The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  ‘You met my dad. I wouldn’t trust him to pick out a shirt for me to wear, let alone a potential girlfriend.’

  Priti sighs. ‘It’s not like they’re picking out a shirt you don’t like and then forcing you to wear it for the rest of your life. Like I said, it’s more of an introduction service.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Ash. ‘I mean, think of the number of people your mum and dad know.’

  Priti nods, encouragingly. ‘They both work, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Ash, taking a pen and pad out of his pocket and scribbling some numbers down. ‘So, your dad’s school has, what, fifty people working there?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘All right. Well, say that two-thirds of them have kids. And two-point-four of them. That’s maybe eighty offspring, of which half will be girls, right?’

  ‘Of which some will be ugly.’

  Priti digs me in the ribs. ‘Don’t be so sexist.’

  ‘It’s hardly sexist to state an aesthetic preference. I am an artist, after all.’

  ‘Okay,’ interrupts Ash. ‘So say half of them are ug . . .

  I mean, you might not fancy them. And then, half of them are the right age band, and single. That still leaves ten unattached, attractive women that your dad can put you in touch with – just through his work. And that doesn’t include his friends. Or the people your mum knows.’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  Ash finishes the rest of his coffee, and looks around for a bin, before throwing the empty cup into an old cardboard box in the corner. ‘What have you got to lose?’

  ‘Apart from my self-respect?’

  Ash grins. ‘But think of the plus side. You get to meet a bunch of women you wouldn’t normally, and who knows – one of them may be Miss Right. Plus, you get to have sex with the others.’

  Priti clears her throat. ‘I’m still here, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Ash, blushing slightly, then winking at me so Priti can’t see. ‘But you see my point.’

  ‘Our point,’ says Priti, grabbing Ash by the hand.

  And as I think about this after they’ve gone, I realize that perhaps they’re right. Not about the sex part, although that is an obvious bonus, but in terms of what do I have to lose? Because let’s face it, given what I was prepared to do with Linda last night, any self-respect I had has long since evaporated. So when five o’clock comes, instead of going home, I turn up at my parents’ house instead.

  My dad looks up from where he’s doing something on his laptop at the kitchen table. ‘It’s not dinner time already, is it?’

  ‘Very funny. What are you up to?’

  My dad swivels the laptop round so I can see the screen. ‘I’ve just signed up for Facebook.’

  I raise one eyebrow. ‘Really? What for?’

  My dad shrugs. ‘We’re setting up a page at school. You know, for ex-pupils, and so on. In fact, you should give it a go. Lots of single women on there. Apparently,’ he adds, quickly, when he catches sight of my mum’s expression.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite him. ‘I need to talk to you both about something.’

  ‘Ben, you already told us about you and Amy, remember?’ says my mum, putting down her copy of Good Housekeeping, and looking anxiously over towards the kettle.

  ‘Not Amy, Mum. I mean the other night.’

  My dad laughs. ‘Don’t tell me, you phoned that Kerry I chatted up, I mean, spoke to for you, went out with her last night, and she’s dumped you already?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that. I wanted to talk to you about your . . . Offer.’

  My dad shuts the laptop. ‘Our offer?’

  ‘Yes.’ I look at the two of them, sitting there expectantly, and take a deep breath. ‘I need your help. You know. Like Ash, remember?’

  ‘You want us to set you up?’ asks my mum.

  ‘With a woman?’ says my dad.

  ‘Preferably,’ I say, then realize that I’d better not joke around here. ‘Of course with a woman. I mean, I just thought, who knows me better than my mum and dad? Plus, between you, you must know lots of eligible women. And you’ve not done badly yourselves, have you? Thirty years happily married, and all that. You must be doing something right.’

  My mum and dad exchange glances, before my dad shrugs. ‘I don’t mind asking around at work. There’s old Mike Richards. He’s been trying to get his daughter married off and out of his house for ages. Apparently she just sits around all day, watching Jeremy Kyle and scoffing custard creams . . .’

  ‘Or what about that girl who runs the café at the bowls club?’ says my mum. ‘The one with all the piercings. Though I must say, I don’t know why she’s got that one through her . . .’

