The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  I make an executive decision to hold the door open, and stand to one side, bracing myself for a verbal onslaught, or a physical one, or even worse, a complete lack of acknowledgement, but instead, the girl smiles at me, and actually says thanks. And her smile is so warm, so genuine, so intoxicating, that perhaps foolishly I mistake it for more than just politeness, and so after I’ve waited for a couple of seconds, I turn round and follow her back into the shop. I’m single, after all, as Ash’s recent announcement has reminded me, and besides, I owe it to myself to check her out.

  As the security guard gives me a funny look, I quickly make the ‘I’ve-forgotten-to-buy-something’ face, and head off in the direction the girl’s gone, although when this turns out to be along the ‘feminine hygiene’ aisle, I have to make a quick detour. But when I emerge from the ‘skincare’ section, she’s nowhere to be seen. Hurriedly, I peer around the store, but there’s no sign of her, and I’m just thinking about giving up and heading outside when I spot her, now dressed in a long white coat, emerging from a door behind the pharmacy counter and taking over behind one of the tills.

  There’s a queue of customers, which I instinctively join the end of, while wondering what my approach should be. Only problem is, I don’t have a prescription like the rest of them seem to be clutching, so I quickly step back out of the line and stand there, looking at the cold remedies, while trying to work out what to do. I’ve got to see whether that initial smile was anything more than that, which means going over and talking to her, but about what? I’ve never been good at this chat-up lark, and especially under pressure. And I know why: it’s the fear of rejection – the worry that the moment I lay myself bare, she’ll send me scampering shame-faced from the shop, my ego crushed by a simple ‘no’. Because by suggesting something like a coffee, or a drink, or even dinner, what I’m really saying is ‘I want to get to know you better, then have sex with you, with a view to maybe us spending the rest of our lives together.’ And that’s a scary thing for anyone to propose – even when it’s disguised as a latte at Starbucks – and especially when you’re making that proposal after something as simple as a smile.

  Mindful of my earlier conversation with Ash, I realize that I have a decision to make, and it’s one that every single single man makes at least once a day – do I risk the humiliation of crashing and burning in an attempt to rid myself of my unattached status, and what’s worse, risk it when I’m pretty sure any new relationship’s going to go the same way as all the others? Well, given how attractive she is, and the alternative, there’s really just one answer to that.

  I pick up a bottle of Night Nurse and pretend to study the label, while actually studying the queue. Amid the coughing, spluttering, and limping line – and God knows what medicine they think they’re going to get to help them – there do seem to be a few people who are just buying deodorant, maybe because the queue here is shorter than the one at the tills at the front of the shop. But that raises another issue – do I risk my own wellbeing by queuing up with this unhealthy lot? Given that I need an excuse to talk to her, I don’t seem to have any choice, so I grab the nearest toiletry and rejoin the end of the queue. But then it occurs to me that simply walking up and paying for a tube of Lynx shower gel isn’t going to do the trick, so I put it back, then pick it up again hurriedly as I edge closer and closer to the till.

  I’m desperately starting to wonder how much conversation I can eke out of the purchase of a packet of Nurofen as well when I have an idea. There’s a sign above the counter that says ‘Ask Your Pharmacist’, and while I know they don’t mean ‘for a date’, this at least gives me a chance to have an actual conversation with her. So, in theory, all I have to do is invent an ailment. But what? Because thinking about it, there’s a very short list of ailments that will show you in a positive light. A simple cold or flu, maybe – but trouble is, I don’t sound like I’ve got any symptoms. What about something not wrong with me, but with my dad. Or my mum? No – I can’t use her, and risk coming across as a mummy’s boy. And if I pretend I’m here for either of them, will she think that I’m a caring son, or more likely, that I still live at home? Best not to risk it. In that case, I need to come up with something that’s amusing. The bad curry I had last night? No. Insulting her national cuisine might not be the best idea.

  There’s only one person in between me and the till now, and I’m starting to panic. Excessive sweating? No – not good, especially since the combination of the store’s heating system and my heavy coat means that I actually am, and the last thing I want to do is draw attention to that. My mind is playing tricks on me, suggesting the most embarrassing ailments. Athlete’s foot? No – she might think I need the cream for another itchy area. Piles? Best not. The runs? The runs! That’s it. Or at least, a sports injury. Women like sporty guys, right? And although apart from the odd game of tennis, the most sporty I get is when I watch the football with Ash, it might just work.

  Happy with my plan, I slip the shower gel back onto the nearest shelf, and when I eventually get to the till, surreptitiously check the name badge pinned to the lapel of her white coat – Seema Mistry – and prepare to launch into my story. But as she looks up at me, my mind goes blank.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, followed by ‘yes’, but an octave or two lower than my first, nervously squeaked reply. Trouble is, I can’t think of how, and the only thought that leaps to mind is why didn’t I hold on to the shower gel? I look around, but it’s too far away to reach without me losing my place in the line. What if I buy something else – something that at least doesn’t have aloe vera in it – that suggests I’m a real man? But what? ‘I’d like to buy some, I mean, I need . . .’ I stop talking, because she really is very pretty. And, more importantly, I can’t think of anything.

