The Good Bride Guide

by Matt Dunn

  I peer at the label. ‘Nineteen ninety-nine.’

  ‘For a pair of jeans?’ My dad does a double take. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Too expensive?’

  ‘Too cheap.’ He looks suspiciously around the store. ‘Are you sure they’re any good?’

  ‘But that’s the thing I’ve been trying to tell you, Dad. They’re not meant to last.’

  He stares at the jeans he’s holding, then looks down at his existing pair – the ones he’s had for the last ten years – and I can see that he’s finally beginning to understand.

  Chapter 20

  It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve just been back into H&M to return my dad’s jeans on my mother’s instructions – while they didn’t make his bum look big, apparently hers now does by comparison – when I remember that I need to get some deodorant. I’m a strong believer in the Lynx effect, or more specifically the effect of not wearing any, and so without a second thought I head into Boots, find my favourite variety, Africa – although if this is what Africa actually smells like I’d be very surprised – and queue up to pay. And I’ve just reached the till when a familiar voice startles me.

  ‘That was quick.’

  I look up from where I’ve been checking the year on a particularly shiny pound coin to see Seema smiling at me. Oh no. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘And impressive, if I may say so? Especially with – what was it – a groin strain. How is that now?’

  ‘Er . . .’ In truth, while I didn’t have one before, I am limping a little after my night with Dawn. ‘Fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Even so, getting through a packet of that size so quickly,’ continues Seema, her eyes wide in mock admiration. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the condoms? No, I, um, haven’t started them yet. I need to buy this.’ I hold the deodorant out towards her, then stop talking, wondering what on earth I’m doing debating my level of condom use, then feel even more embarrassed, because now I’ve just implied that without the deodorant, I’ve been too smelly to sleep with anyone.

  Seema smiles at me again. ‘Well, at least you’re intending to practise safe sex, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, trying hard to regain my composure. ‘Always do.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’ She takes the deodorant from me, and scans it through the till. ‘That’s one pound eighty-nine, please. And you’re sure you don’t want to get another . . .’

  ‘No,’ I say, a little snappily. ‘Thank you. I told you, I haven’t even opened the box yet.’

  ‘I meant that these were on three-for-two,’ she says, holding the deodorant up. ‘No need to bite my head off.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty. ‘I was just a little embarrassed. And you surprised me. What are you doing here?’

  Seema glances down at her uniform, and taps the Boots badge on her lapel. ‘I work here, remember? Or did you think I’d just put on a white coat last time so I could steal your money?’

  ‘No, I mean in this branch. I thought you worked in the one on the High Street.’

  ‘I do, normally. But I’m locum today.’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod, but I’ve got no idea what ‘locum’ actually means, so I have to ask. ‘Is that, er, Indian for something?’

  Seema laughs. ‘There’s no “Indian” for anything. It could be . . .’

  ‘. . . Gujarati. I know. Or Urdu, or Hindi.’

  ‘Not bad,’ says Seema. ‘I’d say you’re not as stupid as you look, but then again, you possibly don’t know what “locum” means. Unless you were being funny?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, leaving Seema to work out which of her two observations I’m talking about. ‘You just threw me a little. I mean, you’re very pretty, and . . .’ I can’t stop myself from blushing. Do people still call each other pretty nowadays, or is it one of these feminist taboos that seem to have been designed to catch us men out, like automatically buying a woman a half-pint, when most of the girls I’ve met can down a whole one quicker than me?

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself. And loving the cool hairstyle,’ says Seema, looking a little self-conscious herself, before narrowing her eyes and peering up at me. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘What, apart from the other day, when I was buying the . . . I don’t know,’ I say. And then, because I can’t help myself, I blurt out, ‘I’m Ash’s mate. Ben. I mean, Ash is my agent. And friend.’

