by Matt Dunn
‘But you really didn’t have any idea? Beforehand, I mean? That Mum was the one for you?’
He smiles. ‘No. But she did, and when you think about it, that’s the important thing. We’re men, Ben.
We might have discovered fire, or invented the wheel, but that was probably only because some woman somewhere moaned at us that she was cold, or fed up with walking back from the shops. And, similarly, we don’t go out looking for love. Sometimes it finds us. The trick is to recognize when it does, and put all your energy into making sure it doesn’t get away.’
‘Yes, but how?’
‘Simple. Just remember one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
He smiles at me, then lowers his voice, conscious that my mum’s in the kitchen. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’
‘I heard that,’ comes the voice from through the serving hatch.
‘Yes, but . . .’ I sit there for a second, wondering how to phrase this. ‘It just sounds a bit, well, strange. I mean, you find someone, marry them, and then have to work extra hard in an attempt to keep them happy, just so you can be happy. Why not cut out the middle man and just not marry them in the first place?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
‘How do you mean?’
My dad nods towards the stereo. ‘You’re listening to a great example.’
‘Frank Sinatra? Someone who was married about a hundred times, and yet always sang about love as if he knew all about it?’
‘I was talking about the hi-fi,’ says my dad, standing up and walking over to turn the volume up.
‘Huh?’
He reaches down, and points to the graphic equalizer, where a series of lights are blinking on and off. ‘Look. Here you’re able to make minute adjustments to each aspect of the sound. If there’s too much bottom, or the vocals are too loud . . .’
‘You’d better not be talking about me again,’ shouts my mum from the kitchen.
‘. . . and so what you can do is get the ideal sound for everything you listen to. If you’re not quite sure, just give it a little tweak, and see what response you get.’
‘And what’s your point?’ I say, hoping myself that he’s not talking about Mum now.
My dad smiles. ‘My point, Ben, is that the record’s the same for everyone, but after a bit of fiddling, you can get it to sound right for you. And that’s just like marriage. The trick is making it how you want it. That way, you’ll enjoy listening to it for the rest of your life. And when you get it right?’ He stops and listens to Frank hitting one of his high notes. ‘It’s worth all the effort.’
‘But how do I know what the right sound is for me? And where to adjust the, er, knobs?’
My dad shrugs. ‘That’s something you’re going to have to work out for yourself. But before you can do that, there’s one important thing you’ve got to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Buy yourself a record.’
‘It’s not that simple, Dad . . .’
‘Yes, it is,’ he scoffs. ‘You already know what kind of music you like. So just make sure you get something from within that genre and you’ll be okay. For example, if you like Frank Sinatra, obviously you might enjoy someone like Tony Bennett. But you can’t expect to get a Julio Iglesias album and hope it’s going to sound the same. Or that Morrison’s chap that you like.’
‘Morrissey, Dad.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘And it’s really as simple as that?’
He shrugs. ‘Yup. Sometimes, you might not like it on the first listen. Or even the second. But, eventually, it’s going to grow on you. And you’ll end up loving the sound of it.’
I think I’m finally beginning to follow his drift. ‘And even if you don’t, you can use one of those graphic equalizer things to change her? I mean, it.’
My dad shakes his head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Well, how exactly?’ I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.
‘Because playing with your knobs,’ he says, then looks at me admonishingly as I can’t hide a snigger. ‘I mean, making these fine adjustments doesn’t actually change what you’re listening to. It’s still Frank. Or Tony. Or ...’
‘Morrison’s,’ I say, not wanting to fight a losing battle.
‘Exactly. But what it does do is change how you hear it.’
As I watch him tap his foot along to ‘Love and Marriage’, which apparently go together like a horse and carriage, I think about what he’s said. Maybe I have been a little too fussy. Perhaps I’ve been too intent on finding the perfect woman from day one, without realizing that maybe I could have just adjusted my perception. And if that’s the case, have I already let her get away?
