Ira goes back to the front of the class and starts asking everyone about their matrix. I drift off again, doodling on a piece of paper in front of me. A normal ex-boyfriend … tall order.
And then I get a flash of inspiration. Jack Keating. Genius! Why didn’t I think of him before?
OK. There’s something I need to explain.
THE TIME: July 1988.
THE PLACE: Boston, MA. Me and the other Lovely Girls have just finished our finals in college and are spending the summer in the States, working (legally) under the student visa program.
THE OCCASION: One of those dinner parties that everyone had in the 80s, where we’d all dress up, eat crap food, drink cheap wine and, basically, try to ape our parents’ lifestyle as much as possible, thinking ourselves fierce posh altogether.
Caroline, Rachel and I are in the galley kitchen of the house we’re all renting, frantically trying to throw a posh-looking dinner together and failing miserably. None of us is a cook. In fact, this whole summer-working-in-America experience has been unbelievably eye-opening for all of us. Not only are we all worse than useless in the kitchen, none of us has the first clue about washing, ironing, laundry, housekeeping … you name it, we can’t do it.
What can I say? Back in Ireland, we all live at home with our mammies who do everything for us and, as Rachel says, this is only playing at being grown-up anyway, isn’t it?
There are three guys sharing the house with us and, if possible, they’re even messier than we girls.
Jamie’s here, of course, but we always knew he’d be disastrously unhousetrained. Bei-rut-al. So far, his only contribution to the laundry was the time he washed all of our white work shirts with a bright red pair of his own pyjamas, so that everything ended up a disgusting pinky-grey. Since then, he’s given up on washing anything at all, claiming to have figured out a way to make the same pair of underpants last for a four-day minimum.
Then there’s Mike, whose idea of hygiene is to use whatever toothbrush first comes to hand in the bathroom.
And then there’s Jack Keating.
And it’s entirely my fault that he’s here.
OK, allow me to give you some background info. Back in Dublin, Jack is my next-door neighbour; we pretty much grew up together. We’re exactly the same age, both only children and therefore destined to be playmates from a very early age. His nickname for me is girl-next-door and mine for him is boy-next-door. Sweet, isn’t it …? Or so you’d think …
Anyway, Jack is lovely, absolutely lovely, very goodlooking, great fun, the brother I never had and, likewise, I’m the sister he never wanted to have. As kids we fought and scrapped with each other, as teenagers we fancied each other’s friends and now as almost-college-graduates we’re sharing this house together in Boston, at my invitation.
But there’s one thing you need to know about Jack. He’s a natural-born flirt. Can’t help himself. It’s just the way he communicates with women. And boy, do they fall for him. In droves, like you wouldn’t believe. James Bond wouldn’t have as many notches on his bedpost as Jack. You know the type, men want to be him, women want to change him. Not me, I hasten to add, I’m kind of immune to the Jack Keating charm offensive. I don’t fancy him and I never did, he’s too much like a brother to me. But from the age of fourteen, Jack has pretty much always had a girlfriend; he just goes effortlessly from one to the next. He doesn’t even go to the bother of chasing them, they flock to him. Moths to a flame.
And tonight’s dinner party is no exception …
‘Right. No one ate their starters,’ says Rachel, dumping some very green-looking melon balls into the bin. ‘How’s the spaghetti bolognese doing?’
‘Shit,’ I answer, using all my strength to stir the congealed glob of pasta from round the edges of the saucepan. ‘That’s what it looks like and that’s what they’re all going to say it tastes like when we serve it.’
‘Do you smell burning?’ asks Rachel.
‘Eh … yeah, sorry, that’s me too,’ I answer apologetically. ‘The mincemeat’s all gone black. Come on, girlies, what’ll we do?’
‘Plan A, we scrape off the unburned bits and serve it up and hope they won’t notice,’ says Caroline helpfully.
‘Or plan B,’ I say, ‘we open another bottle of Blue Nun, force it down their throats and hope they’ll all be too sloshed to notice.’
