by Matt Dunn
‘And who’s this, Ben?’ says the one closest to us, looking him up and down. ‘Your dad?’
It’s an unkind remark, but it’s also true, although my dad cheerfully admitting to it doesn’t turn out to be the best plan, as while it might be loud in the club, I can hear the girls’ laughter for most of the walk back to where we’ve left our drinks.
‘Ouch,’ says my dad, picking his beer up gratefully and taking a sip. ‘They didn’t give us much of a chance.’
‘Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you. You have to lead with a drink. And by the way, if there is any talking to be done, then please let me do it.’
‘But you weren’t,’ he protests.
‘Because, for the millionth time, that’s not how it works.’
He starts tapping his foot to the music. ‘Well, why not just go up to them and ask them to dance instead?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ I warn him.
‘So, you don’t talk to them, you don’t dance with them, and in fact your whole approach seems to be based around plying them with alcohol. It’s no wonder you’re finding this so difficult.’ He looks at me disbelievingly, then puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve got to come up with a line. Something to get their interest. And above all, don’t be put off. Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that.’
I look around the interior of the club again. There are very few of what I’d even describe as ‘fair’ ladies, and even ‘fair-to-middling’ would be pushing it. ‘I’m telling you, Dad, it’s hopeless.’
‘Rubbish.’ He glances over towards a pretty girl leaning against the bar. ‘Mind if I have another crack?’
‘Be my guest. And remember, ask if you can buy her a drink.’
‘A drink. Got it.’
I start to walk after him, but then stop myself. After all, I want him to find out just what it’s like nowadays. Just how hard it is for us single men. So instead, I lean against the pillar and pull my mobile phone out of my pocket, pretending to study the screen as if I’ve just received a text. When I look up again, my dad’s back in front of me, a dejected expression on his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
My dad shrugs. ‘I did as you said. Offered to buy her a drink.’
‘And?’
‘She looked me up and down, then asked if she could just have the money instead.’ He shakes his head. ‘Unbelievable.’
I try hard not to laugh. ‘Isn’t it just?’
‘Okay. Onwards and upwards. What about that one?’ He points towards a pretty redhead standing on her own next to the dance floor.
By now, I’m almost past caring. ‘Help yourself.’
Thirty seconds later, he’s back. ‘I don’t think you’d have liked her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well . . .’ He leans in close to me, and lowers his voice. ‘I think she – what is it you say? – plays for the other team. And she’s a sex maniac, to boot.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She said she was waiting for her girlfriends.’
‘Dad, that doesn’t mean . . . Never mind.’ I look at my watch, and see with horror that it’s not even ten o’clock yet. ‘Come on. Shall we go?’
My dad doesn’t answer me, but instead just heads off towards another group of women who are sitting in a booth by the dance floor. He introduces himself, rather formally shaking each one of them by the hand, before – to my astonishment – sitting down at their table, and then turning and pointing in my direction. I’m mortified, and pull my phone out of my pocket again, studying it as intently as if someone’s just texted me next week’s winning lottery numbers, and by the time I dare to look up again, my dad’s standing next to me. This time, however, he’s got a smile on his face.
‘What are you looking so pleased about?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ he says.
‘Got blown out again?’
For a moment, I think my dad assumes that’s something rude. ‘No, actually.’
‘Well, what are you doing back here, then?’
He turns round and waves at the girls, who wave back at him. ‘Mission accomplished.’
‘What? How?’
‘I told you,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to be creative. Come up with a line or two.’
Uh-oh. ‘And what was yours, exactly?’
My dad grins. ‘I told them I didn’t have long to live ...’
‘What? You won’t if you carry on like that.’
‘. . . and my dying wish was to see my only son get married,’ he continues, triumphantly handing over a piece of paper. ‘Ta-daa!’
‘What’s this?’
‘This would be . . .’ He pulls his reading glasses out of his other pocket, slips them on, and studies the name on it. ‘Kerry’s phone number.’
‘And which one is Kerry, exactly?’