Look at my mum and dad. They were forced together, and yet they’ve made more than a decent go of it. Which surely means that if I’ve at least made an informed choice to be with someone – someone who I know wants to be with me, as opposed to someone whose feelings I don’t have a clue about, or has added ‘complications’ – then I’ll have a better chance of success.
I stare at the hi-fi, thinking about my recent exes. And while with Hope I’d have had to spend the whole time with her ‘mute’ button pressed, there is one rather obvious candidate.
I’d always thought you could never go back. But at the moment, I don’t seem to be making much progress forwards. And although it might not be my ideal choice, right now, it looks like my only option.
Chapter 28
I spend a sleepless night thinking about it, and then as soon as I get up the next morning, fire off a text to the still-familiar number, and by the time I’ve emerged from the shower, my phone’s already bleeping with a reply. I take a deep breath, and click on ‘read’, and sure enough, there’s a response from Amy. Call me it says, perfectly punctuated as ever, even though it’s just a text. It’d be lovely to see you. And while to anyone else, me getting back in touch like this might seem a bit cheeky – rude, even – to Amy, it of course makes sense. Because she’ll think that’s what I’ve finally seen.
‘Ben,’ she says, picking the phone up almost immediately. ‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
I take the word ‘pleasant’ as a positive, although the tone of her voice suggests it’s anything but a surprise, and plough on. ‘Hi, Amy. How are you?’
‘Never better.’ With Amy, that’s probably true, as not a day goes by without her doing a fitness class at the gym, or a training course at work, or even just reading some self-improvement manual. ‘What can I do for you?’
Ah. Straight down to business, then. ‘Well, I’ve just been, you know, doing some thinking. About us. And what you said.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘So I wondered if we could, you know, meet up. For a chat. If you’re not busy, that is.’
There’s a pause, which could be as much due to Amy consulting her diary as considering whether she wants to. ‘Of course. That’d be lovely. Shall we say this evening? Seven o’clock? At Marcello’s?’
I shudder. Marcello’s is this little Italian wine bar on the High Street run by, well, Marcello, not surprisingly, although Marcello’s real name is actually Martin, as I found out when my dad met him one parents’ evening. Which might explain his bad Italian accent, and even worse Italian food.
‘Sure,’ I say obediently, remembering Amy’s controlling ways. She was always a little frustrated that I never seemed to slot into her timescales, so I’d better start as I mean to go on.
‘Great,’ says Amy, breezily. ‘See you later.’ And before I can say anything else, or even change my mind, she’s gone.
I stare at the phone for a few seconds, then slip it into my pocket, before heading off to my studio, where I spend the day reworking the abstract I started on a while ago. Although I still can’t get it quite right, I resign myself to the fact that it’ll do, which is kind of the conclusion I’ve come to where Amy’s concerned. I mean, we had a good thing going. While it wasn’t great, sometimes �
�good’ is perhaps as good as it gets. And there’s a limit to the number of times you can start again.
By six-fifty, I’m already in the bar, nodding hello to Marcello as I take a seat in the corner. I’m hoping I don’t have to make small talk with him as I wait, although I needn’t have worried, as he seems more interested in fussing over Barney, the bar’s resident Great Dane, who I’m sure Marcello only keeps to save on the hoovering bills, seeing how good he is at locating any scraps of food that manage to fall from the tables.
Amy arrives on the dot of seven, her face lighting up as she sees me. She still looks the same – but then Amy’s looked the same for as long as I’ve known her, as if she’s found a look that works, and she’s sticking with it. Her hair’s styled in a perfect bob, and she’s wearing a shirt-and-trouser combination that shows off her gym-toned figure, and while I’m relieved that I still find her attractive, that’s possibly not the major consideration any more. Amy was always pretty matter-of-fact. Calculating, even, although not in a nasty way. She just seemed to have this way of evaluating everything, even our relationship. And yet again, she seems to have been right.
