The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  As my dad shushes her, I start the slideshow playing, but after the first couple of pictures have loaded, my mum reaches over and snaps the screen shut.

  ‘What are you doing?’ This comes from my dad, who’s obviously been enjoying it more than my mother has.

  ‘I don’t want to watch one of your blue movies.’

  I have to fight the urge not to smile at my mum’s quaint expression. ‘It’s not a “blue movie”, Mum. It’s a collection of pictures of the kind of women I find attractive. It’s to help you pick someone for me. So you’ve got an idea of the kind of women I fancy.’

  My mum laughs. ‘This is Margate, Ben. Where are we going to find women who look like this? Certainly not feeding pound coins into the slot machines at the amusement arcade.’

  ‘Besides,’ says my dad, ‘you’ve got to be realistic, haven’t you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He nods towards the laptop. ‘Well, you wanting us to find you women like that. They’re not real.’

  ‘Yes, they are. Well, mostly.’

  ‘No, they’re not. Real people have beer bellies,’ he says, patting his stomach, ‘or fat backsides, or sticky-out ears, or bad teeth. And they find love too.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve got more chance with someone who’s, well, deformed?’

  ‘Not at all. But let’s face it, you’re hardly Marlon Brando, are you?’

  ‘Who?’

  My dad rolls his eyes. ‘Okay, Bruce Willis, then. Although you do have more hair than him, admittedly.’

  ‘A lot more,’ says my mum, patting the top of my head proudly.

  I smooth my hair back down. ‘What are you trying to say, exactly?’

  ‘Just that . . .’ My dad shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I mean, you’re not bad-looking. Not at all. But you might have to face facts and realize that you can’t exactly pick and choose, can you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And besides,’ continues my dad obliviously, ‘marriage isn’t all about looks.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Alan!’ says my mum, storming off into the kitchen.

  My dad glares at me. ‘You see what you’ve done now?’ he says, leaping up off the sofa to chase after her. ‘I mean, obviously I was lucky with your mum,’ he continues, leading her back into the room, ‘in that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, although mind you, that was probably because the Internet didn’t exist then. But, anyway, my point is that marriage is about lots of other things. How well you get on as friends. And whether you’re compatible. You know, in the bedroom department.’

  ‘Dad, don’t start that again, please . . .’

  ‘All I’m saying is, there are other qualities that you should look for in a wife. Qualities that may not be apparent, or seem important, on first meeting them. And that’s why you shouldn’t be too hung up on this looks thing. Because looks fade. Though, not in your mum’s case, obviously,’ he adds, although given the expression on her face, a little too late for her liking.

  ‘But . . .’ I know my dad is trying to help. Trying to give me the benefit of his years of experience, while trying to avoid digging himself into a bigger hole with my mum. But the trouble is, even though I want to settle down, or even just want a girlfriend who I feel I can perhaps have a future with, as opposed to one where I’m just waiting for the inevitable day when she dumps me, I still want some kind of spark when I first see them. I open up the laptop again. ‘Will you please just look at these? So I know we’re at least in the same book, if not exactly on the same page.’

  My dad clicks the screen shut, although I notice he doesn’t give me the disk back. ‘No need, son.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been busy, your mum and me.’

  Uh-oh. ‘Really? How busy, exactly?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been asking around, as per Mr and Mrs Patel’s instructions, and we’ve had quite a few responses. So we’ve drawn up a shortlist.’

  For the first time, I notice the plastic A4 folder on the dining table. ‘A shortlist?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says my dad, sounding rather pleased with himself. ‘Here.’ He hands over what look like three CVs, all neatly typed on A4 sheets of paper, then watches as I scan through them quickly before putting them down on the table.

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but there are only three.’

  My dad bristles slightly. ‘Well, given the fact that you’d specified women of a certain age, not divorced, no kids, and not looking like the back end of a bus, that really didn’t leave us a huge field to choose from. Primarily because most women answering that description seem to have been snapped up already.’

  ‘Not surprisingly,’ adds my mother, before heading back into the kitchen.

  ‘And then there were the ones who weren’t interested in you, despite my best efforts at – what is it you say – bigging you up? Which just left, well, these.’

  ‘So, it’s not really a shortlist, is it?’ I say ungratefully.

  ‘Do you want to see them or not?’ snaps my dad.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I fan the three sheets of paper out on the table, frowning as I turn each one over.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’

  ‘It’s just, well, there aren’t any photos.’

  He gives me a look I remember seeing a lot when I was growing up whenever I’d done something particularly stupid. ‘Weren’t you listening earlier? Looks aren’t important.’

  ‘So, you’d have been attracted to Mum even if she was a minger?’

  My dad stares vacantly at me, possibly because he’s trying to work out what the word ‘minger’ means, then lowers his voice. ‘What I actually mean is, they’re not the most important thing. Not where long-term happiness is concerned.’

  ‘I can still hear you, you know,’ calls my mum from the kitchen.

  As my dad makes the ‘now I’m in trouble’ face, I shake my head. ‘Well, I’m afraid they are to me.’