  ‘Ash?’ Seema frowns at me. ‘My brother Ash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This admission is obviously a mistake, because Seema’s smile suddenly disappears. ‘How do you know who I am? Are you here to check up on me?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I just . . .’ I stop talking again, because while I did just come in here to buy some deodorant, there is a big part of me that wanted to run into her again. ‘He mentioned he had a sister who worked in Boots, that’s all. And I noticed the, you know . . .’ I point towards her name badge, then realize that it doesn’t actually have ‘Patel’ written on it, which leaves me pointing at her chest instead. ‘Family resemblance,’ I say, weakly, although thinking about it, Ash’s man-boobs are almost the same size as Seema’s, er, women’s ones.

  ‘Oh,’ says Seema, her voice softening. ‘Sorry. I just get a bit paranoid sometimes.’ She narrows her eyes at me again, as if remembering something. ‘You’re the artist, aren’t you? The one who gave up being an accountant to pursue his dream.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, not sure if she’s being sarcastic, or disdainful. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I remember Ash telling me about you. You’re his favourite client.’

  ‘Ash’s only . . .’ I’m about to add the word ‘client’, but I don’t want to jeopardize the positive light I suddenly seem to find myself in, or be disparaging about Ash. ‘. . . being kind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Seema. ‘And good for you. It takes a lot of guts to do things differently.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Thanks,’ I say, wondering if Seema recognizes a kindred spirit. But when she doesn’t say anything further, I don’t know what to do next, so just hold my hand out towards her. To my surprise, she takes hold of it and shakes it firmly. ‘Nice to meet you, Ben.’

  ‘And you. But I was actually trying to give you my money,’ I say, nodding towards the deodorant on the counter.

  ‘Oh.’ Seema laughs, and takes the two pound coins I’m holding. ‘Déjà vu.’

  I point to the deodorant. ‘Really? I thought it was called “Africa”.’

  It’s a lame attempt at a joke, but it’s obviously so lame that it doesn’t even manage to limp into Seema’s view. I stand there a little awkwardly as she rings the transaction through the till, then hands me my change, along with the deodorant, which she’s slipped into a child’s-size carrier bag.

  ‘Listen,’ says Seema. ‘Do you still have them? The condoms, I mean.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ I say, not quite sure what she’s getting at.

  ‘You don’t have them with you, I suppose?’

  I want to ask her whether I’m the kind of guy who looks like he carries a jumbo box of condoms around with him, but then again, I don’t want her answer to be ‘yes’. Or ‘no’, for that matter.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just that I’ll give you a refund, if you like. Seeing as I sort of bullied you into buying them. We don’t usually take those kind of items back, although to be honest, we don’t normally need to.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Of course. A refund.’

  Seema raises one eyebrow. ‘What did you think I meant?’

  ‘Well, that, obviously.’

  She glances behind me, where an old lady is struggling with a family-size packet of toilet rolls that looks like it might last longer than she will. ‘So, if you want to bring them in some time . . .’

  Not for the first time where Seema’s concerned, I don’t know how to respond. While ‘bring that box of condoms in for a refund’ isn’t the greatest hint that she might want to see me again, I’ve
had worse come-ons in my time. And managed to get relationships lasting months out of them too.

  Then again, maybe I’m kidding myself. Let’s face it, the offer of a refund on some condoms might mean exactly that. In fact, it may actually be that she feels so sorry for me that she doesn’t think I’m ever going to get through a packet of condoms that size – and that’s hardly a good position to ask someone out from. And to top it all, I remember one crucial thing that Ash said – about Seema not wanting to get married again – and realize that that’s the biggest problem of all. Because I do. And if Seema really doesn’t, then of course I shouldn’t even think about asking her out. I suppose if she did say yes, then in time I could try to convince her that getting married to me would be different, but by the sounds of it, that’s a pretty big obstacle to overcome. I mean, if someone’s actually stated that they’re against something, it’s a little stupid to try to turn them around.

  As the old lady behind me finally manages to wrestle the packet of Andrex up onto the counter, I snap back to reality.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, reluctantly. ‘I might hang on to them. Just in case.’