  I hold my hands up, wondering why what seemed such a good idea after I talked it through with Ash and Priti suddenly seems so ridiculous. ‘Let me stop you there. I don’t want your friends’ reject or misfit daughters, or girls who have escaped from the circus. Let me explain how this works. It’s a coming together of two families. One complimentary to the other. Each bringing something to the party.’

  My dad smiles. ‘I get it, son.’

  ‘Get someone with a holiday home, Alan,’ chimes in my mother, suddenly excited. ‘I’ve always wanted a holiday home. In Spain. Majorca, maybe. Or a boat. See if there’s anyone who’s got a boat.’

  ‘Mum, you’re missing the point. This is someone for me. From maybe a family like ours. Not some rich lot who’re going to let their new in-laws spend a couple of weeks on their floating gin palace in the Balearics every summer.’

  ‘Oh.’ My mum’s face falls. ‘But we could still ask. Or maybe put an ad in the paper.’

  ‘No. No newspaper ads. In fact, there’s one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’ asks my dad.

  ‘You find out how to do this properly. So we’ll get Ash and his parents over, and they can tell you exactly how to go about it.’

  ‘Okay,’ says my dad, getting up from the table and fetching a pencil and notepad from the sideboard. ‘But in the meantime, what do we say about you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘If someone turns up before we get a chance to speak to Mr and Mrs Patel.’ He licks the end of the pencil. ‘You know. What’s your ESP?’

  ‘It’s USP, dad. Unique Selling Points,’ I say. ‘If I had ESP I wouldn’t be putting myself through this humiliation in the first place. And besides, I shouldn’t have to tell you what they are.’

  When my dad stares at his pad for a full minute but doesn’t write anything down, it becomes clear that, actually, I do.

  ‘Well, he’s quite a catch,’ suggests my mum.

  ‘What, like measles,’ says my dad, collapsing in a fit of giggles.

  ‘Dad! Try and think practically.’

  ‘And you’re nice-looking,’ says my mum, leaning over and pinching my cheek. ‘And you dress very nicely. Although your iron seems to be broken.’

  ‘Mum, for the millionth time, it’s the look.’

  ‘You’ve got your own teeth,’ she says. ‘And hair.’

  ‘Although rather a lot of it,’ adds my dad.

  ‘And your own flat.’

  I sit back in my chair. ‘That’s more like it.’

  My dad raises both eyebrows. ‘And a six-figure salary?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Well, how much did you earn this year? From your painting?’

  ‘Hang on.’ I borrow his pad and pencil and make some hasty calculations, then slide them back across the table. ‘Here.’

  ‘There you go,’ he says, turning it the right way up. ‘Six figures.’

  ‘Dad, you’re not supposed to include the figures after the decimal point.’

  He shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. But at least that gives me something to work with. You leave it to us, son. We’ll soon get you sorted.’

  ‘Okay.’ I stand up and make for the back
door. ‘But promise me you won’t do anything until you’ve spoken to Ash’s mum and dad.’

  My dad reaches for his computer again and fires it up. ‘I promise,’ he says, although the glint in his eye suggests otherwise.

  Chapter 10

  At seven o’clock precisely, the doorbell goes, causing my mum to run around the kitchen in a panic. In truth, the meal’s been cooked for hours, although it’s been a big debate as to what she’d actually be cooking, of course, which had prompted several phone calls to Ash just to check that no, his mum and dad weren’t vegetarians, and yes, they did drink alcohol. Which is a good thing, because I’ve got a feeling we’ll be needing a lot of it. Or at least I will.

  I open the front door and show Mr and Mrs Patel in, followed deferentially by Ash, who seems to have reverted to his shy teenage self with the presence of his mum and dad. He grins sheepishly as I walk them into the front room, just in time to see my mother hurrying in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. Unfortunately, she’s forgotten to remove her rather realistic ‘bikini’ apron – a present from my dad last Christmas – and for a moment, Mrs Patel doesn’t know where to look. Our parents haven’t really met before, apart from a brief hello during the occasional meal at the Indian Queen, but after a few glasses of wine, they’re chatting like old friends. It’s not until we get onto dessert that the subject of my love life comes up, and to my embarrassment – and Ash’s great amusement – I have to specify the kind of woman I’d ideally be looking for. And then, before I can stop them, my mum and dad decide to entertain the Patels with detailed tales of most of my previous relationships.