‘Brilliant,’ says Rachel, striding for the fridge and whipping out another bottle. ‘At least the dessert will be impressive. You can’t beat a Black Forest gateau. And the fact that it’s shop-bought means at least one of the courses will be edible.’
Then Jamie squeezes himself into the tiny kitchen, bursting for a good gossip. ‘Apart from all of you lovelies,’ he says, ‘there are three other single women at the table.’
‘I’m not single!’ says Caroline.
‘Neither am I!’ snaps Rachel.
We all turn to look at her. ‘OK, I mightn’t have heard from Christian for a while, but the post from Paris is really slow,’ she says defensively.
I busy myself with the burned spaghetti and Jamie suddenly starts folding paper napkins with a vengeance.
There’s a horrible silence.
She and Christian are ‘on a break’ as the phrase goes at the moment and, well, it’s just not a subject to be discussed in front of Rachel. Not unless you want your teeth kicked in.
‘That’s the only reason he hasn’t written in ages,’ says Rachel, raising her voice now. ‘Christian would be here if he could, you know!’
‘Shh, shhh,’ says Caroline, giving her a soothing hug. ‘We know.’
‘You are in love with being in love, that’s all that’s wrong with you, Rachel,’ says Jamie.
‘Piss off,’ she almost spits at him.
‘Oh cool down, Saliva Dolittle. I only came in to fill you in on our resident live-in Lothario.’
‘Jack?’ I say. ‘What’s up with him?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that I’ve been studying human behaviour in the dining room and, darlings, it’s a scream. Of the other three ladies present, one is an ex-girlfriend and she doesn’t know it, one’s a present girlfriend and she doesn’t know it and one’s a future girlfriend and she doesn’t know it either. And don’t get me started on his stupid, put-on American accent. Hilarious. Irritating as hell, but hilarious. We’ve only been living here for a month and he’s starting to sound like Ted Danson.’
‘So, Jack’s flirting,’ I say. ‘Jack always flirts. You must fancy one of those girls yourself, Jamie, or you wouldn’t be in here giving out about him.’
‘I don’t, is the odd thing.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’ Molly, Sarah and Kate all work as chambermaids in the hotel Caroline and I got jobs in. Well, until I got fired.
‘There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re just … not my type.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, look at them. They’re like the three little maids from school in a Gilbert and Sullivan light opera. They’re a pussy posse. Indistinguishable. Right up Jack Keating’s alley, but not mine.’
In a funny way, I can see what Jamie means. We all troop back out and valiantly try to pass off the coagulated spaghetti bolognese as a cordon bleu meal. Molly, Kate and Sarah are all very pretty, very tanned, very blonde and are all clustered around Jack, hanging on his every word. Everyone’s giddy on the Blue Nun and, in no time, Rachel brightens up. Soon she’s back to her old self. Alcohol always does the trick with her. Well, either alcohol or a long-distance phone call from Christian.
‘Amelia, I’ve lost count,’ she asks me. ‘How many jobs have you had again?’
‘OK, let’s see. First there was the waitressing job in À La Carte …’
‘Which you nicknamed À La Cockroach,’ says Mike, helpfully topping up everyone’s glass.
‘Then you worked with me in the temping agency,’ says Rachel.
‘Where they invented the slogan “We are Flexible, Available, Reliable Tempor
aries Incorporated”!’
‘Or FARTI girls,’ she snorts.
‘I have to say, I’m loving my summer job,’ says Jamie, who’s working in Filene’s bargain basement store. ‘I’ve learned more about the craft of acting than I would have in four years of RADA training. All that ringing up early in the mornings, pretending to be too sick to go in.’
‘You know, we’ll never have this freedom again,’ says Jack. ‘Just think, we’ll be home in a few weeks, home to our final exam results …’
‘Home to the real world …’
‘Having to get proper jobs …’
‘And act like grown-ups … You know, responsible …’
There’s a silence. Even Jack’s three adoring soubrettes have stopped their twittering. It’s a sobering thought all right.
‘So what are we going to do with ourselves?’
