Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘I said the one where you learn how to find a husband over the age of thirty-five.’

  The administrations woman is shouting by now too. ‘Hello? CAN YOU HEAR ME?’

  ‘YES! I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR. THE COURSE I WANT TO GO ON IS THE ONE WHERE YOU LEARN HOW TO FIND A HUSBAND OVER THE AGE OF THIRTY-FIVE.’

  ‘Sounds very interesting.’

  I turn around and there’s Dave Bruton, easily our nicest and most gorgeous director. (Married, worse luck …) Anyway, he must have spotted me through the office window and followed me outside.

  ‘I’m sorry about this, can you hold for a moment?’ I say into the phone, trying to sound all businesslike and

  … well, you know … normal.

  ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt you,’ he said apologetically, ‘I just wanted to let you know we have another three actors at TV reception waiting for the auditions. I’m just going to have a quick chat with them about the scene I want them to read and then we’ll be ready when you are, Miss de Mille.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ I laugh nervously. ‘Just give me two secs and I’ll be right with you.’

  ‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you get back to your call. Booking a night course then, are you?’

  ‘Ehh, yes …’ I stammer, frantically trying to think of something plausible when Rachel’s words come back to me. ‘It’s a course for single women, in killing spiders and … emm … rodents and, well, you know, basic household pest control really.’

  ‘For the over thirty-fives?’

  ‘Yes … well, you know, whatever your age, it’s never too late to learn the basics about … emm … rat poison.’

  Dave smiles and moves off.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to the nice admissions woman who, miraculously, I can hear clear as a bell now, ‘I just … well, I just didn’t want anyone in work to know what I was up to.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ she laughs, ‘just about everyone else who’s enrolled for the course has said pretty much the same thing. First class is tonight at eight p.m. sharp.’

  ‘Tonight? Oh, OK then. Thank you.’

  ‘And bringing a paper bag to put over your head is entirely optional.’

  I hang up, delighted. This really feels like a step in the right direction. You know, like I’m finally facing up to the problem and taking control, instead of doing what I normally do which is to (a) moan about being single and dumped, (b) read loads of happiness-and-romance-are-just-within-your-grasp type self-help books, realize none of them actually work and then (c) go out and get trolleyed drunk with my friends.

  I once read a book about creative visualization, a self-help technique where you envisage yourself living your perfect life to help you through stressful times. Apparently they teach this to the astronauts at NASA, to help them cope with the claustrophobia of being cooped up inside the space shuttle and to stop them going completely mental and pressing all the wrong buttons, as I probably would if they were ever daft enough to send me on a mission to the moon. You take a deep breath and imagine yourself in a wide open space or on a sandy beach, miles away from Cape Canaveral and flight simulators and voices on headsets saying, ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

  In my case, the dream situation is a little different. I close my eyes for a second and try to drown out all the background noises.

  My perfect life … OK. A couple of nice, deep, soothing breaths. Here we go.

  I’m in a beautiful long silk wedding dress (off-white, Vera Wang, Empire line … What can I say? I’ve put a lot of thought into this) walking down the aisle, ring on the finger, bouquet in hand, blissfully happy with my lovely new husband by my side.

  My headless husband, that is.

  Well, how am I supposed to know what he looks like? And I don’t want to superimpose any physical images of my ideal man on to him either. I’m thirty-seven years of age and should gladly and gratefully accept whatever the universe chooses to send me, even if he has two heads and I have to wheel him down the aisle holding up his saline drip. I repeat this a few times, almost like a mantra, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

  I am doing the right thing.

  And besides, anything that helps me get over He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken can only be a good thing.

  My friends have all been fantastic in helping me through the awful break-up; Caroline with her warmth and wisdom and belief that everything would work itself out; Rachel for telling me he was a worthless bastard and that I’m miles better off without him; and Jamie for showing me that there’s nothing so tragic you can’t find something to laugh at. But now it’s time to take matters into my own hands.

