Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  Amy’s eyes stung.

  “If only you knew . . .” she began, self-pity bubbling to the surface.

  “Knew what? How hard it is to let someone in? How risky it is giving yourself to someone in case you get hurt? How frightening it is to imagine losing that person? Well, I do know, actually, probably more than you ever will. I’d like to say no hard feelings, but I can’t, so the best I can say is good luck with whatever you’re after tonight—another quick shag, is it?—and I suppose I owe you a thank-you for at least getting me back in this bloody dating minefield. Quite what I’m doing here I don’t know—as you probably said to yourself as I left that morning, ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’ ”

  And at that, the bell rang. It was as if Susan had been primed.

  “Bye, Amy,” said Joe, putting on his jacket. Amy sat stunned as Joe got up and walked out of the room. She watched his feet disappear up the stairs. Her heart was racing, her face was red, and her ears were rushing, and every particle in her body was urging her to get up and run after him, to tell him he was right and that she was scared and that yes, there was something very special between them that she felt terrified of. But her feet would not move. Try as she might, her feet remained resolutely stuck to the floor.

  “Cheer up, treacle, it might never ’appen!”

  “It just did,” said Amy. Her next date had arrived; a big, friendly-looking bearlike man sat down in front of her. He was about fifty if he was a day, bald, and wearing an England football shirt.

  “Roy,” he said, his eyes twinkling warmly as he held out his big paw.

  “Amy,” she replied, grateful for his firm handshake. The room was spinning, and her mind was thick with fog. She felt much in need of something stable.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, concern in his voice.

  “The ghost of Christmas future,” said Amy, staring straight ahead.

  “Seriously, love, are you all right? Do you want me to get you some water?” Amy looked at him and saw a sweet, caring man. It was all she could do to stop herself from flinging herself at him and sobbing on his shoulder.

  “Better than that,” she replied. “You can get me out of here.”

  Roy look confused but delighted, like someone who never wins a thing bagging the jackpot without even buying a ticket.

  “As it ’appens, I’ve got me cab outside—I’m a cabbie—but don’t worry, I won’t stick the meter on!” said Roy, leaping up and helping Amy out from behind the table.

  On the way out, Amy noticed with a jolt that the blonde had also left—had she followed Joe? A pang of jealousy shot through her. They quickly swept past Susan, who tried to grab their cards and ask them why they were leaving, but Roy expertly shielded Amy and rushed her up the stairs. Below them, the dull hum of woeful self-projection continued into the night.

  . 8 .

  Outside, the streets were clogged with Monday-night revelers—the sort of hardcore party people who preferred to do their serious drinking and clubbing on a school night, when all the amateurs were tucked in bed. Amy took a deep breath and tried to relax her shoulders. She would not let the unexpected encounter with Joe sway her. Roy was as good a candidate as any—a bit older than she would have liked, but he seemed keen and uncomplicated, two attributes that all the younger men so far had failed to show. If she could just bring herself to blank Joe out again (as successfully as she had been able to over the past few days), she could be pregnant tomorrow. She might as well go for it. She was in her peak ovulation window, and Joe’s words had affirmed her own fears about herself. He was right. She was too afraid to get involved. Far better to stick to her original plans than to let go and fall for someone who could never provide a child. What if the relationship failed, like all the others, after a year or so? She’d be left childless and old, her fertility in terminal decline and her chances of conceiving even slimmer than they already were. It was too high a price to risk paying. And despite the fact that she felt sick every time she saw Joe—a sure sign that she was in love—there was no guarantee that the feeling would last beyond the honeymoon period. History bore testimony to her crapness in the long haul. In the relationship Olympics, she would always be a sprinter. Better just get used to it.

  “Where to, guv?” said Roy, sliding the glass partition over and smiling back at Amy. He was enjoying this.

  “I don’t know. Anywhere.”

  “Okeydoke,” said Roy, lurching out onto the road.

  For a few minutes, there was silence. Amy tore herself from her own thoughts and tried to concentrate on Roy. What on earth did he think was going on? He must think she was pretty weird, asking to be taken out, then not caring where she went. Plus, there was the fact that she was clearly in some sort of demented state. He was either too tactful or too emotionally retarded to comment.

  “So tell me all about it then,” he said eventually, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

  “What?”

  “Come on. I know women. There’s something up. What—or who—are you trying to forget? You can tell me, I’m a cabbie. I’ve heard it all.”

  “Oh, something and nothing.”

  “No such thing in the female world. Who was he? Come on, treat this cab like a confessional. Most people do. If it helps, I won’t look at you!”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a left-footer!” said Amy, trying to deflect the attention.

  “Yep. Irish parents. I can spot a fellow Catholic a mile off. So come on. Let’s be ’aving you.”

  Amy thought for a moment. Should she be candid? It was true that the cab felt conducive to spilling the beans—something about the intimate yet impersonal setup. It was always easier to confess to the side of the priest’s head—no off-putting facial reactions, no eye contact.

  “OK. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Roy let out a laugh of recognition.

  “And how long is it since your last confession?”

  “It’s been . . . about twenty-two years, Father.”