  Eventually, and to my great relief, Mr Patel clears his throat. ‘I think, Ben,’ he says, holding out his glass for a refill from the bottle of red wine my father’s proffering, ‘the problem is that you’ve been approaching this in the wrong way. You’re effectively trying to pick these women up from the street.’

  ‘Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it,’ I protest, before Mr Patel holds his hand up.

  ‘Just hear me out,’ he continues. ‘We’d known Priti’s family for ages, for example. So we knew we wouldn’t be in for any surprises. That she was from good stock, as it were. And of course, she and Ashif had met before.’

  ‘When we were five, Dad,’ interrupts Ash.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Mrs Patel, fondly. ‘The two of you used to run around naked together in the garden. I think I’ve still got the photos somewhere.’

  ‘Photos which better not make an appearance at the wedding, Mum,’ warns Ash. As I make a mental note to ask Mrs Patel for copies for the stag night, Ash frowns. ‘I didn’t really remember her, though.’

  ‘No, but your father and I knew you got on as children, didn’t we, Sanjay?’ she continues.

  Mr Patel nods. ‘And let’s face it, we’re all just big children, really,’ he observes.

  Some more childish than others, I think, looking across the table at my dad.

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ says my mum. ‘Ideally, what we have to do is find a girl from a family we know. Someone who maybe Ben knows too, but hasn’t looked at in that way before.’

  I help myself to some more wine. ‘But who’s seen me naked, obviously.’

  ‘When I was five,’ huffs Ash.

  ‘Well, ideally, yes,’ says Mrs Patel. ‘A friend of the family, perhaps?’

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ says my mother, before disappearing off into the next room, then coming back a few moments later with an armful of photo albums, which she hands round to everyone except me. ‘All we have to do is look through these, find photos of Ben when he was younger, and then ...’

  I get up and follow her round the table, taking them back from everyone. ‘Mum, I don’t think Mrs Patel meant it quite as literally as that.’

  ‘Why not?’ interrupts Mr Patel. ‘In fact, it’s a splendid idea. I’m sure we can go through these in no time.’

  ‘Great idea,’ agrees my dad. ‘I’ll fetch the brandy.’

  But by the time we’ve finished off most of the bottle, and what’s left of my self-esteem thanks to my various embarrassing baby photos, we’re none the wiser. Most of the families that we used to know have either moved, or we don’t keep in contact with them apart from the odd Christmas card, and those that we’re still in touch with don’t have daughters. Or eligible ones, at least. My mum sighs loudly, then collects up the albums. ‘Well, that was a fat lot of good,’ she says, dumping them in a pile on the coffee table.

  ‘No one at all?’ asks Mr Patel.

  My dad racks his brain for a moment or two. ‘I’m afraid not. At least, not anyone who isn’t married already,’ he adds, looking accusingly across the table at me.

  ‘Great,’ I say, staring hopelessly up at the ceiling. It looks like this whole project is going to fail at the first hurdle, simply because my mum and dad aren’t sociable enough.

  My mum pats me on the back of the hand. ‘There, there, Ben. I’m sure we’ll think of something.’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Mr Patel. ‘And, anyway, given the unique nature of the situation, I think we’re going to have to restrict the search to a local level. So maybe we should be less, well, specific.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mrs Patel smiles. ‘There must be other people you’ve met more recently. Friends or acquaintances, perhaps?’

  ‘There’s work colleagues, of course,’ suggests Mr Patel. ‘You need to spread the net as wide as possible. You too, Ben. Put it about that you’re looking for a bride. Ask everyone you know. See whether they’ve got a sister.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says my dad, picking up the brandy bottle. ‘So, Sanjay, does Ash?’

  ‘Does Ash what?’ says Mr Patel.