He changes over his glasses, and peers back at the table. ‘The one in the black dress.’
I look over at the table, where a pleasant-looking girl in a black dress is smiling at me, then stare at the scrap of paper in disbelief. ‘Thanks for nothing.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he says, trying to press it into my hand. ‘I got you her number, didn’t I?’
‘Which I can’t call, of course.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Oh, just because of the simple fact that if we do go out, and get on, and get married, and then you miraculously survive the wedding, and long after that as well ...’
‘. . . then it’ll be a miracle. And you’ll have a funny story to tell your children, won’t you?’
I shake my head slowly. ‘Dad, you might have checked that I actually fancied her first. Besides, you can’t start a relationship from a position of deception. It’s all about honesty nowadays.’
My dad sighs. ‘Son, from the first days that women started putting make-up on, or wearing these new wonderful bras, honesty went out of the window. We all exaggerate a little at the beginning. Dress ourselves up. It’s part of what’s known as courtship. Now, give me your phone.’
‘You’re not going to call her, are you? I mean, she’s just sitting over there.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ My dad takes my phone, punches her name and number into it, then presses Save, then hands it back to me, along with his glass. ‘Now, look after my drink, will you?’
I look at him warily. ‘Why? Where are you going this time?’
‘To the toilet. If that’s okay?’
‘As long as you don’t try and chat anyone up in there. And then can we go?’
‘No chance.’ My dad eyes the dance floor, then does a strange movement that I assume is supposed to be one of his dance moves, but looks more like someone’s just dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt. ‘I’m just starting to enjoy myself.’
As he heads off in search of the Gents, I slump down at the nearest table, sick with the realization that here I am, reduced to going clubbing on a Saturday night with my fifty-five-year-old dad, and what’s more he’s having more success on the pulling front than I normally do. But just when I think my evening couldn’t get any worse, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
‘That’s the spirit,’ says Ash, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘Back in the saddle.’
Horrified, I turn round slowly to see a smiling Priti, and Ash, with his arm round her waist, looking like the proverbial cat who’s got the cream. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nice to see you too, Ben,’ says Priti, sitting down next to me.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I thought you’d be out having fun.’
‘We are having fun,’ says Ash. ‘I’m showing Priti the local hot spots.’
I nod towards the dance floor, where a woman my mother’s age wearing little more than most people wear on the beach is attempting to dance without spilling her Bacardi Breezer. ‘And this was the best you could come up with?’
‘Well, it was this, or a night in with my parents,’ says Ash, squeezing into the corner
seat. ‘No contest, really.’
‘They’re not that bad,’ says Priti, digging him in the ribs affectionately.
‘I suppose not,’ says Ash. ‘But speaking of parents, Ben, that bloke over there doesn’t half look like your old man.’
I look round to where my dad is making a beeline from the toilets to our table, stopping every two or three steps to do a little shimmy. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’ I say, in a vain attempt to change the subject, and despite the fact that they’re both holding full glasses.
‘Hang on,’ continues Ash, putting a hand on my arm to stop my escape. ‘It is your old man. But what . . .’ Ash stops talking, probably because the expression on my face has already answered the question he was about to ask. ‘Oh, Ben.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Could my life be any sadder?’
‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ says Priti. ‘You taking him out on a Saturday night. Has he recently lost his wife, I mean, your mum, or something?’
‘He might do later, when I tell her exactly what he’s been up to,’ I say. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. He, I mean, we . . .’ I stop talking, at a loss to explain any of this. But fortunately – or unfortunately, depending on your point of view – I don’t get a chance to, as my dad swaggers over to join us.
‘Aye aye,’ he says, noticing Priti sat next to me. ‘What’s all this then? You pulled, son? I mean, Ben,’ he adds, with a not-so-subtle wink.
I cringe inwardly. ‘No, Dad. You know Ash, of course. And this is . . .’ I’m wondering just how to introduce her, when Priti takes over.
‘Hello, Mr Grant. I’m Priti.’