  Seema smiles warmly at me, and it’s a smile that makes me feel a little light-headed. ‘Suit yourself. Although if you change your mind, you know where I’m at.’

  But as I walk outside and get into my car, I’m not sure I can say the same about myself.

  Chapter 21

  It’s the following morning, and the newly back Ash and I are discussing progress over a coffee in Mr Bean.

  ‘None of them?’

  ‘Don’t you start.’ I stir my coffee miserably. ‘And I think my parents are starting to run out of friends’ daughters. Or eligible ones, at least.’

  ‘Why don’t you go, you know, older.’

  I look across the table at him. ‘Older? Older how?’

  Ash hesitates. ‘Just . . . Older. They’re bound to be a little more . . .’

  ‘Desperate?’

  ‘Ready to settle down, I was going to say. But now you mention it.’

  ‘Thanks very much. Besides, they should be ready to settle down at my age.’

  He shrugs. ‘Ah, but older women are the new thing, aren’t they?’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Yeah. You want to find yourself a MILF. A cougar.’ He rips open a sachet of sweetener and pours the contents into his mug. ‘A sugar mummy.’

  ‘What?’

  Ash picks his coffee up and takes a sip, grimacing at the taste, before adding a sachet of sugar. ‘Seriously, I was reading about it the other day.’

  I don’t like to ask him where. ‘Yes, but I don’t want someone past it. What if we want to have kids?’

  ‘She might have them already.’

  ‘But they won’t be mine and hers. And what if she dies before me?’

  ‘I’m not talking about marrying your gran, am I? Think about it. Women on average live around five or six years longer than men, so find yourself one five or six years older than you are and you’ll both pop off together. Bingo.’

  ‘Is that where you’re suggesting I’ll meet her?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘But she might be, you know, wrinkly.’

  ‘In her mid-thirties?’ Ash shakes his head. ‘Doubtful. Besides, there’s even loads of fit women over forty. Just look at that lot from Desperate Housewives – they don’t look that desperate, do they? And the sex . . .’ Ash licks his lips. ‘They know what they’re doing, by that age. And anyhow, they can have it all done nowadays, can’t they?’

  ‘Have what done?’

  ‘Everything. Lifted, smoothed out. Even tightened, apparently. You know. Their lady bits.’

  ‘And how would you know this, exactly? Anyway, I’m worried they’ll be a little, well, bitter.’

  ‘What? Down there?’ Ash points to his groin, then catches sight of my expression. ‘Oh, that wasn’t what you meant, was it?’

  ‘No, Ash. Plus let’s face it, anyone mid-thirties who hasn’t settled down, well, there’s going to be something wrong with them, isn’t there?’

  Ash takes a mouthful of coffee, then shakes his head. ‘Not necessarily. Say you stay single for the next five years. Will there be something wrong with you?’

  ‘I might start to worry that there was, yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s simple, then. Find yourself someone in their mid-thirties who’s just got divorced, and in you swoop to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I’m just not sure I want someone who’s already been married, that’s all.’

  ‘Why on earth not? I mean, it’s not like buying a car, is it? Because even at your age, everyone you meet is going to have at least a few miles on the clock. And it’s not as if they lose value the second they’re driven out of the showroom.’

  ‘It’s just, well, having been married is different, isn’t it? I mean, they’ve already made that commitment to spend the rest of their life with someone, thrown their lot in with them, and for whatever reason, it hasn’t worked out. And here they are again, going through the same motions with someone else. And the trouble with that is they’re going to carry some baggage with them, so everything you do, everything you say, is going to be judged relative to their previous partner. And I don’t want to go into something like that, where I’m constantly being compared to someone else – someone I don’t know. I want it to be for me. Fresh. Discovering things together, not someone waiting for me to make the same mistakes that their previous partner made, and her thinking the fact I occasionally forget to take the rubbish out means it’s never going to last.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be like that, surely?’

