Remind Me Again
Why I Need a Man
Claudia Carroll
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
About the Author
Also by Claudia Carroll
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One: The Lovely Girls Club
Chapter Two: The Pity Party is Over
Chapter Three: Mr Wrong, the First
Chapter Four: Who Says Only Mafia Wives Wear Leather?
Chapter Five: Exes Revisited
Chapter Six: The Man Who Speaks Amelia
Chapter Seven: Of all the Gin Joints in all the Towns in all the World …
Chapter Eight: ‘Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man’
Chapter Nine: The Set-up
Chapter Ten: Exactly How Much Closure Do You Need?
Chapter Eleven: I Don’t Sleep, I Vacuum
Chapter Twelve: There’s Nothing so Tragic, You Can’t Find Something to Laugh at
Chapter Thirteen: Supposing This Is as Good as it Gets …
Chapter Fourteen: The One that Got Away
Chapter Fifteen: There is no Oz without Kansas
Chapter Sixteen: The Frenaissance
Chapter Seventeen: Me and My Matrix
Chapter Eighteen: An Iron Fist in a Velvet Glove …
Chapter Nineteen: Mr Intense
Chapter Twenty: The Cuckoo’s Nest
Chapter Twenty-One: My Own, Personal, Tailor-made Emotional-pension-plan Man
Chapter Twenty-Two: Let’s Face the Music and Dance
Chapter Twenty-Three: Treasure or Trash?
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Social Event of the Year … Not
Chapter Twenty-Five: When They’re Interested, They’re Interested, and When They’re Not, They’re Not
Chapter Twenty-Six: My Knight in Flabby Armour
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Is this Night Course about as Much Use to Me as a Chocolate Teapot?
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Heaven in Blue Jeans
Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Very Twentieth-century Way of Being Dumped
Chapter Thirty: A Rush of Blood to the Head
Chapter Thirty-One: Look Back in Languor
Chapter Thirty-Two: Get Down off Your Crucifix, We Need the Wood
Chapter Thirty-Three: And Then There Were None
Chapter Thirty-Four: Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man …
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REMIND ME AGAIN WHY I NEED A MAN A BANTAM BOOK: 9780553819342
First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers Bantam edition published 2007
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2006
Claudia Carroll has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
To my great friend Marion O’Dwyer, who,
as we walked down Dawson Street in Dublin
one sunny summers evening,
gave this book its title.
Claudia Carroll was born in Dublin, where she still lives. She has worked extensively as an actress on the Irish stage, but is probably best known for her role as TV’s nasty Nicola Prendergast in the long-running Irish soap opera Fair City, a character she describes as ‘the horrible old cow everyone loves to hate’.
Claudia is single, and this book’s title comes from a phrase she finds herself using quite a bit, particularly after a really bad date.
www.rbooks.co.uk
Also by Claudia Carroll
HE LOVES ME NOT … HE LOVES ME
THE LAST OF THE GREAT ROMANTICS
I NEVER FANCIED HIM ANYWAY
Acknowledgements
Thank you so much, Marianne Gunn O’Connor, my wonderful agent, for everything you’ve done for me in the last year. In October, this amazing woman rang me from the Frankfurt Book Fair with the overwhelming news that she had sold the US rights of this book to HarperCollins, New York. So a huge thank you to Claire Wachtel, Sean Griffin and everyone who works at that fabulous office on East 53rd Street. I loved meeting you all last November and can’t wait to work with you.
Thank you, Pat Lynch, for your calm patience and humour. You’ve become such a good friend.
Thanks to the divine Francesca Liversidge, for all your encouragement and for generally making my job so easy. I’ll keep on nagging you until we have another night on the town in Dublin! And thanks to everyone at Transworld Publishers in London, especially Nicky Jeanes, who really put in overtime helping me to get this book just right. Thanks also to the lovely Laura Sherlock for everything she’s done: your next trip to Dublin won’t come round soon enough! Thanks also to Vivien Garrett for all your kind words, which I really appreciate.
Thanks to Declan Heeney, and Gill and Simon Hess, who do so much hard work here. I couldn’t feel happier, luckier or more grateful to have you guys in my life.
Thank you, Vicky Satlow, for the unbelievable job you’ve done selling this book around Europe. To see my book translated into languages I can’t even speak is such a thrill.
Thanks to all my family for their much-needed support, especially Mom and Dad (who once made a trip to a well-known Dublin bookshop and took photos of a window display the store had kindly given me – I’m not joking). Thanks to Paddy and Sam, Richard, Lilla, Ellen and all my family in Scotland, Mai, Ted, Sequoia, Warwick and Ellie.
Thank you so much to Clelia and Miss Clara Belle Murphy for coming with me on book signings and generally being angels, the pair of them. If it’s the last thing we do, the three of us are going on another holiday, and this time I
will not take no for an answer.