I pick up my car keys and hide them in one hand, just in case I lose my nerve and need to turn a trip to the toilet into a quick getaway, then stand up to kiss her hello.
‘Ben,’ she says, her eyes flicking momentarily from my face to my hair, then back again.
‘Thanks for coming. You’re looking well,’ I say as we sit down at the table, then curse myself under my breath. ‘Well’ is hardly the most complimentary of descriptions, given what I’m planning to ask her. And first impressions, and all that.
‘Thanks.’ Amy pats her stomach. ‘Although a little too well, maybe. I’ve put on a few pounds, I’m afraid. Too many business lunches, not enough time at the gym.’
As I stare at her non-existent spare tyre, I have to stop myself from smiling. Amy always seemed to know the precise number of calories in any particular food, and then exactly how long she’d need to spend on the treadmill in order to work it off.
‘Rubbish. You look . . .’ I struggle for the appropriate word, wondering whether it’s too late to start with the compliments, but then think what the hell. ‘Great.’
‘Thanks.’ She does a quick inspection of what I’m wearing, rather than automatically replying. ‘So do you. And your hair’s so long now.’
I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, so don’t, and instead pour her a glass of white wine from the bottle I’ve already ordered, refilling my glass at the same time. ‘How’s work?’
‘Good. Busy. I’m a partner now.’ She picks her glass up, and takes the tiniest of sips. ‘But you didn’t want to talk about work, did you, Ben? Unless you’re thinking of coming back.’
I’m pretty sure she means ‘to work’, but then again, she might have sussed me out already. ‘Well, no. But I did want to talk to you about being a partner. My partner.’
It’s a bad attempt at a joke, admittedly, but it makes Amy smile. ‘Ben, we’ve been through that. You weren’t looking for a commitment, remember? And I was.’
‘Ah.’ Suddenly I spot the potential flaw in my plan. Just because I haven’t moved on, that doesn’t mean Amy hasn’t. Maybe she’s agreed to meet me to rub my face in it. Teach me a lesson. Show me what I’ve lost. ‘So, are you seeing anyone else?’
Amy shrugs. ‘There’s this one guy. But I wouldn’t call it “seeing”, exactly.’
I resist the temptation to ask Amy what she would call it. ‘And is it . . . serious?’
She takes another sip of her wine. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she says, as if it’s completely up to her. Although knowing Amy, it probably is.
‘Great. Because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About you and me. And where we, I mean, I, went wrong.’
As I pick my glass up and take a huge gulp, Amy puts hers down on the table and smiles at me triumphantly. ‘I knew that that was what this was about. Weeks of no contact, and then this.’ She shakes her head. ‘I hoped you’d see sense eventually. Even though we had to split up for it to happen.’
I look at her across the table, wanting to tell her it’s not all about seeing sense. But the truth is, I’ve begun to wonder whether she’s right. Love and marriage might be two incompatible things – despite what Frank Sinatra has to say on the matter. After all, according to my dad, what you sometimes think is love at first sight is really only lust, and when that passes, what do you have left? Friendship? Respect? And maybe that’s enough – or even what grows into love. Besides, I’ve never been in love, so how am I expected to recognize it when it comes along?
And let’s face it – I’ve been going along with all this ‘arrangement’ stuff for the last few weeks, looking for some kind of ‘spark’, when what I should actually have been doing is taking it a little more literally. Because surely that’s what marriage is – an arrangement. A contract between two people, designed to produce a common benefit – a life together, with a family, and a home. And while love might not be the important thing at the start, well, maybe that develops. Perhaps all it is is a mutual respect through an honouring of that contract. An appreciation of the other person, based upon all that they’ve done for you in the course of the marriage, and vice versa. And it’s occurred to me that in actual fact, that’s possibly not a bad thing.
Say that Amy agrees to marry me, and we get together, and buy a house, and start a family – maybe even get a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog. And while we might not be ‘in love’ when we start, surely after a while we’ll feel that we are, because we’ll have all these things together – a lovely home, great kids, and a dog. And because I’ll appreciate what we’ve built together, and be grateful to her, even, then maybe that’s the best I can
hope for.