  “Tut-tut, my child.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Busy sinning?”

  “Yes, Father. And no, Father. You see, it all started when I decided I wanted to have a baby.”

  “And you’re not married, my child?”

  “No, Father. But that’s not the bad bit. The bad bit is I decided I’d try to get pregnant on my own, as it were, by sleeping with a succession of men until I hit the jackpot.”

  “Oh,” said Roy, sounding slightly out of his depth. “Go on.”

  “But it’s not as bad as it sounds, Father—I didn’t actually go to bed with any of them, although I must confess that was largely because they let me down at the last minute, not because I repented in time. But then I met this one guy.”

  “I think I know where this is going.”

  “And we just sort of clicked. And we spent the night together. But then he told me he had had a vasectomy, so I pushed him away.”

  “And then you tried to carry on—hence QuickMatch tonight—but you found your heart wasn’t in it?”

  “Something like that. He was there tonight, and I know he likes me a lot. But I pushed him away again. And now here I am with you. Hoping that you can help me out . . .” Amy sat forward and looked at Roy in the mirror. “You see, I have a feeling if I don’t do it tonight—and I could get pregnant tonight—I won’t carry on. I can feel my resolve weakening. And it feels important. Don’t say anything yet—just hear me out, Father, sorry, Roy—you wouldn’t have to do anything else, you wouldn’t ever hear from me again, and I wouldn’t want any money or anything. It would just be one night.”

  There was a long pause.

  “See. I told you I was a sinner.”

  “Well,” said Roy after what seemed like an hour. They were cruising along an eerily deserted Euston Road. “I said I’d heard it all, but that just about takes the biscuit, my darlin’.”

  “I know it’s weird, but I just thought I’d be ho
nest. I mean, I could have just done it without telling you and you’d be none the wiser, but you did ask me what was wrong. . . .”

  “I know, I know I did.”

  “And you can’t lie in confession. So what do you think?”

  Roy chewed his thumbnail. They were at a set of traffic lights near Regent’s Park. Amy watched the sequence of lights ahead all switch to red. Stop. If only she had her one red light. She needed something to halt this ludicrous situation. Her ovaries had taken over and were about to set her on a one-way journey to single parenthood. What was she doing? Amy gazed out the window, waiting for his reply. It had become a game of chance. If he said yes, then she would go ahead. If he said no, then she would probably end up abandoning the whole thing. Another taxi pulled up alongside them with a couple in the back. The woman had her back to the side window and was talking animatedly to the outline of a man. Amy hated them, for no other reason than that they were doing something very ordinary—going home as a couple, probably after a lovely night out, to go to bed and curl up in each other’s arms. Why had her life turned out so weird? She stared at them for a few moments. Suddenly, the woman flicked her blond hair back and laughed. As she threw her head back, she revealed more of the man, and Amy’s heart stopped. It was Joe and the blonde from the bar. In a taxi. Together.

  “All right,” said Roy. “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” Amy couldn’t take her eyes off the pair in the next cab. What was he doing with that woman after the big speech he had laid on her about love, fear, and fickleness?

  “I’ll do it. No questions, no demands on either side. If I can be of assistance, I’ll do it. I hate the idea of women not being able to have a baby if they want one. I’ve thought about donating my sperm as it goes, and now I can—as a direct deposit!” Roy laughed heartily.

  The lights turned green and the cab next door sped in front while Roy recovered himself.

  “No. Look. Sorry. I’ve changed my mind. Follow that cab!” said Amy, clear now.

  “What?” said Roy dumbly. “Why?”

  “It’s him. The one. The man I was telling you about. Sorry, but I have to stop him. He’s with a girl. Follow them!”

  Roy rolled his eyes. “All right, where’s the bleeding camera? This has got to be a setup.”

  But Roy did what he was told, and Amy moved forward to the fold-down seat nearer to the front of the cab.

  “I’m not being funny, love, but I’ll have to put the meter on.”

  “Fine, fine, whatever, just don’t lose them.”

  Roy sped off in pursuit of Joe’s taxi. They followed Joe and the woman all the way along the Marylebone Road, out onto the flyover, along to Uxbridge, and out toward the M40, Amy biting her nails and cursing herself for her stupidity. The words of Joni Mitchell always seemed to fly out at her in times like these: “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?” It occurred to her that she didn’t even know where Joe lived. Were they on the way to his house? She knew he was based in West London. Or maybe they were on the way to the woman’s flat? The thought sickened her.

  “Catch them up—you’re losing them!” Amy shouted. “Sorry, but this is really important—this is the most important taxi ride of my life!”

  “All right, all right, keep your knickers on—I won’t lose him, don’t worry!”

  They turned left, then right, then along a long road full of speed bumps. Roy was good at this—he made sure he kept enough distance so as not to arouse suspicion, but he never lost sight of their taillights. Finally, somewhere around Acton, the cab in front pulled in alongside a terraced house with a beaten-up old Triumph Herald in the drive. Amy knew this was Joe’s house. It just had to be.

  “What now?” said Roy, whose crossness had subsided.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Well, go out and talk to him!”

  “No! I can’t! What would I say?”

