Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘So, what do you think?’ he says. ‘Good idea, bad idea?’

  I don’t know, is the honest answer. I don’t know what I think.

  The only reason we’re even having this highly embarrassing conversation is because we’re both single, that’s all. I don’t fancy him and I’m pretty certain he doesn’t fancy me either. We’re just at the age where the club/pub pick-up scene is all just getting too exhausting and this just happens to be convenient.

  But then … he is Mags’s friend, so that says a lot in his favour. The recurrent image of my headless groom comes back into my mind. Yes, OK, he’s not perfect and he’s only trying me on for size because his friend told him to, but then, I do want to be married, don’t I? Before the end of the year? And I’m the girl who woke up this morning longing for a partner, I remind myself. As Ira always says, you have to pump up the dating volume or you’ll never get anywhere. And Philip was very considerate over the whole Rob Richards/Good Grief O’Keefe debacle, calling me up to his office just to see if I was OK … wasn’t he?

  Then I think about Rachel scoring last night. Yes, she’ll probably kick my teeth in for saying it, but in fairness to Gorm— sorry, I mean Gordon, he is now living proof that persistence pays. In this life, you have to take risks.

  Just as I’m wavering, Philip comes out with one of his classic howlers. ‘Look, Amelia, I realize that asking a single, late-thirty-something woman out is a bit like throwing fish-heads at a starving piranha: you normally get your hand snapped off, they’re so eager to say yes. So, come on, what would you say to a drink after work some night during the week?’

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Sorry, did that come out wrong? It was only a joke. Oh shit, I really should rehearse conversations with women beforehand, shouldn’t I? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit out of practice.’

  I can’t make head nor tail of this guy. One minute he’s so rude you want to put the phone down on him, the next, he’s actually being … almost endearing …

  ‘Philip, please don’t feel you have to ask me out just because Mags told you to. It’s very sweet of you, but you really don’t have to.’

  ‘So that’s a no then?’

  ‘We work together.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘It would be … awkward.’

  ‘Rubbish. Just be direct with me, Amelia. What’s going on here?’

  Right, well he asked for it … ‘I hate to appear nit-picky, but you were the one who presented me with a six-month ultimatum: turn Celtic Tigers around or else face the axe. You’ll forgive me for bringing it up, but the idea of going on a date with the man who could propel me to the back of a dole queue in a few months’ time is a slightly intimidating one. This may sound surprising, but I’m actually not trying to get fired.’

  There’s a crackly silence and I’m not even sure if he’s still on the phone.

  ‘Hello? Philip?’

  ‘Yeah, still here. Right. Well, at least it wasn’t a flaky excuse, I’ll give you that much. Last time I asked a girl out, she said she had to stay home to do her VAT returns. If you change your mind, call me. Just remember, I’m rich, male and in my late thirties. I’m the one who’s in a buyers’ market.’

  He hangs up and I slump back on to the pillow.

  This is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s a terrifying thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  My Knight in Flabby Armour

  OK, I admit it; I’m a dirty big cheat. I’ve made an executive decision. I’m skipping my next ex-boyfriend on the list. Yes, I know Ira will go mental; yes, I know I’m bending the rules here; yes, I know that cowardice has got the better of me, but if you knew the sad, awful truth, you’d do exactly the same.

  I should explain.

  THE TIME: The Christmas holidays 1991.

  THE PLACE: The long, slushy, foggy, ice-bound road from Dublin to Monaghan.

  THE OCCASION: Tim Singen-Underwood, my wonderful, gorgeous boyfriend, has invited me to spend the new year at his family’s county estate. This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever been formally invited to meet any boyfriend’s parents, let alone his entire family, and I’m experiencing a whole kaleidoscope of emotions. I’m flattered, overwhelmed, knickers mad about my boyfriend, desperately eager to make a good impression on his family but most of all … I’m shit scared.

  First of all, there was the drama about what to wear.