‘Ben!’
‘Huh?’
‘You seem to have drifted away.’
‘Sorry, Amy. I was just wondering about something.’
‘What?’
‘Whether you’d . . . I mean . . . we got on well, didn’t we?’
‘I suppose,’ she says, a little puzzled.
‘And we didn’t have any problems. You know, in the bedroom department,’ I say, conscious that I sound like my dad.
Amy blushes slightly. ‘Not that I can recall.’
‘And, in fact, the only problem I remember was with my lack of commitment.’
‘Yes.’
‘So if we, I mean I, you know, fixed that, do you think we might have a chance?’
Amy sits back in her chair. ‘At what?’
‘Well, at us. You know, er . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Giving things another try.’
Amy regards me suspiciously for a moment. ‘Don’t play with me, Ben.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. When we split up, I told you why it was. And are you now telling me that you’ve changed?’
I nod, a little frantically, it has to be said. ‘Yes! I’ve been doing some thinking. A lot of thinking, in fact. And I realized that I was just too immature at the time to make a proper commitment.’
‘And you’ve matured in these last few weeks, have you?’
‘Well, yes. So I wanted us to try again. You know. See if we couldn’t make a go of it. More . . . permanently.’
For a moment, Amy looks like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. ‘I’m sorry. You’re asking me if I want to get back with you. For good?’
‘Well, for better and for worse, actually. But there wouldn’t be any “for worse”. We’ve been through that. And now I realize what I want in a partner. A w . . .’ I can’t quite get the word ‘wife’ out of my mouth. ‘. . . oman. And it’s someone like you.’
‘Someone like me? Or actually me?’
‘Actually you.’
Amy looks as if she almost seems to have been expecting this – a suspicion that’s confirmed when she suddenly breaks into a smile. ‘Oh, Ben, I knew you’d come round eventuall
y.’
‘Pardon?’
‘When I dumped you, I was just being cruel to be kind. Trying to force you into action. Make you see what you – what we – had. And it’s worked.’ She beams across the table at me. ‘But tell me one thing.’
‘Sure.’
‘What do I get out of it?’
‘Huh?’
‘What’s my incentive. If we do get back together.’
‘Well . . .’ Ah. This strikes me as a little unfair. I mean, a couple of months ago, Amy wanted a commitment out of me, and now I’m giving her one, she’s suddenly put the shoe on the other foot. Plus, I haven’t really prepared anything. ‘I’d love, honour, and obey, obviously.’
Amy raises her eyebrows at me, evidently thinking that the ‘obey’ part goes without saying. ‘I could buy a pet that would give me that. I mean, for example, will you keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed?’
I give Amy a quick look up and down. As far as I can work out, that handbag’s one of those expensive leather ones, and those shoes look more designer than Dolcis. ‘Well, I’m quite happy for you to have a career, if that’s what you want. I mean, if that’s what you’d prefer.’
Amy gives me a flat-lipped smile. ‘That’s generous of you, Ben. But what if I decided to stop working?’
I start to laugh, because the idea of Amy giving up her career is about as preposterous as, well, me going back to accountancy, then stop abruptly when I see her expression. ‘Well, you could, of course. If you wanted to.’
‘And you’d support us both with your painting, would you?’
Ah. I should maybe have seen this coming. ‘Well, if we lived frugally. Tightened our belts a little.’
‘A lot, you mean?’
‘I’m sure we’d get by.’
Amy shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to “get by”, Ben.
So I want to know there’s a possibility of you going back to work. Doing what you were trained for. What you’re good at. A proper job. If it was required,’ she adds sweetly.
I think about this for a second. And while I’m pretty sure there’s no way Amy would ever want to give up her job, I can tell that she wants me to make some concession. Give her some reassurance that, yes, I’d support her if that was the case.