  “Tell him the truth! Tell him you love him and that it doesn’t matter about the baby thing.”

  “He doesn’t even know about that!”

  “Oh, Jesus. Well leave that bit out—but tell him you’ve been a fool and you want him back. Men love all that.”

  “They do?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Oh, fuck, they’re going inside! What am I going to do now?”

  “You muffed it. Missed your moment. Too late. That’s it now. All done and dusted. They’ll go in, have a drink, have a chat, he’ll be feeling sore ’cause you dumped him, and he’ll find consolation in the arms of another. Classic.”

  “Thank you very much! I could go and ring on the bell. . . .”

  “And what? Pretend to be an Avon lady?”

  “Let’s just wait.”

  “What for? You’re on a hiding to nothing, love, trust me. I know men.”

  Amy slumped back in the seat. This was very bad indeed. She had no idea what to do but wait. Surely Joe wouldn’t be so predictable? He was made of stronger stuff than that. If he had really meant what he said an hour ago, there was no way he would be keen to jump into bed with anyone else now. Was there? The thought ate away at her, and she contemplated decisive action—either she could just get Roy to take her home right now or she could get out of the cab and walk the plank to Joe’s front door. But in her heart she knew she would do what she always did in such circumstances. Nothing. And even if she had to sit and wait all night to see the blonde woman emerge tussle-haired and smiling at dawn, kissing Joe a fond good-bye on the doorstep as he stooped in his dressing gown to pick up the milk, at least then she would know that Joe was not all he seemed, and she could go home then to her cold bed, safe in the knowledge that he turned out to be like all the rest—full of bullshit.

  “I’m gonna sit this one out,” said Amy finally.

  “Fair enough. I’ll turn the engine off,” said Roy, now enjoying the drama of it all again.

  Amy watched grimly as the front room light came on and then was dimmed—no doubt to enhance the romantic atmosphere. She shuddered, but still her feet would not move. Roy folded his arms and sighed dramatically. Minutes passed, and neither of them said a thing. Roy started to fiddle with the radio, and settled on a London radio talk show.

  “Just a quick reminder we’re taking your calls on relationships this evening—so give us a call 020 7224 2000—we’ve got Doctor Gillian Liechtenstein here with advice on how to deal with infidelity, what to do if you’re with someone who just won’t commit—I think we all know a few of those!—and, for the desperado singletons out there, how to bag your man!” twittered the husky-voiced presenter.

  “Oh, turn it off!” snapped Amy.

  “Ooh—too close to home, is it?” teased Roy.

  Amy said nothing and hunkered down for a long wait. Roy closed his eyes and attempted to sleep. An hour passed. Amy watched people come and go in the street. A man returned to the house next door to Joe’s and was greeted by a young child at the door. He was just an ordinary man—so unfair that he should get to live so close to Joe that his child probably played with Joe’s kids, and he didn’t even appreciate how lucky he was. Such were the workings of Amy’s love-addled mind. Suddenly, even Joe’s tired-looking potted plants took on an almost sacred aspect. A woman arrived at a house a few doors up on a large bicycle, carrying a bottle of wine in a carrier bag. A casual Monday-night dinner party with a few close friends. Amy ached when she thought about how little she had seen of her own friends these past few baby-obsessed months. A young Asian man delivered takeaway menus to every door on the street. If only she had such unfettered access to Joe’s letterbox—what would she post there? She watched and waited, one eye on Joe’s door at all times. Watched the evening turn dark, the post-summer trees black against the dark blue sky. The light from Joe’s front room glowed with a taunting warmth as Roy started to snore gently in the front seat.

  What am I going to do now? Amy asked herself. What if we’re here all night? Am I really prepared to let this slip
by?

  Another hour passed. Roy stirred and wiped the dribble from his chin.

  “It’s clocking up now,” he said, indicating the still-ticking meter. “174.60 pounds so far,” he chirped, stretching. Getting no reply, he turned to find Amy slumped in one corner of the cab, fast asleep. As quietly as he could, he got out of the cab to fetch the tartan rug he kept in the boot and gently placed it over his sleeping oddball passenger. It was good to be here, really, in the service of true love—if not in receipt of it. He looked up at the stars and smiled the wan smile of a man used to romantic rejection. The night was still and the first hint of chilly autumn was in the air.

  From across the street came the sound of voices now. Roy turned in time to see a tall, blonde, disgruntled-looking woman stepping out of a house and talking to a dark-haired, handsome man. She said something curt and marched off up the road as the man in the doorway hung his head. Roy found himself smiling. He recognized the woman as the one in the bar (she had been so abrupt with Roy in their three minutes that he had almost laughed out loud, and when he joked that he thought he could pass for thirty, she had snootily suggested that that would only be possible during an eclipse)—and he also knew the mask of a woman scorned.

  “Taxi!” she shouted when she saw Roy next to the cab. Why did people always do that even when they could see that your light wasn’t on and you were therefore not available?

  “Yes, love,” said Roy, enjoying every minute.

  “Can you take me to Chelsea, please?” she said, not even recognizing him. Hardly surprising, seeing as she had looked at him only once during their “date.”