  ‘You need to strike exactly the right chord,’ says Caroline as she and I pilfer through the collective bounty of her, Rachel’s and my own wardrobe combined. The three of us by now are all sharing a dotey little townhouse, which is great because it’s like having twenty-four-hour access to two other girls’ wardrobes as well as your own. Jamie has semi-moved in too and spends most nights on our pull-out sofa mattress, rent free. This is also very handy, as (a) he’s the only one of us who’s remotely able to cook and (b) it’s like living with your own personal stylist.

  ‘Remember the Singed-Underwears are proper, west-Brit aristos,’ says Jamie, coming into Caroline’s bedroom, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and eating toast.

  ‘Singen-Underwood, not Singed-Underwear,’ I say.

  ‘Whatever. My point is you don’t want to wear anything that looks either too new or flashy. Old and tatty is the look you’re going for. Think Nancy Mitford and you won’t go far wrong. Posh, but broke.’

  ‘What about this?’ I ask, holding up a high-necked, very modest-looking cream blouse.

  ‘Ughhhh … have mercy, put it away. Too Rose of Tralee.’

  ‘I bet they dress for dinner in the evenings too,’ says Caroline, fishing out a little black number from the darkest recesses of her wardrobe and holding it up. ‘Just like in Agatha Christie. What about this?’

  ‘Too sexy,’ says Jamie. ‘They’re Protestants; they’ll probably have the vicar over for dinner too. You need to think demure. We may even have to put you in pearls and a Hermès scarf.’

  ‘I don’t own a Hermès scarf,’ I squeal in desperation. ‘What am I going to do? All my clothes are too … too …’

  ‘Too-girl-about-town,’ says Caroline, sweetly finishing the sentence for me. ‘A great look for an up-and-coming journalist like you, but maybe not quite for this trip. What about this?’ She brandishes a Chanel-type suit in front of us, which would be lovely except for all the medals and gold chains hanging off the shoulder pads.

  ‘Caroline, you should be ashamed of yourself,’ says Jamie sternly. ‘Newsflash for you; the eighties are dead and gone. All your suits, shoulder pads and Ivana Trump pastel gear should be flung into the nearest Oxfam. That’s if they’ll even take it. I’m sorry, girlies, but we only have one option.’

  The three of us look at each other.

  ‘We can’t,’ says Caroline firmly.

  ‘She’d kill us,’ I agree. ‘I’m still paying her back for the laddered Woolford tights fiasco.’

  ‘Besides, we promised her we wouldn’t,’ Caroline says firmly. ‘We’d be breaking our word.’

  ‘Those are noble sentiments, ladies, but for once in your lives, can’t you just be cool? Rachel is in Paris having great sex with Christian and she won’t be back for another two weeks. Do you really think she’s worrying about her designer collection at this point in time? Besides, if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.’

  Caroline and I have no choice but to reluctantly agree as we sneak into Rachel’s room, like the Three Stooges. Even opening her wardrobe is like going into the Garden of Eden; while we’re still dressing like students, apart from the odd freebie Caroline gets from the fashion shows she models in, Rachel is now a junior manager at the Irish fashion centre and, boy, does she dress the part. Every stitch belonging to her is by a well-known designer and everything in her wardrobe is immaculately swathed in protective zip-up bags, the kind they put dead bodies in on Prime Suspect.

  ‘Now this is more like it,’ says Jamie, triumphantly producing a tw
eed box jacket (Paul Costelloe) and a matching pair of beige jodhpurs (Ralph Lauren). Not that Rachel would know one end of a horse from another, any more than I would myself, but this just happens to be a very hot look at the moment.

  ‘Bingo,’ says Jamie. ‘That with a crisp, white cotton shirt and a string of pearls and you’re home and dry.’

  ‘Just remember to get it all dry-cleaned before she gets back,’ says Caroline, worried. ‘And don’t make the same mistake I made last time. For the love of God, you have to take all the safety pins out when you get her stuff back from the cleaners. I swear, she checks these things.’

  ‘And we’ll have to get the Hoover out of the utility room and give the bedroom carpet a quick going over,’ I add, a bit panicky. ‘You know what she’s like. She’ll notice the footprints.’

  ‘We have a utility room?’ says Jamie.

  ‘Yeah. Downstairs. You know, where we keep all the Christmas decorations.’