  My dad empties the last of the brandy into Ash’s glass. ‘Have a sister.’

  As everyone laughs except for his parents, Ash clears his throat. ‘I do.’

  I look across the table at him. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Have a sister.’

  Mr and Mrs Patel suddenly look a little uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure Alan was joking,’ says Mr Patel.

  ‘Not at all,’ says my dad. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Just Ben’s type,’ says Ash mischievously. ‘Do it, Ben. Marry her. We’d be brothers.’

  As I wonder firstly what Ash thinks my type actually is, and secondly why I’ve never heard of this sister before, Mrs Patel clears her throat loudly. ‘Ashif,’ she says, sternly, ‘we’re here to help Ben find a wife. Not our daughter find a husband.’

  My dad picks up the brandy bottle again and tries to refill his glass, before remembering that it’s empty. ‘You haven’t got anyone else lined up for her, have you?’

  Ash’s parents exchange awkward glances, before Ash’s dad shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Well, no, but . . .’

  ‘Great,’ says my dad. ‘So we could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Excellent.’ He reaches across the table for the last remaining bottle of red wine, and unscrews the top. ‘This calls for a celebration.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Ash, mischievously, although by the looks on his parents’ faces, a celebration is the last thing on their minds.

  ‘So. How shall we fix them up?’ continues my dad, warming to the task.

  Mr Patel puts a hand over the top of his wine glass to stop my dad filling it up. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asks my mum, defensively. ‘What’s wrong with Ben?’

  ‘Well, the fact that he can’t find himself a girlfriend, for one thing,’ protests Mrs Patel.

  ‘Just like Ashif, in fact,’ says my mum.

  Mr Patel looks at her. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Ashif didn’t have a girlfriend, did he? Not until you introduced him to Priti. And there’s nothing wrong with him, is there?’

  ‘Of course not,’ says Mrs Patel.

  My mum smiles. ‘So in that case, there’s nothing wrong with Ben, is there?’

  As all heads swivel toward
s me, I stare at my plate.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Mr Patel sighs. ‘It’s nothing to do with Ben. Our daughter’s just not . . .’

  ‘Suitable,’ says Mrs Patel.

  I can tell my mum’s about to ask why not, so I tap the side of my glass a couple of times with my knife. ‘Shall we just move on? I think we were at “work colleagues”, or something?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mr Patel, holding his empty glass out towards my dad, relieved that I’ve changed the subject. ‘Of course.’

  As he explains how my mum and dad should plan their approach, the awkwardness gradually lifts from the table. And by the time we’re on to coffee, along with the box of After Eights my mum’s been saving since Christmas, my parents seem to be even more enthusiastic about the project.

  ‘So, what’s the next step?’ asks my dad. ‘Once we’ve identified a potential target, and Ben’s been out with them. Assuming he’s not scared them off, of course.’

  I ignore the insult. ‘Target? You’ve been reading too many of those SAS novels.’

  ‘Sorry, son.’ My dad grins. ‘Once we’ve found someone for you to marry, I meant.’

  ‘Well, then you have to meet the family, of course,’ says Mr Patel.

  My mum frowns. ‘Why? What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything,’ interrupts Ash. ‘In fact, normally, we’d do it the other way round. You know, meet the parents first.’

  I look at him incredulously. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that? I mean, it’s not them you’re marrying, is it?’

  Ash grins. ‘You’d be surprised. Do you know what the difference is between outlaws and in-laws?’

  I shrug. ‘What?’

  ‘Outlaws are wanted.’ He laughs at his own joke, then stops when he sees that no one else is joining in. ‘I’m serious, though. Making sure you get on with her parents is really important. Because if you think about it, you’re going to be seeing an awful lot of them.’

  ‘Plus,’ says Mr Patel, ‘they’re going to be paying for the wedding, don’t forget.’

  ‘But . . .’ I wonder how I can explain. ‘What we do,’ I say, more than a little conscious of not wanting to sound too racist, ‘is actually the complete opposite. In fact, I’d probably leave meeting her folks until the last possible minute. And certainly not until I’d ensured that the two of us were compatible in the first place.’