The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  ‘I didn’t know you were engaged,’ I say, wondering whether everyone is getting married except me. ‘Congratulations, Harry.’

  Harry frowns. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Ah.’ I decide not to ask further – the only thing Harry is interested in more than other people’s cars is other people’s wives or girlfriends, and I’ve long since given up trying to keep track of the various girls I see him with around town. Instead, I point up at the clock on the wall. ‘Let’s get started, shall we?’ I was going to start them on sculpture today – in fact, I’ve been thinking about moving on to it for a couple of weeks, but I don’t particularly want to give Harry any sharp implements – so I just nod towards their easels. ‘Continue with your portraits. And remember, you’re trying to capture the essence of the person. Not just how they look on the outside.’

  As they get down to work, I wonder what the real story is with them all, and why – apart from Harry – they’ve chosen to be here on a Friday night. While I’m not sure what Harry’s love life is about, apart from what seems to be a quantity rather than quality approach, Terry, on the other hand, couldn’t be more cynical. And whether that’s because he’s tried and failed – twice – who knows? As far as I’m aware there’s a Mister Mavis at home, but given that I know she does this class on a Friday, pottery on a Thursday, creative writing on a Tuesday, and computer studies on a Monday, I can’t imagine they have much of a home life. As for Lizzie, I’ve seen her out a couple of times with another woman, but she never introduces her as ‘my partner’, or whatever is politically correct nowadays, and in fact doesn’t introduce her at all, so I don’t feel I can ask.

  But of them all, Sarah is the one I feel the most sorry for. Her husband of fifty years died last year, and she’s given up all hope of meeting someone else, even though she’s a well-preserved seventy-one. I’d asked her why at our Christmas drinks bash, when Harry had brought in half a dozen bottles of Moët which had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’ – evidently without getting smashed, unlike we did that evening – but Sarah had just shrugged. Because I’ll never meet anyone like him again, she’d said, matter-of-factly, and I’d felt instantly guilty for boring her with my and Amy’s ‘problems’ beforehand. And the way she obviously believed that fact so strongly, and what that said about how great their marriage had been, had put a lump in my throat so large that I couldn’t force another drop of champagne past it.

  I walk slowly around the room as they paint, offering advice here, or a comment there, though fortunately I manage to stop myself from asking Terry whether his portrait is something from the Alien films, as he tells me later it’s one of his ex-wives. But as I watch them work, I can’t seem to concentrate, given this afternoon’s developments.

  Because while I’m happy for Ash, there’s another emotion nagging away at me, and when I finally work out what it is, I’m a little surprised to realize that it’s jealousy. I mean, I know he’s had a bit of help, but given our respective relationship histories, I really, genuinely thought that I’d be the one who’d get married first. After all, compared with him, I’ve been out with loads of women – well, not loads, exactly, but probably at least the national average, and yet, out of them all, there wasn’t one – Amy included – I wanted to make an ‘honest woman’ of.

  While I realize that it’s pretty selfish of me to be thinking about my shortcomings rather than Ash’s good news, I’m also slightly worried that he’s happy to leap into something so serious with someone who, let’s face it, he doesn’t really know that well. But then again, given my relationship history, maybe that makes sense? After all – and ironically – with most of my girlfriends, the longer our relationship lasted, the more we got on each other’s nerves, meaning that the prospect of marriage got less and less likely as time went on – something Amy obviously recognized too. Which is possibly why she tried to force my hand.

  Yet here Ash is and – judging by the look on his face earlier – after little more than five minutes, he’s sure he wants to make the kind of commitment that I’ve not even come close to for most of my life. Although the fact that he’s so excited by the prospect, and I wasn’t, makes me realise that Amy and I splitting up was the right thing to do.