  ‘With all due respect, Ash, how would you know? Take you and Priti. The second that you actually tie the knot you’re both heading into uncharted territory. Neither of you have been there, so it’s a journey of discovery for the both of you. Feeling your way.’

  Ash sniggers. ‘I’m particularly looking forward to that bit.’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s going to be exciting. And any mistakes you make, you’re going to make together, and they’re going to be new mistakes. Mistakes that both of you make. And not ones that have a whole load of significance attached to them.’

  ‘You could turn that round,’ says Ash. ‘Look at it in a positive light.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, say this woman has had a terrible marriage. She’s divorced, and been scarred by the whole experience. Doesn’t have a lot of faith in men.’

  ‘Is this someone you know? Because they’re not sounding all that attractive.’

  He makes a face. ‘No, I’m speaking hypothetically. But say she’s been through all that, and she’s still prepared to get married. And to you. That must mean that she has a real belief in marriage being a good thing, and that you’re the kind of person she can make it work with. Which is a compliment.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘All I’m saying is, people get divorced for any number of reasons, especially when they’re our age. And perhaps the main reason is because they know they’ve made a mistake, and are desperate to meet someone and try again . . .’

  ‘. . . before it’s too late?’ I exhale loudly. ‘But there’s another thing. Someone who hasn’t been married before is evidently in no rush, which means she’s probably not rushing into it with me. But someone who has, and to use your phrase, is “desperate” to make it happen again . . . I don’t want someone desperate. Because then you might find you’re both making allowances, or compromising, just to make it work.’

  Ash rolls his eyes. ‘But don’t you see? That’s what it’s all about. When people talk about the “C” word, and how most people, men in particular, are afraid of it, they don’t mean “commitment”. They mean “compromise”. Because fundamentally we’re all selfish, and compromising is the last thing we want to do. Or feel that we have to do.’

  I stare moodily into my cappuccino. ‘Maybe I’m just being too naive, then. Because I kind of thoug
ht that when I met “the one”, I wouldn’t have to compromise.’

  ‘Nope,’ says Ash. ‘It’s more a case of not feeling like you’re compromising. And there is a difference.’

  ‘Says the man about to marry the perfect woman.’

  Ash grins. ‘Okay. I may have lucked out with Priti, I admit. But there’s a lot of compromises I’m making.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Ash thinks for a moment. And then another moment. ‘Well, I don’t get to sleep with anyone else, for example,’ he says, eventually.

  ‘Yeah, right. Because you were really fighting them off before she came along.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ splutters Ash. ‘Although true.’

  I put my coffee down on the table. ‘Ash, you don’t realize how lucky you’ve been, firstly to meet someone who you’re crazy about, secondly because she evidently feels the same way about you, and thirdly because someone else did all the spade work to get the two of you together.’

  Ash shrugs. ‘Maybe so. But all I’m saying is, don’t blindly discount any of these avenues of opportunity. Because you never know when you’re going to meet her. Or where. Or what she’s going to be like.’

  ‘Even if she’s a divorcee.’

  Ash sighs. ‘Ben, just because someone’s been divorced, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with them. They might have been the ones doing the divorcing, don’t forget.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, unconvinced.

  ‘Have you ever dated one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, how do you know what they’re like, then? I mean, you hadn’t had a proper curry until you met me. And now you love the stuff.’

  ‘That’s hardly the same.’

  ‘All right. Well, say you’d never had sex before. Would you want to do it your first time with a virgin? Or someone who knew what she was doing.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, gesturing towards him with my teaspoon. ‘There are advantages to doing something with someone who hasn’t done it before, particularly if neither of you know what you’re doing, because then, neither of you know if you’re doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Or right,’ points out Ash. ‘Which is why it might not be such a bad idea. If you really want this marriage to work, why not marry someone who’s done it already? Because she’ll sure as hell not want it to fail a second time. Plus, it means she’ll only marry you if she thinks it can work with you from the outset.’