  ‘Okay, then. In that case, let’s just view this as a little experiment. Have a look at these women on paper first. See which one seems the most . . . Interesting. And then you can look at their photos, and see if that changes your mind.’

  ‘Fine.’ I turn my attention back to the sheets of A4 on the table, pleased that there are actually photos, but wondering how I can explain to my dad that of course it’s going to make a difference. Unless they’re identical triplets, then I can’t help but be influenced by how they look, because that’s how it works. And while I accept that women might not quite think in exactly the same way, and they might believe that certain other things, like financial security – in which case, I’m screwed – might be more important when settling down, that’s because their needs are different. Whereas we need someone we’re attracted to. Someone we want to sleep with. Because that’s how we work. And whatever my dad says, I’m afraid that’s one of the irrefutable facts of life.

  I’m working out how exactly to phrase this without getting another lecture when my dad hands me a biro. ‘Here.’

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘So you can rank them. Write a one, two, or three on their details. You know, in the order in which you like them.’

  ‘With “one” being the highest, right?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he says, although it sounds more like ‘Don’t be so stupid’.

  I grudgingly take the pen from him, and stare at the details in front of me. As far as I’m concerned, they’re pretty much identical, and the harder I look at them, the more I fail to spot a difference between them. Girl A works in a bank – so what? If she was a pole dancer, then maybe that would make a difference. And girl C has an art GCSE. I’m an artist. Is that supposed to mean that we’re compatible, and will live happily ever after?

  After a couple of minutes of pretending to consider
them all carefully, I write my preferences – somewhat randomly, it has to be said – on each piece of paper.

  ‘Here,’ I say, handing them back to my dad.

  ‘Great.’ He reaches inside the folder, and removes a brown envelope, from which he produces three Polaroid photos. ‘Now, tell me what you think.’

  I take the pictures and study them carefully, feeling a little like I’m looking at mug shots in a police station, but relieved to see that they’re all fairly good-looking. My dad’s not the best photographer in the world, and to be honest, given the age of the camera and the film, and quite possibly the age of the photographer, all of them look a little out-of-focus. Plus, they’re all just head shots, and if I’m being completely sexist, I need a little more to go on than that.

  ‘Go on then,’ he says, nodding towards where I’ve left the pen. ‘Mark away.’

  With a sigh, I pick up the biro, and place the photos face-up on the table, side by side. My dad’s carefully marked each one with an ‘X’, ‘Y’, and ‘Z’, so as not to give any clues away as to which one matches their résumés, but to be honest I’ve already forgotten most of the stuff I’ve read anyway. Let’s face it, when you’re browsing through the profiles on a dating website, it’s only after you’ve decided the girl in the photo is attractive that you consider reading what she’s written in her profile, and even then, unless she’s put ‘axe-murderer’ down in the ‘occupation’ section you’re unlikely to discount her – and even then, if she’s got big tits, you might not. Which is why I need to hear my dad’s description. Some enthusiasm about each of them. Because that’s how sales pitches work. And what’s this if it’s not just one big sales pitch?

  I turn my attention back to the photos. All three girls are attractive, in their own way. None of them appear to be nutters, from what I can tell from their pictures. Would I notice them at a bar, and be sufficiently motivated to go over to them, talk to them, buy them a drink even? It’s hard to tell given my dad’s lack of ability with the camera. And at the same time, I feel sorry for them too. The humiliation of having to go through an ‘interview’ with my dad, and then have your photo taken, knowing there’s a 2 in 3 chance you’ll be rejected . . . What does that say about them? And, more importantly, what does it say about me if I do reject them?

  In the end, I mark ‘X’ number one because she’s smiling, ‘Z’ comes second because even though she’s not smiling as much, she’s got nice long blonde hair, and ‘Y’ gets last place because, well, she’s not smiling, and her hair isn’t as long. And if that’s not a good set of criteria for choosing someone to spend the rest of my life with, I tell myself, sarcastically, I don’t know what is.

  ‘Well done,’ says my dad, as if he’s congratulating me on finishing an exam. ‘Now, let’s see how your results compare.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ I say, as enthusiastically as I can muster.

  He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and removes a piece of paper, and for a moment, I think he’s going to announce ‘and the winner is . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s interesting,’ he says, checking my answers against his list. ‘You’ve ranked them in completely the opposite order. What were the chances of that?’

  Well, seeing as I chose them completely randomly, fairly high, I would have thought. ‘That’s incredible,’ I say flatly. ‘So, where do we go from here?’

  My dad considers this for a second. ‘Well, as we suspected, there’s not a clear winner. So maybe you should meet them all.’

  I look up sharply, and glance nervously towards the door. ‘They’re not all here, are they?’

  My dad laughs. ‘Not exactly. But they all live locally.’

  ‘And they’re very keen to meet you,’ says my mum, carrying a plate of sandwiches in from the kitchen.

  And although for some reason that last fact sets the alarm bells ringing, I don’t see that I’ve got any choice. ‘So what should I do? Call them all and arrange a drink one evening? Separately, of course.’

  ‘No need,’ says my dad. ‘It’s all arranged.’

  ‘What? When for?’

  My mum and dad exchange glances. ‘Well, tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday,’ says my dad.