  Going back to my old Alma Mater, University College, Dublin, turns out to be a very weird experience. Still the same concrete jungle feel to the place; still the same smell of cheap perfume and testosterone. With one exception though. Although it’s a Tuesday night, the campus seems deserted, except for a few swotty-looking stragglers all making their eager way up to the library.

  Now, in my day, the bar alone would have been completely packed on any given night of the week. In fact, that’s what college effectively meant to us: it was basically school, but with boys and bar extensions and minus the awful uniform. But this generation seems to be here to study, work hard and then get good jobs at the end of it all. Unheard of, back in the dim, distant eighties.

  The hardest part is forcing myself to get out of the car. It’s a bit like going to the gym on a cold winter’s night; the worst bit is physically dragging myself out of my lovely toasty-warm apartment, through the freezing night air and into the health club. Once I’m on a treadmill, I’m grand. Same thing.

  OK, here goes. I repeat my mantra (‘I want to be happily married to the right guy, please, universe, if it’s not too much trouble to ask’), stride purposefully out of the car park and make my way into the Arts building, which, thank God, at least I remember my way around.

  I check the noticeboard and there it is.

  HOW TO FIND A HUSBAND OVER THE

  AGE OF THIRTY-FIVE.

  TUTOR: IRA VANDERGELDER.

  ROOM 201, SECOND FLOOR.

  So far, so good. I make my way upstairs and find it easily enough. Taking a very deep breath, I resist the last-minute temptation to bolt for the hills and force myself to open the classroom door.

  To my surprise, it’s quite full. Of women, naturally enough. There’s a free seat at the end of the second row, so I sneak in, trying really hard not to make eye contact with anyone and silently praying that there’s no one here I know. No one is even chattering, which is unusual in a room full of women; as if we’re all so silently mortified to be there in the first place that we can’t even force ourselves to make small talk.

  It’s so deathly quiet; all you can hear is the buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead and the odd cough. Oh God, I feel like such a saddo, will I just run for it? I mean, it’s not as if I’ll ever see any of these people again …

  No, I say to myself in my most assertive deputy producer voice, you’ve come this far, you are not chickening out now. Sitting here is not admitting that I’m a total failure when it comes to men, it’s saying I’m prepared to do something about it. Besides, I remind myself, when is the last time I got a Valentine’s Day card? Or flowers from either a straight man or an actor who didn’t just want a job from me?

  I shut my eyes and do a quick creative visualization.

  Yes. There I am, in the Vera Wang, with my headless husband, Rachel and Caroline are my bridesmaids, Jamie is my bridesman, my dad’s beaming with pride now that his only daughter has finally found someone and my mum has that glazed, shell-shocked, can-this-wondrous-miracle-really-be-happening look that lottery winners always seem to get …

  Another deep, soothing breath.

  Yes, I can do this.

  I can do one class.

  If it turns out to be rubbish, I’ll just never come back again.

  It’s worth a try.

  Bang
on the dot of eight o’clock, the door is thrown open. ‘So, I bet you’re all sitting there with one question. Who stole my veil?’

  We all look up as the woman herself makes her grand entrance.

  Ira Vandergelder is probably sixtyish, absolutely tiny and immaculately dressed in a Chanel-type pillar-box-red suit, with platinum-blonde, Margaret-Thatcher-helmet hair and a big knuckleduster diamond on each perfectly manicured finger. She looks like Nancy Reagan and talks like Joan Rivers, the same great New York no-bullshit directness.

  I like her immediately.

  ‘Sure, you’re probably all looking at each other, thinking: What am I doing here? I’m pretty, I’m gorgeous, I’m successful, I should be home with my husband. Well, I got news for you. This is your wake-up call, ladies. By the very act of sitting in my class, you have effectively dialled Marriage nine eleven.’

  We all look at her, riveted. I swear you could hear a pin drop.