‘Or an even better question is, where do we all want to be by the age of, say, thirty-five?’ Jack asks the table.
‘Easy,’ says Jamie. ‘I’ll be living in the Hollywood hills, polishing my Oscars. Plural.’
‘I’d love to be a hard-hitting journalist,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘You know, like Kate Adie on the BBC. Going into war zones and reporting live with gunfire all around me.’
‘And you’d look great in the jumpsuits she always wears,’ says Jack.
‘This is Amelia Lockwood for the BBC, reporting to you live from Iran,’ I say, mimicking Kate Adie’s deep voice, with a fork in my hand, pretending it’s a microphone.
‘I want to be living abroad,’ says Rachel. ‘France maybe, or a country where they’ve at least heard of cappuccino. So that’s basically anywhere except Ireland.’
‘I want to stick with the modelling for a bit,’ says Caroline.
‘But you can’t do that beyond thirty,’ says Jamie.
‘Sure, we’ll be married by then,’ Caroline and I answer in unison.
‘Yes, but married to who, Caroline dearest?’ Jamie asks cheekily.
Mike goes a bit red, but says nothing.
‘Oops, sorry, guys,’ says Jamie. ‘Have you two not had “the chat” yet? Am I embarrassing you?’
‘Shuttup,’ Rachel snarls at him.
‘I think thirty-five’s a really good age to get married at,’ says Jack. ‘Whaddya say Amelia?’
Jamie’s right, I’m thinking. The American accent is starting to sound very affected …
‘Amelia?’
‘Sorry … what was that?’
‘I was proposing.’
‘What!’
Everyone’s laughing now. Well, everyone except the Three Degrees clustered down Jack’s end of the table.
‘Come on, Amelia. We’ve known each other all our lives and we’ve never once had a cross word. I think we should make a pact. If we’re both single by the age of thirty-five, then we get married. Whaddya think? … Amelia? … Amelia?’
‘Amelia?’
I come back down to earth with a shudder. The whole class has gone quiet and Ira is standing right in front of me.
‘Sorry … what was that?’
‘Nice of you to rejoin us. We were discussing plans for our class party next weekend. I was looking for a volunteer to host the party.’
‘I’d love to,’ says Mags beside me, ‘but I’ve got the builders in. I don’t even have running water at the moment.’
‘Well, I’ll host it,’ I say, mortified at being caught daydreaming twice in the one class. ‘If none of you objects to my atrocious cooking.’
‘Good,’ says Ira, nodding at me approvingly. ‘But no need to go to any trouble. Just providing the venue is great. Remember, ladies, this is not just any old party. This is a strategic networking event to gather single men and women together in a room so you can pump up the volume of eligible, available men that you all know.’
‘Sounds about as much fun as a bikini wax,’ I mutter, but they all hear and laugh.
Ira suppresses the giggles with one of her killer glares. ‘Remember the rules, ladies. This party is about creating new prospects for yourself and for your classmates. It’s also a goodwill gesture. You’ve all got old dates or good male friends who may not have clicked with you, but who may fall madly in love with one of your classmates. Then, down the road, hopefully that classmate will repay the favour by introducing you to someone else in return. The golden rule is each of you must bring a man who is single, straight and in the marriage market. Understood?’
The minute I get in the door that night, I take firm and decisive action. In fact, driving by He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken ’s house and seeing the two jeeps parked cosily side by side with all the curtains drawn only spurs me on more.
Firstly, I ring Damien Delaney, but it’s his voicemail. Well, it is almost ten, he’s probably in bed with a mug of Horlicks that his mother made for him. I try to sound as bright and chirpy as I can. ‘Hi, Damien, it’s Amelia. Sorry to have missed you earlier. I was just wondering … how would you like to come to a party in my flat next Saturday night?’
Right.
Now comes the tricky part …
Chapter Twenty-Two
Let’s Face the Music and Dance
Ten p.m. and one glass of Sancerre later.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: How the hell are you?
Hey Jack!
