by Matt Dunn
‘So why aren’t you rushing round to Amy’s tonight to give her the ring, instead of sitting here having a beer with me?’
‘Because there’s plenty of time for that kind of thing,’ I say, trying to convince Ash as much as myself.
Ash looks unconvinced. ‘Okay. Say the two of you do get married. How long before she tries to make you give up your art and go back to accountancy?’
I shudder at the thought, and decide not to tell Ash about the promise I made her the other day. ‘She’d never do that. I mean, she knows that it’s what makes me, well, me.’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘What happened to all that stuff you were saying about how she wants to turn you into a slightly different you? A you who has responsibilities. Commitments. And that might mean you getting a proper job. After all, what happens when you start a family? Who’s going to be the breadwinner then?’
‘I don’t think Amy will ever give up work.’
‘Hello?’ Ash leans over, and knocks twice on the table. ‘What about the actual birth. She’ll have to take a least a few months off.’
‘I’m not so sure. Knowing Amy, she’ll probably arrange to have the child in her lunch hour so she can be back at her desk for the afternoon.’
‘But . . .’ Ash stares at me for a second or two, as if he’s deciding whether to tell me something or not. And then obviously makes his decision. ‘You don’t think you’re rushing into it?’
For some reason, that hits a nerve, and I can’t help but have a go back at Ash. ‘Look who’s talking.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I mean, tell me, Ash. Why are you getting married, exactly?’
Ash looks at me strangely over the top of his pint glass. ‘Well, like you said the other day, it’s what you do, isn’t it?’
‘Okay. And why is Priti doing it. Same reason?’
Ash shrugs. ‘I guess so. Plus, she really wants kids, so . . .’
‘And what about you?’ I ask, thinking how familiar this sounds.
‘What about me what?’
‘Do you want kids?’
Ash takes a mouthful of beer, and nods. ‘I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugs again. ‘I dunno. You just don’t, do you? Anyway, why the twenty questions?’
‘That was only four. And I’ve got a lot more than twenty.’
Ash puts his pint down. ‘Okay,’ he says patiently. ‘Fire away.’
‘It’s just . . .’ I pause for a minute, wondering where to start. ‘I mean, the kids thing, for instance. How many blokes do you know who actually, genuinely want them, rather than just go along with it?’
Ash thinks for a moment. ‘Er . . .’
‘I mean, do you absolutely, genuinely, definitely want to have children?’
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘Suppose? That doesn’t sound very definite.’
‘Yeah, but . . .’ Ash picks up his pint again. ‘I mean, I’d never really thought about it, to be honest. And then, when Priti brought it up, I realized that yes, I might fancy it after all. Plus, it’s part of the deal, isn’t it? You know. The whole marriage thing.’
I shake my head. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not that good a deal, is it? Because a good deal suggests you both get some kind of return from it. And what do you get out of it?’
‘What’s your point, Ben?’
‘All I’m saying is, if you’re a businessman, and if you look at it in a business sense, well, it doesn’t make any.’
‘Why not?’
‘Okay. Businesses are all about assets, right? So what you’re doing is investing your hard-earned funds in one asset ...’
‘Priti, right?’
‘Exactly. And over the years, she’s going to get older. Lose her looks. Maybe put on weight. Start . . . depreciating.’
Ash actually looks depressed now, and I feel a little guilty for ruining his earlier good mood. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘I don’t mean it personally. I just mean that, from an investment point of view, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like buying a car. The older it gets, the more mileage it has, the more value it loses.’
‘And women are the same?’
‘Yes. And men, come to think of it. Unless they add value in another way. Bring something extra to the table.’
‘Well, in this case, we both do. I get a gorgeous wife, who’s going to be a fantastic mother, and Priti gets, well, me. And that’s a win–win situation any way you look at it,’ he says, clinking his glass against mine.
‘So, it really is an arrangement? In both senses of the word.’
Ash nods. ‘Isn’t that what all marriage should be? As you say, it’s just like a business deal, after all.’
‘But isn’t that a bit, well, practical?’
He looks at me, an amused expression on his face. ‘So come on, let’s hear it.’
‘Hear what?’
‘Your theory.’
‘What theory?’
He smiles, then sits back in his chair. ‘Every time you do this, it’s because you’ve worked out some great theory about life. And the problem is that they’re exactly that. Theoretical. Not in the real world.’
He’s caught me. ‘I’m sorry, Ash. And I don’t mean to have a go at you, or what you and Priti are doing. Because it’s great. It really is. I just . . .’ I shake my head. ‘I mean, I do want to get married. And to Amy. I’d just be a lot more comfortable if I could see some logic in it. And at the moment, the only reason I can see that people get married, and do the whole family thing is because they’re afraid of being alone. And I wish there was a little bit more to it than that.’
‘Afraid of being alone?’
‘Yup. We’re social animals.’
‘Some of us more animal than others,’ says Ash, trying to lighten the mood a little. ‘Dawn, apparently, for example.’
‘I’m serious. We need other people. And what’s the only way to guarantee we’ll have them as we grow older? Tie ourselves to one – even though it doesn’t make a lot of sense – by doing this thing called marriage.’
‘Huh?’
‘Think about it. In the past, people had big families because the survival rate for children wasn’t all that great, so you had to hedge your bets. Nowadays, you don’t need that. And, in fact, the greenest thing you can do is not have kids, otherwise the earth is going to be overpopulated and run out of resources. And yet people are still having two, three, or even more. And do you want to know why that is?’