My dad fixes her with what he obviously thinks is his most charming smile. ‘You certainly are, young lady,’ he says, shaking her hand somewhat enthusiastically.
‘No, Dad, her name is Priti.’
‘Oh. What is it?’
‘What’s what?’
‘This pretty name of hers,’ says my dad, still holding on to her hand, while looking at me like I’m one of his thicker pupils.
‘It’s Priti. Spelt P-R-I-T-I,’ says Priti.
‘Oh. Right.’ He lets her hand go, and picks his beer up. ‘Sorry.’
‘Yes,’ says Ash. ‘My fiancée.’
‘Fiancée, eh?’ says my dad, looking at me accusingly. ‘Well, congratulations, both of you.’
‘Thanks, Mister Grant,’ says Ash, proudly.
‘Please,’ says my dad, although he addresses it more to Priti. ‘Call me Alan.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ asks Ash, no longer able to contain his curiosity.
‘Well, Ben’s been having some trouble on the girlfriend front,’ says my dad, before I can stop him. ‘And so I’ve been showing him how it’s done.’
Ash chokes off a laugh. ‘Really? And are you having much luck?’
‘Luck, my boy, has nothing to do with it. It’s all about technique. As I’ve been trying to tell him. Although it’s easier for you lot nowadays.’ My dad pulls the scrap of paper out of his shirt pocket, and shows it proudly to Ash. ‘I mean, we didn’t have mobiles in my day.’
‘And in fact, the telephone hadn’t even been invented,’ I add.
‘I’m not that old,’ protests my dad. ‘In fact, I’m sure I could still show you a thing or two out there as well,’ he says, looking over towards the dance floor, where the same woman seems to be oblivious to the fact that her bottle is empty, and she’s dancing in a puddle of Bacardi.
‘Please, God. No,’ I say, under my breath.
‘How about it?’ says my dad. ‘Ben?’
‘You must be joking,’ I say. ‘Besides, I promised Mum I’d get you home at a reasonable time.’
‘Which is when?’ he says dejectedly.
I stand up abruptly. ‘Now,’ I say, not even bothering to look at my watch.
‘Ah,’ says my dad, winking at Priti. ‘She who must be obeyed, eh?’
‘That’s right,’ says Priti, grabbing Ash’s arm and smiling up at him. ‘Which is a lesson you’ll do well to learn.’
I escort my dad back outside, and set off on the short drive home, surprised to find that it’s just gone ten, as even though we’ve only been out for an hour, it’s felt like much longer. As we walk in through the front door, my mother meets us in the hallway.
‘On your own?’ she asks.
I assume that’s directed at me. ‘What did you expect, Mum? That I’d meet someone and bring them back here – with him in tow?’ I jab a thumb in my dad’s direction as he undoes another button on his trousers, then sighs with relief.
‘You never know,’ she says, walking into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. ‘Your dad’s quite a charmer.’
‘I can think of other words for him.’
‘So, no luck at all, then?’
I’ve told my dad not to tell her about the Kerry incident. ‘Oh, yes. Thanks to him being there, I had to beat them off with a shi . . . I mean, a stick. In the end I just couldn’t choose, there were so many.’
‘Well, never mind. What is it your father always says when you get dumped? “Plenty more fish in the sea”?’
‘But that’s just it, Mum. I’m starting to worry that there aren’t any more. Or that maybe I’m allergic to fish.’
She picks three mugs up off the draining board. ‘It can’t be that bad, surely?’
‘I have to say, Ben was right,’ says my dad, giving my mum an appreciative squeeze. ‘It is tough out there.’
‘Thank you.’ I sit down heavily at the kitchen table. ‘Finally.’
‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have left it so late. After all,’ says my mum, sitting down opposite me. ‘Like you said, you’re nearly thirty. And most people are already married at your age.’
I stare at my mum for a moment or two, then lean over the table and give her a huge kiss on the forehead. ‘Mum, you’re a genius!’
My mum looks puzzled. ‘For remembering how old you are?’
