone,” said Paul, while Dan observed him coolly. “I don’t know what Meena ever saw in you. I really don’t. You were a waster at college and you’re a waster now.” He paused. “It was Meena who invited you here and I’ve respected her wishes in having you here. But this I will say: do anything to spoil this day and you will regret it.”

  “Why does everyone think I’ve come here to spoil Meena’s day?” said Dan to me rather than the assembled besuited apes behind him. “I loved Meena. Why would I want to spoil her day?”

  “Paul, we’d better go, mate,” said the groom’s only pacifist usher. And with that they walked off without saying another word.

  The registry office was set on the edge of a park five minutes away, so for the remaining twenty minutes we wandered about looking at flower beds, sitting on benches and smoking too many cigarettes. By the time we made our way back to the registry office a large group of people from the last wedding party had just exited and were milling around with the guests for Meena’s wedding. At five minutes past two everyone’s attention turned toward the driveway as a white Rolls-Royce carrying Meena and her maid of honor came to a halt. Watching her get out of the car was a totally surreal experience. I was no expert on wedding dresses, but even I could appreciate that she looked absolutely stunning. Meena’s father helped her out of the car and she held on to his arm proudly.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Dan, his voice faltering slightly. “I’m jealous of Mr. Amos. Meena’s relying on his support to get through this. I want to be Mr. Amos. I want Meena to rely on me, even if she is marrying someone whose finest hour was as bank robber number two on The Bill.”

  The interior of the registry office was decorated in a soulless cream that made the room feel cold and impersonal. Dan and I thought it best to take seats at the back, well away from the groom, ushers and Meena’s family. We sat down on cushioned plastic chairs that had seen better days, and smiled at an old lady dressed in orange taffeta who had moved along for us. The organist began playing Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” and everyone stood up.

  “She looks wonderful,” said the old orange lady to Dan as Meena and her father made their way up the aisle. “The groom’s handsome too.”

  Dan nodded.

  “I’m so happy for her,” said the old orange lady. “Of course it nearly didn’t happen. Her mother was saying that she had cold feet this morning. Wasn’t going to go through with it.”

  “Really?” said Dan. “Why was that?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue, but I’d love to know,” she said ominously. “Apparently she’s only been courting Paul for a year. Maybe that was the problem. Although, the way I hear it she’s not had a very good track record with men altogether. According to her mother, Meena’s previous young man was a bit of an undesirable.”

  “I heard he was just a bit stupid,” said Dan. “Didn’t know a good thing when he had it.”

  “He’s meant to be here somewhere,” said Orange Lady scanning the room, presumably in search of someone with hooves and a pointed tail. “Apparently he had an invitation! Can you imagine the audacity of such a man? Turning up to Meena’s wedding like this?”

  Dan shook his head.

  “Well, he doesn’t matter anymore,” said Ora
nge Lady dismissively. “The important thing is that she’s here today. Whatever worries she had, she must have resolved them.”

  I looked across at Dan, but his eyes were fixed to the front of the room.

  Now, I’d seen The Graduate and countless Hollywood imitations. I knew that when the registrar got to the part where he says, “If there’s anybody here who knows of any reason why these two should not be married, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” Dan was supposed to say something, anything that would mean that he wouldn’t lose Meena, but he didn’t. He just kept his mouth tightly closed and tried to hold back the tears.

  Everyone clapped when Meena and Paul were pronounced husband and wife. I didn’t at first, as a show of support for Dan, but then Dan started clapping and I felt a bit stupid being the odd one out.

  Orange Lady looked at Dan sadly while the happy couple signed the register. “It was quite emotional, wasn’t it?” she said, handing him a tissue from her handbag. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but it’s very rare that men cry at weddings. You must have been very close to her.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I was.”

  Like that bloke in Groundhog Day

  Dan and I were offered a lift to the reception by two of Meena’s old college friends, Jenny and Lisa. In the car they asked me how we knew her and I lied and told them we used to live in the flat above Meena when she lived in Muswell Hill. Dan wasn’t really saying much about anything, and although I tried to make up for his reticence by talking all kinds of complete and utter rubbish, it quickly became obvious to them that he was acting a bit strange.

  Eventually Lisa got annoyed enough to make a comment when an innocent question to Dan about what he did for a living was met with complete silence. “I don’t know what your problem is,” she said to Dan as the car pulled up at a set of traffic lights, “but there’s no need to be so obnoxious. Last time I looked, manners didn’t cost anything.”

  Without pausing for thought Dan opened the car door and got out, slamming it behind him.

  “Er, d’you want me to pull over?” said Jenny, addressing me agitatedly, about to indicate. There was now a long queue of traffic either side of us.

  “I didn’t mean to upset him,” added Lisa apologetically. “He was just being so strange. Don’t you think you should go after him?”

  “No,” I said quietly as I watched Dan dodging through the lines of cars to the other side of the road. “No, I don’t think I should go after him, and no, I don’t think you should pull over.”

  They both looked at me as if they were witnessing the worst betrayal of friendship ever committed. Right now, however, Dan didn’t need my opinion, sympathy or comfort, which is what these two strangers wanted me to offer him. What he needed was to be alone.

  “He’ll be all right,” I explained. “He’s just had a bit of a weird day, that’s all.”

  The white Rolls-Royce that had taken the bride and groom from the registry office to the reception at the Piermont Hotel was surrounded by a gang of children. They were pointing and yelling, “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!” in unison at the car’s chauffeur. They’d been at it for some five minutes now and I could tell from the look on the driver’s face that he’d got to the stage where he was weighing up whether it was worth losing his job to enjoy the simple satisfaction of telling the lot of them to bugger off. The rest of the wedding guests milled around aimlessly on the hotel’s front lawn sipping glasses of bucks fizz, chatting with friends and relatives they hadn’t seen in years and generally wondering what would happen next. Meanwhile, Meena and Paul and their immediate families were being herded around the hotel grounds by a team of wedding photographers keen to give the couple’s day of happiness a varied selection of softly focused backdrops.