  Ten minutes later, I’m kitted out, with a stuffed, packed suitcase, all filched from Rachel’s bottomless wardrobe.

  ‘Fabulous,’ says Jamie, ‘great look. This says to the parents, “Hello, I’m Amelia, I’m perfect daughter-in-law material.” ’

  ‘And it also says, “I may be a city chick, but I can adapt to the life of a country girl, no problem,” ’ says Caroline.

  ‘Promise me I don’t look like Sarah Ferguson?’ I ask, gazing at myself uncertainly in the mirror.

  ‘NO!’ they both chime. ‘Definitely not!’

  ‘You’re every inch a Sloane Ranger,’ says Jamie. ‘Wait till you see; you’ll fit in beautifully. I’d be surprised if you don’t come back engaged.’

  The phone on the hall table rings and I almost jump out of my skin.

  ‘If that’s my student loan officer, I’m not in,’ says Jamie, going into the bathroom and banging the door behind him.

  But it’s Tim. To say he’s on his way.

  OK, here comes the panic …

  Colossal social faux pas number one:

  First of all I have to say that Tim is sensational and I’m madly in love with him. Yes, he’s much posher than me, but I just love and adore all his west-Brit quirky ways: his cut-glass accent; the fact that he has all his clothes specially made by a tailor in London (I’ve tried to introduce him to the wonderful, and much cheaper, world of discount shopping but to no avail); the way he has a preferred brand of single malt whisky; and the fact that he’s a member of a gentlemen’s club in Dublin. And he’s only twenty-seven.

  Now, Jamie says the club is men only so they can have strippers in, but I’ve actually been there on ladies night a few times, and as far as I can see, it’s just full of old men on Zimmer frames and, somehow, it always smells of cabbage.

  Anyway, I love Tim and on the long, wintry drive up to Monaghan, all I can think of is how vitally important this weekend is for us as a couple. I don’t mean to exaggerate, but my entire future happiness depends on the next seventy-two hours.

  And my behaviour around his family.

  And the fantastic impression I’m determined to make.

  Mrs Singen-Underwood. Doesn’t that sound fab? Mrs Amelia Singen-Underwood … The Singen-Underwoods are at home …

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Sorry, Tim, what did you say?’

  ‘You’d drifted off on me there for a moment, old girl. Just wondered if you fancied a spot of nose-bag?’

  ‘Oh … yeah … great, that’d be lovely.’

  That’s the other thing about Tim. He likes his food. I mean, really likes his food. He’s a big guy, and has to eat breakfast (a fry-up, usually), lunch (three courses), afternoon tea and that’s all before his main meal of the day at night (another three and sometimes four courses). Not including snacks. When we first got together, all of six months ago, I couldn’t quite get my head around the sheer amount of food he’d get through. He’d eat a colossal breakfast and then an hour later would wonder what our plans were for lunch. I’ve given up saying, ‘But you just ate!’ Anyway, as Caroline wisely says, I can’t expect a grown man to survive on bags of lettuce from Marks and Spencer’s, as I would normally do.

  So we stop off at a roadside café and Tim orders lunch. No light snacks for my Tim here, he goes for the full works: soup and a baguette, chicken in a basket, chips, mushy peas and a side order of jacket potatoes, swimming in sour cream.

  Now, I haven’t eaten a thing all morning (I’m too uptight) and really just want a coffee, but Tim insists on my having something. I know he hates it when I just chase a piece of cheese around a plate and he’s always telling me that I could do with putting a bit of meat on me, so I go for the chicken too. It’s a bit pink in the middle, but I force myself to munch as much of it as I can stomach.

  Eughhhhh.

  We get back into the car and hit the long, potholed road to Ashton Hall, the family home. We’re easily another hour in the car and the combination of my nervousness, the revolting, undercooked chicken and the bumpy road is now really starting to make me feel queasy … That and the sight of Ashton Hall.

  It’s one of those huge, gothic buildings with stone gargoyles glowering down at you, almost daring you to go inside. My stomach is churning and I’m starting to feel light-headed, but I take Tim’s hand as he leads me up the steps to the main entrance door. We knock and wait and I try to steady my nerves.