Special thanks to all my fantastic friends, especially Pat Kinevane, Karen Nolan, Larry Finnegan, Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Marion O’Dwyer, Alison McKenna, Fiona Lalor, Sharon Hogan, Ailsa Prenter, Karen Hastings, Kevin Reynolds, Kevin Murnane and, of course, the Gunn family. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.
Thanks to Anita Notaro, great friend, great neighbour and a constant inspiration.
Thanks to all the wonderful people who have come into my life since I started writing, especially Patricia Scanlan, Kate Thompson, Sarah Webb and Marisa Mackle.
Thanks to Derick Mulvey; I’m really looking forward to working with you and only hope I don’t let you down!
Finally, after fourteen happy years, I’ve made the incredibly hard decision to leave Fair City, so I can devote more time to writing. I want to thank everyone on the team for being so good to me over the years, especially Niall Matthews (who very kindly said he would leave the door open for Nicola to return), Kevin McHugh, Mary Halpin, Karen Nolan, Elaine Walsh, Ferdia McAnna, Ann Myler, Johnny Cullen, Tony Tormey, Jim Bartley, Tom Hopkins, Una Crawford O’Brien and, of course, the one and only Joan O’Hara. You have no idea how much I’ll miss all of you, but please remember, I’m only ever a stone’s throw away …
Prologue
FATE IS LATE!
Right from the off, the first line grabbed my attention.
THIS IS YOUR YEAR!
… ran the banner headline on the office notice-board. But it was the next bit that made me not so much blush as hot flush.
YOUR YEAR TO GET MARRIED!!!
I tried my best to act all cool and unconcerned and pretended to be utterly absorbed in a load of ads for second-hand Fiat Puntos and neutered cats for sale.
THIS COURSE WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE FOR EVER! SIMPLY APPLY THE PRINCIPLES TAUGHT AT HARVARD MARKETING SCHOOL TO YOUR LOVE LIFE AND YOU’LL BE EXCHANGING ‘I DO’S’ BEFORE THE YEAR IS OUT!
I read on. Well, wouldn’t you?
BY REVISITING ALL OF YOUR PAST RELATIONSHIPS, WE’LL SHOW YOU WHERE YOU WENT WRONG, SO YOU CAN EMBRACE THE FUTURE AND MOVE FORWARD CONFIDENTLY WITH THE PARTNER OF YOUR DREAMS! FOR ANY WOMAN OVER THIRTY-FIVE WHO’S READY TO VAULT TO THE ALTAR THE SOLUTION IS SIMPLE. COME TO MY EVENING CLASS, GET ON MY TWELVE-STEP PROGRAM AND YOU’LL HAVE ONE FOOT IN THAT VERA WANG GOWN BEFORE THE YEAR IS OUT!
And that’s pretty much where my story starts …
Chapter One
The Lovely Girls Club
I work as a deputy producer on a television soap opera and often think that if this job came with a catchphrase, it would be, quite simply: ‘I HATE ACTORS!’ Well … I should more correctly say all actors except my darling friend (and honorary ‘Lovely Girl’) Jamie French, whom I’m meeting later on tonight.
At the moment, while resting between acting jobs, Jamie’s working as a waiter in Nosh, a hip, protein-only celebrity restaurant in the heart of Dublin’s Temple Bar. Although, according to him, they only call it a celebrity restaurant because Enya once had a coffee there. There was also a rumour that Bono went in once looking for directions, but it turned out to be just a lookalike. Anyway, it’s Nosh’s first birthday party tonight and me and the other ‘Lovely Girls’ are all going along. Now, I use the term ‘Girls’ in the loosest sense, as we’re all well into our late thirties, but none of us is quite ready to graduate and start classifying herself as ‘a proper grown-up woman’. At least, not just yet.
OK. Lovely Girl number one is Caroline, who is easily and effortlessly the loveliest one of the lot of us. (Although, admittedly, there’s not much contest there.) Caroline is stunning; she’s amazing; she’s just fab. When I grow up, I want to be her. She’s my oldest and closest pal, ever since we first met at primary school, when we were both cast as angels in the school nativity play. One hundred per cent pure typecasting in her case.
Two things about Caroline: (a) she’s led little short of a charmed life and (b) in the thirty-odd years I’ve known her, she has never, not once, ever been in a bad mood. Gorgeous-looking (the image of the blonde one in Abba) as well as smart, she modelled professionally for a bit after college and then did what we’re all supposed to do. Got married to her steady, lovely boyfriend Mike (six feet four, a dentist, a rugby player and general all-round lovely guy) and became the ultimate yummy mummy with her two perfect, straight-out-of-a-Mothercare-catalogue babies. They’re very rich, outrageously happy and you couldn’t even hold it against them. They’re both just too nice.