  ‘You see, you all represent what I call my “Lost Cinderella” generation,’ Ira went on, taking her place at the front of the classroom, barely pausing for breath. ‘Sure, you broke the glass ceiling, but you also broke your glass slipper along with it. If you wanna moan and whinge about it, there’s the door. But if you stay here and do exactly what I tell you, you will be married within a year.’

  The woman beside me has, by now, actually started to take notes. She has short red hair, untrendy paperweight glasses and I find myself silently betting that she was a milk monitor when she was in school.

  ‘Before we start, I got just one question for you ladies.’ Ira is standing in front of the whiteboard now, hands on hips, a woman not to be messed with. ‘Short of doing anything illegal or immoral, I want you to ask yourselves this. Am I prepared to do anything, and by that I mean anything, to find a husband this year? Because if your honest answer is no, the door is right there. The good people at UCD will refund you the class fee and no hard feelings.’

  There’s an awkward silence as we all shift uncomfortably in our seats. No one moves, although I have to resist the temptation to text Rachel to tell her what she’s missing.

  ‘Good. You all passed the first test,’ says Ira, approvingly. ‘OK, ladies, let me just set you all straight on a couple of things. One: I don’t care why you’re still single. Maybe you’re looking to get married for the first time or the fourth time. Maybe you’re constantly dating the wrong type of men – and, God knows, we’ve all been there. You know, the ones who can’t get over their ex or the ones who’ll live with you but won’t commit to you, or, when they do, the whole thing gradually fizzles out over time. Maybe you’ve been badly hurt in the past and don’t wanna get burned again. Or maybe you’ve devoted so much time and energy to your career that suddenly you wake up one morning and there you are. Single, over thirty-five and panicking.’

  I look around. There’s a lot of murmuring and heads nodding in agreement, my own included.

  ‘Like I said, I DO NOT CARE why any of you lovely ladies are unmarried,’ Ira continues. ‘My question is: What are you gonna do about it? If you wanna follow my program, let me warn you right now, it’s not gonna be easy. This is a huge commitment; there are rules and sacrifices involved. Over the next ten weeks you are going to learn how to see the problem of finding a husband through the eyes of a marketer. You are gonna change your entire mind set, you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you and, within a year, I will personally dance at each and every one of your weddings. Now, are there any questions so far?’

  There’s a silence as we all try to digest what she’s said. Eventually, swotty note-taking girl beside me tentatively puts her hand up.

  ‘Yes, the lady with the red hair, second row.’

  ‘I’ve lived in this city all my life and my question is: What if there are just no single men in Dublin? All the ones I meet all seem to be either married or gay.’

  Before Ira has a chance to answer, someone else who I can’t see has piped up from the back row. ‘Or with girlfriends? I’ve met loads of interesting men, but they all seem to be very happy with their long-term girlfriends.’

  Someone else at the back says, ‘Yeah, me too. And you know what they say, married men are easy, men with girlfriends are impossible.’

  This is greeted with raucous laughter and by now, there’re about a half-dozen hands enthusiastically waving in the air.

  ‘I think we’re geographically challenged, you know,’ says swotty girl beside me to no one in particular. ‘I read an article recently that said that you really have to go west of the Shannon to find a partner these days. The ratio of single men to women is three to one in Connaught.’

  ‘Ladies, ladies, please,’ says Ira, regaining control. ‘Let me just debunk a few myths here. Sure, single women outnumber single men the world over. Plus, you gotta face up to the hard, cold reality that many guys over thirty-five want younger women. And they’re in a buyer’s market. Accept that fact and then address it. This means no more narrow criteria about what kind of guy you’re looking for. No more “Oh, my ideal man has to be a rich handsome doctor, who my mother will love, who plays sports, gives to charity and does meals on wheels at weekends.” Your future husbands may have great qualities but they could also come in very different packages than you imagine. You’re gonna learn how to cast your net wide. Your husband could be divorced, have kids from another relationship, be shorter than you or be completely different from any other guy you’ve dated in the past. Now. Any other questions before we start?’

  Almost involuntarily, my hand shoots up and before I even know what I’m saying, the question is out. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’ Ira peers over and I’m aware that all of room 201 is staring at me.