  Seema smiles at me sympathetically, then taps the glass counter in front of her. Where the condoms are.

  ‘What size?’ she whispers.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Condoms,’ says Seema, slightly louder this time. ‘What size do you need?’

  This takes me by surprise, not only because I’m pretty sure I hadn’t said anything out loud about actually needing some, but also because I’ve been buying condoms for fifteen years, and never knew that they came in different sizes. But all of a sudden, it strikes me that buying a packet of condoms is an excellent idea. Two, maybe, to suggest that not only am I getting a lot of sex, but I’m responsible as well, and what’s more, if I go for ‘ribbed’, it’ll make me out to be a considerate lover too. But then again, it’s embarrassing buying condoms at the best of times. And especially from a girl you fancy.

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ says Seema.

  There’s a murmuring from the queue behind me, and I realize that I don’t have long. Maybe I should just go with the condoms after all. But the Who-Wants-to-Be-a-Millionaire? million-pound question still remains, and it’s a lot harder to answer than anything I’ve ever seen on the programme.

  ‘I’m not sure. I mean, I’d like to say “large”, obviously. But being honest, I’m probably more of a medium. Not that I’ve ever had any complaints.’

  Seema looks at me levelly. ‘What size packet?’

  I’m a little stunned at her directness. I mean, I know she’s a medical person, but surely this is a bit, well, forward. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to explain.’

  ‘Well?’ says Seema, patiently. ‘Three? Six? Twelve?’

  I want to say that I’ve never actually measured it, but I’m sure most women would know that to be a lie. ‘Er . . . Do you mean in “inches”?’

  ‘No,’ says Seema, producing a selection of differentsized packets of Durex from beneath the counter. ‘How many.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, although aargh might be more appropriate. ‘Well I, er, don’t actually need any. Condoms.’

  ‘You don’t?’ says Seema.

  ‘No. I wanted some advice.’

  ‘Advice? Are you sick?
’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I say, although I’m beginning to worry that yes, I am. ‘I’ve got a, um, sports injury.’

  Seema looks at me suspiciously. ‘Really? What have you done?’

  Don’t say groin strain. Don’t say groin strain. ‘It’s a, er, groin strain.’

  Seema raises one eyebrow. ‘How on earth did you get that?’ she says, tapping the top of the largest condom box with her index finger. ‘Or daren’t I ask?’

  As I try and come up with a valid scenario, one of Seema’s colleagues opens up the next-door till, and the people in the queue behind me move across to that one. Which of course means I’ve got no reason to hurry up. Even though now, I actually want to.

  ‘No, it was from playing . . .’ Playing what – the piano? ‘I mean, I was in the gym. And I, er . . .’ I stop talking, as I’m in danger of getting myself into more trouble. What’s more, it’s clear that Seema’s not buying any of this. ‘So, what would you, you know, advise?’ I say, pointing at the ‘Ask Your Pharmacist’ sign above her head, just in case she thinks I’m acting inappropriately.

  Seema thinks for a second or two. ‘Well, generally, with any kind of strain, we advise something called RICE.’

  I’m a little confused. ‘What – like Basmati?’

  ‘No,’ she laughs. ‘It’s an acronym. R-I-C-E stands for rest, ice, compression, elevation. Though given that it’s your groin, I think we’d better forget the ice, compression, and, you know . . .’

  ‘Elevation?’

  Seema nods. ‘Exactly. So just make sure you rest the affected area.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that the way she’s looking at me suggests she doesn’t think that’ll be a problem. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So you won’t be wanting these, then?’ she says, nodding towards the bumper pack of Durex.

  I give the box a cursory glance, then suddenly feel guilty that I haven’t bought anything, though why, I don’t know. It’s not as if Seema owns the shop, or is on commission, or anything. ‘No, I’ll take them anyway. For when I’m, you know . . .’

  Seema picks up the box and scans it through the till. ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes. Better. And thanks.’

  ‘For the condoms?’

  ‘No. The advice.’

  ‘It’s what I’m here for,’ says Seema, although perhaps a touch ironically, before extending a hand towards me.

  I take it, and give it a shake. ‘I’m Ben. Nice to meet you,’ I say, realizing that now’s my chance, and if I am going to ask her out, then I won’t get a better opportunity. But whether it’s from a lack of confidence from all the failed relationships in my life, or the knowledge that I’ll have to buy my toiletries from Superdrug from now on if she turns me down, or simply that I’m overwhelmed by how attractive she is, I just can’t get the words out.

  Reluctantly, I let go of Seema’s hand, but she keeps it extended. ‘It’s nice to meet you too, Ben, but I was actually after your nine pounds ninety-eight.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry. Of course.’ I feel myself blushing, and hurriedly fish around in my pocket for a ten pound note. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, handing me my change, along with the condoms, which she’s mercifully put in a plastic bag. ‘And in the meantime, take care of that groin.’

  ‘Sure. Will do. Bye.’

  She smiles. ‘Bye, Ben.’

  Reluctantly, I turn and start to walk away from the counter, only remembering that I should perhaps be limping when I’m halfway out of the store, and when I look back over my shoulder to see whether I’ve been sussed, I guess the answer must be ‘yes’, because Seema’s smiling to herself, while shaking her head.