  Jenny and Lisa had abandoned me in order to “mingle” almost the very second we’d arrived, leaving me to loiter alone at the front of the hotel lobby examining the ornamental ivy growing up the window frames like a dedicated amateur botanist. Quite obviously appearing bored out of my mind, I was approached by a number of people who all endeavored to draw me into conversation. I chatted to Mrs. Kapur (Meena’s great auntie) about the latest trends in men’s ties, Samantha (the groom’s second cousin’s ex-girlfriend) about how much she hated the groom’s second cousin, and Lucy (a six-year-old who hadn’t the faintest clue what her connection to the bride and groom was) about what she was getting for her birthday in two weeks’ time. Thankfully after half an hour of this an announcement was made for the guests to take their seats at the banqueting hall. There was no way I was going to sit down at a table of strangers, eating melon and swapping wedding anecdotes, and I had made my mind up to call a taxi and get the train back to London when I spotted Dan walking up the hotel drive, looking pensive.

  “All right, mate?” I said as he reached me.

  He nodded, hands dejectedly lodged in his trouser pockets. “Yeah. I’m all right.”

  “Let’s sit down for a second.” I gestured to a wooden bench overlooking a large pond. “These shoes are killing me.” Dan nodded and together we walked across the lawn, crunching sun-dried duck poo underfoot.

  “Did you walk here?” I asked as we sat down.

  “Got a taxi,” said Dan. He scratched the back of his neck animatedly. “Sorry about . . . you know.”

  “No, problem,” I replied, and there we sat, not moving or talking, just sharing a silence—a big, fat empty pause filled with nothingness. I’d forgotten how much of a strain it was constantly to have to translate the world and how I saw it into words for the benefit of those who didn’t understand. It was nice to enjoy a moment when I could just sit back, relax and think about nothing.

  “Duff?” said Dan, after having shared over half an hour’s worth of noncommunication.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you love Mel?”

  I paused and lit a cigarette before answering. It was a big question to begin with, but the fact that it was Dan who had asked it, only seemed to make it even bigger. “That’s a bit deep, isn’t it?” I stalled. “Where did that come from?”

  He shrugged indifferently, acknowledging both my attempt to sidestep the question and my right to do so. “I was just wondering whether if I had the power to time-travel, I’d have done things differently . . .” His attention was distracted by the roar of an RAF jet passing overhead. He stopped and stared up at the sky momentarily. “Do you know, I’m not sure I would. That’s the thing about hindsight: over time you gradually forget how stupid you’ve acted in the past. Time and time again I’ve made the same mistakes. Like that bloke in Groundhog Day. Only I never learn. Knowing you’ve got to do the right thing doesn’t amount to much if you never actually do it. I mean—”

  “I thought I’d find you both out here,” interrupted a female voice from behind us. It seemed like everyone was coming up behind us these days.

  Dan and I turned round simultaneously to see which new member of Meena’s family and friends had come over to warn us off spoiling the wedding. My money had been on Meena’s chief bridesmaid, because I’d noted somewhat warily that she was built like a professional arm wrestler, but it was the bride herself. She was standing there quite innocently, her wedding dress appearing much whiter than it had before. Every now and again a shallow gust of wind caught the loose fabric of the skirt, giving it an almost liquid appearance.

  “Hello, Dan, hello, Duffy. How are you both?”

  “All right, Meena?” I said nervously. I stood up, preparing for evasive action. This was bound to turn into a Situation, and I really didn’t want to be here when it did. “I think I ought to leave you two alone. You’ve probably got stuff you want to talk about and you don’t really need me hanging about, do you?”

  “No,” said Dan firmly. “I think you ought to stay, Duff. You need to hear this more than anyone else.” He stepped over to Meena and kissed her lightly. “Congratulations,” he said warmly. “It was a good wedding as weddings go.”

  “Thanks,”
said Meena. “I’m . . . glad you could come.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “You two weren’t at the lunch, were you?”

  “No,” said Dan apologetically. “It was all my fault. I had a bit of a wander around Nottingham and lost track of time.”

  “There’s more food if you want it,” she said, gesturing toward the hotel. “There’s loads of it knocking about. If you don’t fancy it now you can always wait until the evening reception.”

  “Are you having a disco later?” asked Dan, grinning.

  “No,” laughed Meena. “Paul’s parents paid for the hire of a band. They’re called the No Tops. They play all sorts, but they specialize in covers of cheesy sixties Motown hits.”

  “No disco,” said Dan with a hint of gentle sarcasm in his voice. “No ‘Come on Eileen’? No ‘Three Times a Lady’? Not even a ‘Birdie Song’?”

  Meena laughed and held his gaze a few seconds longer than necessary or indeed appropriate for a recently married woman.

  “So what’s it like being married?” asked Dan. “Do you feel any different?”

  “I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “No, no different. At least not yet.”

  “D’you remember that wedding we went to?” said Dan. “It was one of your mates from the first theater you worked at, what was her name . . . Lynne Hodges that was it . . . and there was that huge fight between the best man and her father-in-law.” He paused, slightly confused, as if he’d lost his train of thought. “Do you think our wedding would’ve been like this? I can’t help thinking it wouldn’t have been. I think at least it might have been a bit smaller. My family’s nowhere near as big as yours. My mum—”

  “Don’t, Dan,” interrupted Meena. “Don’t make out like we’re old mates. Don’t pretend that you’re just another well-wisher. If there’s one thing you can do for me, please just be honest.”

  “I’m sorry, you know,” said Dan quietly.