  ‘What?’ I splutter, more than a little shocked that my dad feels he can manage my social calendar on my behalf. ‘How did you know I wasn’t busy?’

  As my mum and dad don’t reply, I let out a long sigh.

  ‘Just tell me where and what time.’

  Chapter 14

  It’s Sunday evening, and as I check my reflection nervously in my hallway mirror, I suddenly realize that I’ve never been on a blind date before. This seems slightly strange to me, at twenty-nine years of age, but then again, I’ve never asked anyone to set me up before, and I have to admit, it’s more than a little exciting. I’m also intrigued as to the kind of woman my dad would pick, rather than pick up, for me.

  ‘You all ready, then?’ says Ash, who’s come round to give me a pep talk.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Got everything?’

  ‘Yup. Er . . . Such as?’

  ‘Money. Mobile phone. Condoms.’

  I frown at him. ‘What do I need condoms for?’

  ‘You know – for when you . . . I mean, if it goes well, and she asks you back to her place.’

  ‘I know the mechanics, Ash. But are you really expecting me to consider marrying someone who’ll sleep with me on the first date?’

  Ash grins. ‘If I were you, I’d consider marrying the first person who was prepared to sleep with you at all.’

  ‘Which is what you’re doing, right?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So, did you and Priti get intimate?’ I say, picking up my car keys from the table. ‘On the first date?’

  ‘Yeah, right. With about a thousand members of my family there. Besides, what’s that got to do with anything?’ he says, blushing slightly.

  ‘Nothing. I was just . . .’ I look at him, and realization dawns. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t, yet?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ he says, blushing furiously now. ‘Just, er, not with Priti.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s just the way things are. And she was only here for one weekend, after all.’

  ‘But you are planning to, right? I mean, before the wedding.’

  Ash stares at his shoes. ‘Well, we’ve not talked about it.’

  I look at him incredulously. ‘Ash, you can’t seriously be planning to marry a woman you’ve never slept with?’

  He smiles awkwardly. ‘Why not? People used to do it all the time. Besides, you can tell, can’t you?’

  ‘Tell what?’

  ‘You know – if you’re compatible. Sexually, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Ash,’ I say, putting an arm round his shoulders. ‘But only usually by actually having sex.’

  He shrugs me off. ‘Stop going on about it. It’s not such a big deal.’

  ‘Yes, it is! This is someone you’re going to be having sex with for the rest of your life. What if it’s awful?’

  ‘It won’t be awful,’ protests Ash. ‘And, anyway, it’s kind of . . . exciting.’

  ‘Exciting? But think of the wedding night,’ I say. ‘The pressure. I’m not sure I’d be able to perform. I mean, you’ve been waiting for it for ages, and suddenly – and I mean “suddenly” – bang! It’s all over. What’s Priti going to feel?’

  ‘Satisfied, hopefully. Besides, you’ve obviously never been to an Indian wedding. By the time the evening comes, you’re too tired to do anything, let alone have sex.’

  ‘But don’t you think you ought to, well, give it a go beforehand? Just in case?’

  Ash stands there for a second or two, considering all the possibilities that ‘just in case’ might actually mean. ‘Nah. We’ll be okay. Besides, when? I don’t think we’re allowed to be on our own between now and the big day.’

  I stare at Ash, amazed at his naive optimism. �
�I could never marry someone I hadn’t slept with. It’s like buying a car you haven’t test driven.’

  Ash shrugs. ‘Yeah, but as long as it’s got an MOT, not too many former owners. No – bad example. Say you buy a . . .’

  ‘House?’ I suggest, remembering my conversation with Terry the other day.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Ash. ‘A house. You don’t get to spend the night there before you make your final decision, do you? And yet most people live in houses for years that they’ve bought without sleeping with first. I mean, in.’

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean they’re still not spooked by strange noises in the night. Or, find out afterwards that the rooms are too small. Or too big.’

  ‘We are still talking about houses, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re putting a little too much importance on the physical side?’ says Ash. ‘I mean, how long does sex actually last?’

  I think about this for a moment or two. ‘I dunno. You mean including the actual foreplay part, or just, you know, penetration? Because I’m thinking maybe fifteen minutes . . .’

  Ash makes a face. ‘Thanks for sharing. I meant in years. Do your parents still have sex, for example?’

  I shudder. ‘God, I hope not. As far as I’m concerned, they did it the once, I came along, then never again, and that’s how I like to think of it.’

  Ash smirks. ‘All I’m saying is, there’s lots of other aspects to marriage too. You’re going to be spending a lot more time talking to her across the kitchen table than you are taking her over it. So think about your priorities.’

  ‘You sound just like my dad. But I like sex. And dare I say, I like to think that I’m good at it. And it’s something that I want to keep doing for a very long time. So I’d need to know.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ continues Ash, obviously keen to move the conversation back on to me, ‘what’s wrong with someone who’s prepared to sleep with you on the first date? I mean, it could just be because the chemistry’s so strong that she fancies the pants off you – hard as that is to believe – and that you can’t resist each other.’

  I puff my cheeks out in thought. ‘I don’t know. I guess I’d just need them to show a little restraint. You know. A little decorum.’