‘Yes,’ I say, fishing in my pocket for my car keys. ‘Got to go.’
‘Back to Amy?’ says my dad, hopefully.
‘A little bit further than that, actually,’ I say, heading down the hallway, and out through the front door.
Chapter 8
The reason my mum’s a genius? Because she’s reminded me that I’ve got a back-up option. And it’s not Amy, but a girl called Linda Martin.
Linda and I met at college – she was in the same year as me, and her parents lived about half an hour away from mine, meaning we’d often travel back with each other at the end of term. And even though I fancied the pants off her, and I think she felt the same about me, I never actually got the pants off her, mainly because whenever I was single, she was going out with someone, and vice versa. And because of this, the strangest thing happened. We became friends.
And I remember one drunken night, in the late stages of a party at someone’s house. Linda was moaning about how her then-boyfriend thought she was too possessive, and we’d caught sight of my soon-to-be ex, whose name I’m slightly worried that I’ve forgotten, snogging Phil, a guy from the sports science course who Linda had gone out with the previous term, but who’d broken it off with her, telling her he thought she was a bunny-boiler – and we’d made a deal. And not just any old deal. Because Linda had turned to me – I remember it clearly – and said, ‘Tell you what, Ben. If neither of us can find the right person to marry by the time we’re thirty, let’s marry each other.’ And we’d shaken hands on it.
While back then I’d dismissed it as one of those drunken things you say from time to time, given my current situation – not to mention my impending birthday – it suddenly strikes me as something that deserves further investigation. I mean, I don’t expect her to drop everything and marry me, but who knows? Linda and I were good friends. From what I can remember, she wasn’t unattractive, even though the John Lennon glasses she used to wear back then made her look a bit like an owl. She was studying accountancy too, which means she’s probabl
y got a good job now. Plus, she was always very encouraging about my art, which means that right now, she’s as good a bet as any. And even though I haven’t seen her since then, thanks to the Christmas cards we exchange every year, I’ve got her mobile number.
I spend a restless night thinking about it, then after a couple of cups of strong coffee for breakfast, compose a text message, and press Send. I’ve decided not to remind her about our deal straight away – I don’t want to scare her off, after all – so I just suggest a drink, then spend the rest of the day checking and re-checking my phone, on the odd occasion even calling it from my landline to make sure the ringer’s still working. By late afternoon, I’ve just about given up, when I realize with a start that I’ve missed a text message, and from an hour ago. I hurriedly scroll through the menu to find it, nearly deleting it by accident, then almost drop the phone in my excitement. It’s from her.
Hi Ben it says. Free tonite? Wd be gr8 2 c u.
I gr8 my teeth a little as I compose a message back to her – I’ve never been keen on text-speak – saying tonight would be great, and suggesting a pub I know near where she lives. If she can meet me at such short notice, then that’s got to be a sign that she’s single – which is something I can take both ways, of course. But maybe, just maybe, she’s been having the same trouble as I have. Perhaps she’s even been holding out for me, in the hope that I’ll get back in touch. But later, as I get ready, there’s one thing I do know – whatever the reason she wants to see me, it’s got to be better than being set up with a complete stranger by my mum and dad. We used to be friends – which is the best starting point, after all. She’s sure to remember our discussion that evening, which is possibly why she’s agreed to meet me. And if she’s got a biological clock that’s ticking, so much the better.
I’m a little nervous as I make the half-hour drive to meet her, and get to the pub a few minutes early, but Linda’s already there, sitting in a corner, flicking through a magazine. I recognize her instantly, even though she’s changed her old round glasses for some of those trendy, angular ones, and instead of the sweatshirt-and-combats combination she used to favour at college, is dressed immaculately in some sort of business suit. I immediately wish I’d worn something smarter than jeans – my dad’s words coming back to haunt me – but then I remember that I don’t actually have anything smarter than jeans, having symbolically taken all my suits to the charity shop the day I gave up my job. It’s too late to go home and change anyway, so I just walk over and hover by her table.