And then, drum roll, da-da-daaaaaaaaaa, there’s Rachel. Or Joan Collins as we’ve nicknamed her. The reason being that, although the same age as the rest of us, Rachel has already had two husbands. I’m not kidding. Number one was Parisian, a very cool-looking architect who she met way back when we were all in college together. They led an über-sophisticated life in a loft apartment on the West Bank, with Rachel point-blank refusing to marry him on the grounds that living together annoyed her mother more.
Now this is where it gets complicated. There’s something I need to tell you about our Rachel, a kind of running gag amongst us, which I should explain. We call it the lethal Rachel pheromone. It’s almost like a chemical she exudes from her pores which says, ‘I’m not looking for a man; I don’t particularly want a man; come any nearer and I’ll slit your throat.’ But the more she gives this off, the more guys chase after her like a Benny Hill movie speeded up. The irony is, here I am dying for a fella I can call my own and they run a mile from me, whereas all Rachel has to do is snarl at a guy and he immediately turns into her slobbering lapdog. I often wonder, is my desperation and her lack of it something that single men can smell?
So anyway. Back to Paris and husband number one. After years of trying to persuade her that annoying her mother was a really lame excuse for not getting married, he handed her an ultimatum. Either we break up, or we get hitched.
I know, I know, normally it’s the other way round, women are the ones who are supposed to give men the shit-or-get-off-the-pot-type ultimatum, but this is Rachel’s world, not mine. She didn’t particularly want to break up, so, while on holiday in Las Vegas, she impulsively married him Britney Spears-style, at the end of an all-night drinking session, with two cleaners for witnesses. And then the unthinkable happened.
She came back to Dublin for a flying visit to break the news to all of us, but ended up having a vicious row with her mother, who nearly hit the ceiling when she realized that now she’d never get a Jimmy-Choo-clad foot into a mother-of-the-bride rig-out. So, unexpectedly, Rachel decided to hop on the first flight she could get back home to Paris to surprise her brand-new husband.
Big mistake.
Rachel says to this day she can vividly remember racing up all fifteen flights of stairs and breathlessly flinging the door open – to find him in bed with a close, mutual friend of theirs. Stunned, she somehow made her way back to Charles de Gaulle airport only to realize that she had absolutely no money. Nothing. Not even enough to make a phone call. So she did what we’d all do in similar circumstances. Sat on her suitcase in the middle of the concourse, cigarette in hand, bawling.
Second big mistake.
It just so happened that there had been a big match on that weekend, and the airport bar was packed to overflowing with fans on their way home. So, one of them spots this gorgeous damsel in distress (Rachel looks a bit like a 1920s silent movie star: you know, snow-white skin and dark bobbed hair, kind of like Louise Brooks, except with muscles) and he goes to help. He was a big, beefy New Zealander, who seemed like the answer to her prayers; i.e., he bought her drinks, paid for her flight home and offered to rip number one’s head off on her behalf. As far as Rachel was concerned, he came along in such a haze of romance, he may as well have been riding on a white charger. Who could resist? Within a year, she had divorced number one, married number two and then divorced him only a few months later.
Could you make this up?
‘In the space of eighteen short months,’ she
often says, ‘I managed to get married to the two most useless men in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres. For God’s sake, my first husband’s idea of fidelity was to bed only one woman at a time, and my second husband’s idea of foreplay was to brush his teeth. So, as far as romance is concerned, that’s it, that’s my lot, I’ve had my chips. Love and passion are only for teenagers. I’m standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, staring into the romantic abyss that is single life after thirty-five and you know something else? I don’t care.’
Now she owns and manages one of the swishiest and most expensive boutiques in Dublin, dresses like a dream, drinks like a dowager, has a mouth like a sewer and is easily the funniest person I know.
I often think that being friends with her is the closest I’ll ever come to living in 1920s New York and hanging around the Algonquin hotel with Dorothy Parker all the time.
The ‘Lovely Girls’ club (christened by Rachel) has been on the go for over twenty years now, when the four of us became inseparable back in college. They are my best friends/soulmates/urban family/shoulders to cry on and I would unhesitatingly do anything for any one of them. Well, anything except be on time.
‘LATE!’ they chant as I finally spot them and make my way through the throng.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I pant breathlessly, ‘actor disaster in work.’
‘Don’t tell me, Rob Richards got drunk at lunchtime and made a move on you,’ says Jamie who, although he’s meant to be working, is perched very companionably between the other Lovely Girls.
‘Eughhhhh!’ the rest of us chant in unison.
Rob Richards, I should explain, is a long-serving cast member on the TV soap opera Celtic Tigers, which I’ve only just started to work on. He’s been in the show since the very first episode, all of ten years ago, when he was actually quite attractive. ‘At the risk of sounding like a primmer version of one of those spinstery type parts that Maggie Smith always plays,’ I say, ‘may I just point out that I only ever kissed him once at the studio wrap party and, in my defence, it was Christmas, I was lonely, I had knocked back four glasses of Pinot Noir on an empty stomach and, well, you know what I always say?’
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