  And while Ash has always been the leap-before-youlook type, what I can’t understand is why Priti is so keen on the idea too. She certainly doesn’t seem desperate, and by the look of her, she could have her pick of men. Is there something Ash has got that I haven’t – apart from a mysteriously unlimited cash supply, a flash car, and parents who own the best Indian restaurant in town, of course? But then again, Priti doesn’t seem the gold-digger type. And even from the brief conversation I’ve had with her, I can tell that she seems level-headed enough to know that a marriage needs more than material things to work.

  Maybe it’s a timing issue? Perhaps she’s simply ready to get married, and Ash, as usual, is the lucky one, and just happens to be in the frame at the right time. He’s always been an opportunist, and maybe given his relationship history – or lack of it – he’s realized he’ll never get a better opportunity.

  And yet, at the same time as I’m congratulating myself on such a clever analysis, I start to feel more than a little depressed. Because it’s not as if I haven’t had an opportunity either. To be honest, I’ve been keen to settle down and get married for a good few years now, and I know that a couple of ex-girlfriends of mine – Amy included, of course – have felt the same. And they’ve been nice girls: good-looking, fun, sexy – everything that Priti seems to be, but for some reason they just haven’t been right.

  For the rest of the class, I can’t seem to get a handle on why. Have I been picking the wrong kind of girls to go out with in the first place, hoping that the thunderbolt will strike as the relationship progresses, then losing interest when it – not surprisingly – doesn’t? Or am I being stupid in wanting to be knocked off my feet by someone, and not being prepared to make a commitment, particularly now that, given my recent change of career, and therefore financial status, I might not get as many opportunities any more? And if that’s the case, have I been foolish in letting other – perfectly satisfactory – relationships pass me by?

  But it’s not until I’m walking back home that I realize that whichever of those questions is right, there is one common factor in all of my failed relationships. One thing that’s stopped me from getting down on one knee. And the probable reason for my current single status:

  It’s me.

  Chapter 5

  When I wake up the next day, the first thing I do – and I know it’s stupid, but I do it most mornings – is turn to my right, then slowly open my eyes, just to see whether I’m on my own or not. And as I blink in the morning sunlight, I realize that of course I am; as Ash reminded me yesterday, Amy and I split up. Just like I split with the rest of them, so why I’m still surprised to wake up alone more often than not, I just don’t know. I also realize that the simplest way to avoid this feeling is, of course, to sleep in the middle of the bed – that way, the first thing I’d see every morning wouldn’t be this huge great space next to me. But that’s not really what double beds are for, is it? Besides, it’d feel a little too weird, as if I was admitting that the vacancy next to me was never going to be filled. Either way, and irrespective of how I try to deal with it, the problem with waking up alone is that it puts you in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Because even though you can get out of any side of the bed you like, you always seem to end up getting out of the wrong one.

  This morning, however, feels even more depressing, as for the first time I feel that if my relationships keep going the way that mine and Amy’s did, then this is how it might be every single day of my life – with the emphasis on the word ‘single’. For a moment, I contemplate not getting up at all, but then suddenly change my mind. Today, I tell myself, I’m going to play things differently. Instead of moaning to myself about the fact that I’m alone again, I’m going to enjoy it. Celebrate it, even. Please
myself. After all, I can do what I want with my day. And while my initial thought is that I want to spend it with someone else, someone special, I decide that, actually, I’m going to do exactly that. It’s just that the special person is going to be, well, me.

  For a start, I decide not to get dressed, and so, after a quick visit to the bathroom where I leave the toilet seat up on purpose, amble into the kitchen wearing just my boxer shorts, before flicking the kettle on and wondering what to have for breakfast. However, this feeling of elated semi-nakedness lasts only as long as it takes me to open the fridge door and discover that I’m out of milk. And seeing as I can’t stand black coffee, and the staff in the corner shop might frown on my turning up there dressed as I am, I reluctantly head back into the bedroom and throw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt.

  But this is still great, I think, as I stuff a handful of small change into my pocket and walk out through the front door. I live right in the centre of town, on a street called, ironically, Love Lane, and while my flat’s not that big – which is one of the reasons I need to rent a studio to work in – it’s handy for the shops and the sea. Mind you, given the size of Margate, and the fact that we’re on the coast, so are most places, I suppose.