  When I get outside, I peer into the bag to see exactly what it is I’ve ended up spending nearly ten pounds on, but the first thing I notice is the use-by date on the box. Even though it’s a good two years away, given the way things have been going, my first thought is that I might end up having to throw most of them away.

  Chapter 4

  Cursing myself at my pathetic chatting-up skills, I make my way towards the library, and head upstairs to the Adult Education floor. To be honest, I couldn’t live off my painting alone, and so I’m grateful for the two hours a week at thirty-six pounds an hour that the council pays me for the class. But they’re a fun – if mixed – bunch, even though their general skill level is somewhere below what you’d see displayed on the average family refrigerator door, and given that I spend the majority of my week with just my paintbrush for company, I actually quite look forward to these sessions. As usual, when I get to my classroom, Taxi Terry is already there.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Terry grins at me. ‘It might never happen.’

  I catch sight of my expression in the large mirror along the back wall of the room, and see what he means. ‘Evening, Ta . . . er, Terry,’ I say, stopping myself just in time. I give all my students a tag, as I’m terrible with names, and I read somewhere that if you associate their name with what it is they do or something about them, and even give it the same first letter, then it helps you to remember it. Unfortunately, I usually just end up calling them that instead, which is okay when it’s something like ‘taxi’, because Terry’s actually quite proud of what he does for a living, but I have to be careful that I don’t make the same mistake with Hoodie Harry. And especially Lesbian Lizzie.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asks Terry, getting a box of pencils out of his bag.

  ‘Sorry, Terry.’ I try to force a smile, wondering whether I should tell him what’s just happened in Boots, but I’ve had enough embarrassment for one night. ‘I’ve just found out a friend of mine is getting married,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat.

  ‘Ah.’ Terry’s face darkens a little. ‘I thought you might have heard some bad news. Can’t you talk him out of it?’ Terry’s in his mid-forties, and, having been divorced last year for the second time, seems to have lost his faith in the institution of marriage. I suspect he signed up for this class to meet women, but seeing as the only women here are either old enough to be his mother, or would prefer to go out with his mother, I’m always a little surprised he keeps turning up. And early, too – unlike on the odd occasion I’ve used his cab company.

  ‘I don’t want to talk him out of it,’ I say, walking across and switching on the electric heater in the corner. ‘He seems very happy.’

  Terry makes a face. ‘Won’t last,’ he says, sitting down behind his easel.

  I’m just about to take issue with him as Sad Sarah, Mad Mavis, and, er, Lizzie walk into the room. They always arrive together, and at exactly the same time each week, though God knows how or why. One night, Terry and I watched at the window to see whether they all came in the same car, or had some unwritten agreement to wait for each other outside until they were all there, but even the fact that they arrived from different directions didn’t seem to make any difference. Maybe it’s like when women live together and their periods start to coincide, Terry had suggested, although I hadn’t wanted to know how he knew that particular fact.

  ‘Evening, Ben, Terry,’ they chorus, taking their places behind their respective easels.

  ‘Evening, guys,’ says Terry, although he’s already been told off several times by Lizzie for saying that.

  ‘Ladies,’ I say quickly, wanting to head off any potential disagreements. ‘Shall we get going?’ I look at my watch, wondering whether we should wait for Harry, the other member of our little group. He’s only here because he has to be – part of his community service order, apparently – although I wouldn’t have known that if he hadn’t turned up one summer evening wearing a pair of shorts that clearly displayed the electronic tagging device on his left ankle. He seems like a nice lad, though, if prone to the occasional flash of anger, especially where Terry is concerned – although that’s possibly as much Terry’s fault as his. Once Harry’s finished the course, he wants to go on and design cars, apparently. Although it was having designs on other people’s cars tha
t got him the ASBO in the first place.

  As if on cue, Harry rushes in. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, a little breathlessly.

  Terry peers at the still-swinging door behind him. ‘Someone after you?’

  ‘Nah.’ Harry sits down behind his easel. ‘Car broke down.’

  Terry raises one eyebrow. ‘Yours? Or someone else’s?’

  Harry grins at him. ‘Brakes went. Crashed into some old cab out front.’

  Terry’s jaw nearly hits the floor. ‘What?’ As he leaps up and runs to the window to check on his taxi, which he always parks right outside so he can keep an eye on it, Harry winks at the rest of us.

  ‘Not really. My girlfriend’s. Piece of trash.’

  Mavis shakes her head. ‘Harry! That’s no way to talk about a woman,’ she says, then emits her trademark laugh – the high-pitched braying noise that she makes after everything she says, as if she’s just heard what she’s said for the first time, and it’s the funniest joke in the world. In fact, it was when she made the same sound after simply introducing herself to the group at the first session that she earned her rather un-PC nickname.

  ‘Depends on the woman,’ says Terry, still scowling at Harry from across the room.

  Harry looks at the two of them, a confused expression on his face. ‘Nah. My girlfriend’s car, I mean. A crappy old Fiesta. She’s selling it to pay for the wedding.’