  Remember, you only get one chance to make a first impression, my inner voice says …

  A middle-aged woman in a wax jacket and a woolly hat answers the door.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Singen-Underwood, what a pleasure to meet you …’ I say, going to shake her hand.

  ‘I’m the housekeeper,’ she growls and Tim roars laughing at my mistake.

  ‘This is Sheila,’ he says introducing me.

  ‘Hi there.’ I smile at her nervously, desperately eager for her to like me and at the same time dying to ask her where the nearest bathroom is. The dark, dank hallway stinks of damp and the smell isn’t doing my poor sick tummy any good. It’s also colder inside the house than outside and Sheila’s woolly hat is now starting to make a lot of sense.

  ‘Sheila’s our Mrs Danvers,’ Tim whispers to me as we trot after her down one long twisting corridor after another.

  ‘Where’s your bags?’ she grunts.

  ‘In the car boot. I’ll bring them in later,’ says Tim. ‘I say, are we in time for tea? I’m absolutely starving.’

  My stomach does another churn at the very thought of food. On top of everything else, now I’m feeling faint and light-headed, as if I might keel over.

  ‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ I ask in a tiny, embarrassed voice, but either they don’t hear me or they both ignore me.

  ‘They’re all in the library,’ says Sheila. ‘Florence is in there too.’

  ‘Now there’s a lovely surprise,’ says Tim brightly. ‘I didn’t think Flo was spending the weekend with us too.’ He takes me by the hand and leads me down the mankiest, filthiest carpet I have ever seen, past suits of armour and busts of long dead Singen-Underwoods.

  ‘Who’s Florence?’ I ask innocently. A family friend? A relation he hasn’t mentioned before?

  ‘Oh, you’ll simply love her,’ says Tim, striding on ahead of me, dying to get to the tea and sandwiches. ‘Everyone loves Florence. Old girlfriend of mine, you know.’ He throws open the great double doors of the library and thrusts me in.

  The room is absolutely enormous and it’s packed. There must be twenty people here, all dressed in jeans and super-thick jumpers, all munching on sandwiches and holding cups and saucers. I don’t have to wonder for very much longer about Florence as she shoots over to Tim faster than a bullet, throwing her arms around his neck and squealing like a girlie-girlie teenager.

  ‘Timmy! Bet you didn’t expect to see me! Your mother told me you were bringing a new girlfriend so I just had to hack over to check her out.’

  Florence is about my age, milk-maid blonde (natural – I may be feeling queasy
but I still checked), tall and, to put it politely, a very, very big girl.

  ‘Flo, darling!’ he says, hugging her. ‘How wonderful you’re looking! I love a woman I can really squeeze on to.’

  Unlike this bag of bones I’m going out with, was the clear implication there, I think, as he introduces us.

  ‘Dear Lord, you are skinny,’ Florence exclaims. ‘Tim, you and I will simply have to fatten her up a bit when she’s here. Do you ride?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re wearing jodhpurs.’

  ‘Oh, no, I just borrowed these from my flatmate. It’s a look …’ I trail off lamely.

  She laughs, a bit cruelly. ‘You look just like a Thelwell cartoon, if you ask me.’

  ‘Florence, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you think you could show me where the bathroom is, please? I’m actually not feeling a hundred per cent …’

  ‘Well, we’re all riding to hounds tomorrow, you have to join us. Tell her, Timmy.’

  Tim, however, is far too engrossed in a plate of sandwiches he’s grabbed from one of the side tables.

  ‘Oh, do give me one, Timmy, you great oaf!’ Florence says, playfully punching him and helping herself to a good-sized fistful. ‘Would you like one?’ she asks, brandishing them under my nose. ‘Yum yum, my absolute fave. Sheila’s such a doll to remember. Hard-boiled egg and tripe.’

  It’s all too much for me. I put my hand over my mouth in a frantic attempt to cover up what’s coming, but it’s too late.

  I throw up all over Florence’s feet.

  Colossal social faux pas number two:

  Dinner is served punctually at eight p.m. (none of the Singen-Underwoods like to be kept waiting on meals, it seems) but I’m too ill to join them.