How’s it going? It’s been weeks since I’ve heard from you, just wondered how you were? Still making your millions at the law firm in Boston, Mr Big Fat I’ve-just-been-made-partner Pants? Listen, when you’re home next, maybe we could meet up? You must be due a trip home soon … I’d love if we could have a bite to eat??? Or go to one of your rugger-bugger pubs and have a few drinks – whatever you fancy. Lots to tell you and lots to hear …
I reread, then hit the delete button. Too needy, too eager. Not casual enough. Needs to be … lighter. ‘Whatever you fancy’? … I can’t believe I even wrote that.
I never suggest meeting up with Jack; he always calls me whenever he’s in Dublin, which is maybe four times a year, and he’s always the one to invite me out.
He knows me too well – he’d read this and run a mile. I do not want to be part of the Jack Keating pussy posse, I want a husband; I have to be really cool and behave exactly the same way I always have done.
If Cosmo, Marie Claire and magazines of that sort have taught me nothing, it’s that you should treat a guy you fancy exactly the way you’d treat a guy you don’t fancy.
Not, I have to stress, that I fancy Jack Keating. We just had a deal. Which was his idea, not mine. And we’re both well over the thirty-five mark now …
At least he would be one relatively normal ex-boyfriend, or rather non-ex-boyfriend, that I could tell Ira Vandergelder about.
OK. Draft two.
Ten-thirty p.m. Second glass of Sancerre. Haven’t eaten a scrap since lunch, so am now feeling deliciously woozy.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: (No Subject)
Jx
How are you?
Ax
Delete, delete, delete.
Too cool by half. I get up from my desk and pace around a bit, then go over to the mantelpiece and pick up a photo of me and Jack. It was taken the night of my thirtieth birthday, all of seven years ago. There’s a big gang of us clustered around a restaurant table, all wearing party hats with streamers hanging out of us. For some reason, Caroline, Jamie and Rachel are wearing those fun furry angels’ wings and look like they’re on the way to a raucous hen night in Temple Bar. Jack has both his arms around me and is squeezing me tight.
He had flown in from Boston just that morning especially for the party as a birthday surprise for me. I smile to myself, putting the photo back in its place. He’d gone to so much bother too. He even called my mobile from outside the restaurant door, pretending to be in the States, raging he couldn’t be there, then walke
d up to me, phone in hand, singing happy birthday and almost giving me a cardiac arrest. This photo was taken immediately afterwards and you can just see the glow of happiness on my face because he came. My wonderful friend Jack.
OK, I am bending the rules a bit here, I know. It’s not as if Jack and I ever dated. Or even kissed. But a deal’s a deal. We are each other’s matrimonial back-up plan. He even reminded me on the night of my thirtieth. I’ll never forget it. It was about five a.m., when we all fell out of Lillie’s Bordello, giddy on the champagne we’d been skulling back all night. Caroline and Mike hopped into one taxi, Jamie and Rachel staggered on to an early opening pub down on the docks and Jack, ever the gentleman, walked me home.
To all intents and purposes, we must have looked like a couple; he even took off his jacket and slipped it around my freezing shoulders, as if we’d just been to a debs ball together.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I said, linking arms with him. ‘That was the best birthday present I could have asked for.’
‘A pleasure. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I just can’t believe you’re thirty.’ Then he put on a voice like a ham actor in a Victorian melodrama. ‘Five more years and you shall be MINE!’
‘You’re only saying that because you’re between girlfriends now.’
‘No I’m not. We made a pact. If we’re both still single by thirty-five, I’m carting you down that aisle, whether you like it or not.’
OK. When I worked in the newsroom and had to script a difficult piece, this is what my executive producer used to tell me. Write down exactly what you want to say in layman’s terms so that the sense is there, then gloss it up and throw in all the long, TV-speak phrases you want.
Right. Here goes.
Midnight. Fourth glass of Sancerre and I’ve bypassed woozy and am now starting to feel drrruuuunnnkkkkk. Ah, what the hell. Life’s short.
OK. Here’s the message I want to get across, in draft one form.
From: [email protected]
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 20