  ‘It’s just that … well, in your ad, you mentioned something about revisiting past relationships. Does this mean getting in touch with ex-boyfriends? Or, by any miracle, did I read the ad wrong?’

  There’s a few titters which Ira immediately quells. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  She’s standing right beside me now and I’m beginning to feel like a seven-year-old about to be asked maths tables. ‘Amelia Lockwood,’ I mutter, hoping the entire class won’t hear. What the hell, I can always run out of the door if she turns nasty on me. This is a university, not a women’s prison.

  ‘Amelia Lockwood,’ Ira repeats, slowly. ‘You’re a very pretty lady, Amelia. So why are you still single?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No,’ I answer in a voice I hardly recognize as my own. Am I really saying this in front of a room full of total strangers? ‘I don’t have the first clue. I’ve been on so many dates I’ve lost count. You name it; I’ve done it: speed dating, internet chat rooms, blind dates, singles nights. I don’t know why I’m still single. My parents don’t know why I’m still single. My friends don’t know why I’m still single. All I know is that I’m sick of it. I’m sick of going home to an empty, dark house with gone-off yoghurt in the fridge and nothing but the TV for company. And I’m especially sick of getting phone bills for five hundred euro a month because I’m so lonely I have to spend three hours a night talking to my friends or else I’ll go off my head. I could be mistaken, but I can’t help feeling this isn’t how my life was supposed to turn out.’

  Ira is eyeballing me now, and it’s disconcerting. ‘Well, Amelia, I got news for you. Clearly, you are doing something wrong.’

  I’m dimly aware of swotty girl staring at me.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea why any of your exes didn’t want to pursue a relationship with you, but I can tell you one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’ I ask, figuring: What the hell? I can’t be humiliated any more.

  ‘You are going to track them down and you’re gonna find out. Exactly like an exit interview. Sure, it’s gonna be tough, you’re gonna hear a lot of home truths about yourself, but how else can you learn fr
om your mistakes of the past and move on? And it doesn’t matter who broke up with who, what you want to learn is why these men were wrong for you to begin with. Remember the magic word: feedback. And that applies for all of you ladies,’ she says, directing her attention back to the class. I’m relieved that the focus is off me, but the next thing she says sends a shiver down my spine. ‘In fact that brings me neatly to your assignment for next week. I want you all to make a list of your ten most significant ex-boyfriends, starting with the first and ending with the most recent.’

  For the first time this evening, swotty girl looks a bit flummoxed. ‘But suppose you don’t have ten exes?’ she whispers to me.

  Ira, it seems, is one of those people who can hear the grass grow in her sleep. ‘If you can’t think of ten ex-boyfriends, then ten guys who asked you out will do. Come on, ladies, you’re all over thirty-five, you must have been on at least ten dates in your lives.’

  There are loud mutterings in the class.

  ‘That’s the easy part of the assignment, let me tell you,’ Ira goes on, undeterred. ‘Before next week’s class, you’re gonna have made steps to contact your first serious boyfriend. And so on, one ex a week for the whole ten-week duration of this course.’

  ‘Suppose they’ve left the country?’ comes a panicky-sounding voice from the back row. ‘Or suppose their wife answers the phone?’

  ‘And even if I do get to speak to him,’ says someone else in the middle of the class, ‘what do I say?’

  ‘I will tell you exactly what you say,’ says Ira. ‘I’ll hand you the goddamn script. The question is: Are you ready to hear the truth?’

  * * *

  Driving home later that night, I have a flashback. An omen for what lies ahead …

  THE TIME: Mid-July 1984.

  THE PLACE: Blinkers nightclub in the Leopardstown race course.

  THE OCCASION: Nothing in particular, it’s just free for girls on a Wednesday night.

  Bruce Springsteen is belting out ‘Born in the USA’ and the crowd are all singing along and stomping their feet as I make my way through the packed bar and spot where the Lovely Girls are all perched around a table.