  I haven’t shaved, or even showered – which would explain the slight odour I detect as I walk along the road, surreptitiously sniffing my left armpit – and I’m just about to sniff the right one, then stop myself, realizing that if one’s bad, the other one being not-so-bad is hardly going to make up for it. I’ve also got no socks on, which is perhaps not such a good idea given that it’s chilly, and when I catch sight of my reflection in a shop window, my look is a little more ‘homeless’ than ‘hasn’t been home’, which wasn’t really my intention. But then again, I’m not trying to look like anything for anyone.

  There are no other customers in the corner shop, which is probably fortunate, considering my level of hygiene, and as I take my purchases to the counter, the girl behind the till looks me up and down a little strangely – although that could also be something to do with the fact that I’m buying a pint of skimmed milk, some HobNobs, and a packet of hot cross buns, thus maybe sending out mixed messages as to my healthy eating plans. But I don’t care, I remind myself, as I start to count my change out on the counter in front of her. I’m not dressing up for her – or any woman. Because I am single, and proud of the fact. So what if I don’t meet my ideal woman today – or any day, come to think of it? Besides, what is it they say – whoever ‘they’ are? When you’re not looking for it, that’s when it comes along? Well, I’m definitely not looking – either for it, or like it – so today could just be my lucky day.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’

  Or perhaps not.

  ‘Amy. Hi.’ She’s dressed in her gym gear, although whether she’s pre- or post-workout, it’s difficult to tell, because Amy always looks immaculate. I haven’t seen her since we split up, and while I’m pretty sure she’s not checking up on me, this particular shop is a little out of her way. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you,’ she says, holding up a carton of milk and a packet of sugar-free muesli, as I try and hide my shopping behind my back. ‘In principle, at least. Another healthy breakfast?’

  Amy always despaired of my eating habits. In fact, when we broke up, she told me that she was looking forward to going out with someone whose idea of a starter wasn’t to pop open a packet of Pringles. ‘Well, you know. My body is a temple, and all that.’

  She gives me a look as if to say that if it is a temple, then no one would want to worship there this morning. ‘Same old Ben. How have you been?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Busy. Working.’

  ‘Working?’ Amy raises one eyebrow. ‘Oh, you mean your painting. How’s that going?’

  I bristle slightly at her dismissive tone, but then again, I suppose she’s got a right to be resentful of my change of career. After all, in her eyes, I chose it over her.

  Possibly because that’s what I told her in an attempt to spare her feelings when we broke up. ‘Good. Great, in fact. How’s your work?’ I say, keen to emphasize that it’s not mine any more.

  ‘Oh, you know. At least it pays the bills, I suppose.’

  Normally, I’d laugh at this. Amy’s so focused on climbing up the corporate ladder that to pay the bills is probably the last reason she goes to the office each day. But the insinuation that what I do doesn’t cuts right to the bone.

  ‘Yes, well, everyone’s got to start somewhere,’ I say, counting the exact money out of the rest of my coppers, and sliding them across to the shop assistant.

  ‘Well, it’s good to see that there’s something you’re prepared to stick at. When the going gets tough.’

  For a moment, I don’t know how to respond to that. Amy’s obviously referring to our relationship. But before I can answer, she glances down at my pile of change and, added to my unkempt appearance, obviously puts two and two together, but unusually for someone who’s as good an accountant as she is, makes five.

  ‘You know you can always come back,’ she says, resting a hand on my arm. ‘If things are that bad.’

  ‘You mean to work, right?’

  Amy removes her hand and smiles sympathetically at me. ‘You know what I mean, Ben.’

  ‘Well, they’re not that bad, actually,’ I say, before realizing that sounds a little nasty, as if I’m implying that things would have to be really desperate for me to consider going back out with her. ‘Work-wise, I mean. In fact, hang the expense . . .’ I glance around the shop, then as nonchalantly as I can, pick up the nearest newspaper, which happens to be a copy of the Sun, before flinging another thirty pence recklessly down on the counter.

  ‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ says Amy, pulling a cashpoint-crisp twenty-pound note out of her purse to pay for her purchases. ‘Really it is.’

  We stand there awkwardly for a moment, until I break the uneasy silence. ‘Anyway,’ I say, tapping the top of my left wrist, before realizing I’ve forgotten to put my watch on this morning. ‘Must run.’

  Amy looks a little put out. ‘Hot date?’

  I could say yes, of course, but that would be a lie. And cruel. And being cruel, or lying to women – particularly a woman I once cared about – isn’t really my style.

  ‘Nope.’ I smile back at her, and gather up my shopping. ‘Hot cross bun.’

  As Amy rolls her eyes at me, I head out of the shop, then make my way back down the street and into my flat, taking a swig out of the milk carton as I shut the door behind me, then – after checking no one’s looking, for some reason – wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I’m a little bit shaken after our chance encounter, but pleased that she seems to be okay. And while I can’t quite work out how that makes me feel, one feeling I am sure of is hunger, so I slice a couple of the buns in half and stick them under the grill, scanning the front page of the paper while I wait for them to toast. I don’t normally buy a newspaper, and I soon realize why, as it appears to be full of stories about the latest celebrity divorce, and an ‘exclusive’ about how someone I’ve never heard of has been caught cheating on someone else I don’t recognize, while the first bit of proper news seems to be relegated to page two. And what’s the common factor in all these misery stories? Women. Yup, I tell myself, I’m better off without them. Until I turn to page three, that is.

  I make myself a coffee, then rush to the grill, where I’ve forgotten about the hot cross buns, which are now a little hotter than I’d have liked. And as I eat them, I start to wonder whether in fact Terry’s viewpoint on women is the right one. After all, why on earth do I feel the need to spend my whole life, all day every day, with someone else anyway? It can’t be sensible. And the more I think about it, the more I try and rationalize it. And fail.

  I find a piece of paper and a pen and sit down at the table, then write the words ‘single’ and ‘married’ at the top, and draw a line down the middle so I’ve got two columns. In the ‘single’ column, I start listing al
l the things that are great about being, well, not married, using this morning as a prime example. You can eat what you want, I think, finishing off the last of the charred buns, before moving on to the HobNobs. And wear what you want. Go to bed whenever you like, and get up whenever too. Oh, and you don’t have to shower, I add, remembering my armpits, then hurriedly cross the last three things out when I realize that they look more like the kind of thing a five-year-old would highlight for their ideal weekend. There’s the extra money, of course, having not wasted it in over-priced restaurants on a series of dates that’ll never go anywhere, or expensive presents to compensate for a lack of ‘emotional giving’ – Amy’s words, not mine.

  I add a couple more, and although they’re mainly observations about particular women I’ve been out with, like not having to sit through EastEnders, or being able to watch a DVD without pausing it every five minutes to explain the plot of any film that isn’t a ‘chick flick’, I suspect they’re probably generally applicable, then refill my coffee mug and turn my attention to the right-hand column. Given the amount of things listed on the left, surely this can’t be difficult?

  I start with the obvious one: regular sex. Then cross it out again, because from what I’ve heard from Terry over the past few months, the reason it’s called ‘tying the knot’ is because you might as well tie a knot in a certain part of your anatomy, given the amount of sex you have once you’ve slipped a ring on her finger.

  Okay . . . Someone to share my life with. Good one. Assuming I want to share it, of course. I mean, I quite like being alone in my studio. Although someone to share the bills with would be good, I think, listening to the clunk of a number of brown envelopes coming through the letterbox.

  Er . . . Someone who loves me? Well, I’ve got my mum and dad, although they’re not going to be around for ever. But then again, I could always get a pet, I suppose, crossing it out.