Ash grins. ‘If I said no, you’d only tell me anyway.’
‘It’s because divorce is more common. And so by having the children, there are more people around who aren’t going to leave you.’
Ash shakes his head. ‘But what about all these people who actually want to get married? Are you telling me that they’re just deluding themselves?’
‘Yes!’
‘What about those who are, you know, “in love”?’
‘Well . . .’ I open my mouth to start talking, and then shut it again.
‘Don’t tell me,’ says Ash. ‘You’ve got a theory about that, too.’
‘Well, not a theory so much as an . . . observation.’
Ash takes a deep breath. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Well, answer one question first. Do you love Priti? Honestly.’
‘It’s early days,’ says Ash.
‘But you’re still going ahead and marrying her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without being in love with her? Why?’
Ash considers this for a moment. ‘Because I can see that I might.’
This stops me in my tracks. How on earth can you marry someone purely on the basis that you might, conceivably, one day, love them? ‘Surely if they tick a few basic boxes, then you can say the same about most women?’
Ash laughs. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, in that case, that’s my
point. And I think too many men confuse love with gratitude. They’re grateful that a woman will go out with them. Marry them. Have sex with them, even. And agree not to do any of this with anyone else at the same time. And how can you still love someone who cheats on you? Who gambles away the money you’d use to feed your kids? Because that’s an abuse of trust. And yet when you see this happen, what’s the one thing the wronged party always says? “But I still love them.” Pathetic.’
‘You’ve been watching too many episodes of EastEnders.’
‘Maybe so. But it’s still a valid point.’
‘So I shouldn’t get married?’ says Ash.
‘Not at all. You and I are doing the same thing. Because when you think about it, it is an arrangement. Tit for tat. And that’s why love shouldn’t come into it. Because that only muddies the waters.’
‘So what you’re saying is that marriage isn’t anything personal. It’s just business?’
‘Precisely.’
Ash shakes his head. ‘But this is for life, Ben. Not just for Christmas. Especially if you have kids, because then you’ve got to at least stick around until they’re off your hands, so that makes, what, twenty-five years, give or take? And are you prepared to spend the next twenty-five years with this woman? And it’s not just twenty-five, is it? Because usually, by that time, life, the kids, and the marriage have tired you out so much that you don’t have the energy to leave.’ He takes another mouthful of beer. ‘It’s like they say. You could murder someone, and still be out in half the time. In fact . . .’
‘In fact what?’
‘That’s a great business idea. You could murder her. And then at least you’d get away without having to pay the divorce settlement.’
‘What?’
‘I’m serious. Marry Amy, then murder her, rent your house out while you’re in prison – twelve years later, you’ll be free – and mortgage free as well. Brilliant.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. And who are “they”, exactly?’
Ash looks at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You said “It’s like they say”. Who are they? These people who know everything about everything.’
Ash shrugs. ‘Well, it’s just a figure of speech, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it’s a stupid figure of speech. Marriage isn’t something you enter into thinking “Oh well, if it goes wrong, there’s always divorce”. That’s not what it’s about. There’s no money-back guarantee.’
‘Quite the opposite, in fact,’ says Ash.
‘I’m serious. That’s why the divorce rate is so high. Because people treat it like this disposable concept, that they can just go into on a whim, and bugger the consequences. So when you’ve finished laughing at me, and you’re living in your bedsit behind Lidl while your ex-wife and ex-kids are living it up in the family house that you worked so hard to pay for and then gave to them because that’s what the judge decided, who’ll have the last laugh then?’
I look up, to find Ash staring at me strangely. ‘Okay, Ben. Calm down. I was only joking.’
‘Yes, well, it’s not a laughing matter, is it?’
‘Maybe not. But it sounds to me like you need to work out if you’re actually doubting marriage, or doubting marriage to Amy.’
I stare at him for a second. ‘Says the man marrying someone he’s not sure how he feels about. And besides, I’m not doubting marriage. I’m merely putting it in context. Rationalizing it. Going into it with my eyes wide open and my feet on the ground.’
Ash smiles patiently at me. ‘Ben, it’s great that you’re such a romantic,’ he says sarcastically. ‘But love is one of those things that grows. Out of appreciation, maybe. If Priti loves me, then I’ll love her back. If she presents me with a couple of kids, then I’ll love her for that too. And if I give her a good home and a nice standard of living, then maybe she’ll feel the same way about me. But getting married just for love . . . Well, there’s a recipe for disaster, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘But that’s my point. It shouldn’t be.’
Ash sighs. ‘How many people do you know get married for love?’ Ash shakes his head. ‘Not my parents, for one. But over the years, they’ve become very fond of each other. They respect each other. And if that’s not as good as love, then I don’t know what is.’
‘But it’s a different kind of love, isn’t it? Different from the “when you set eyes on them your heart leaps” – more of a comfortable, appreciative love. It’s like “I love my BMW”, versus “I love this old pair of 501s”. And while I’m not sure I’m looking for comfort just yet, I know that one day, I probably will be. And that’s why Amy will do me just fine.’
Ash shakes his head at me. ‘Sounds like you want it all, Ben. Which might explain why you’ve never met the perfect woman.’
I smile back at him. ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s Amy?’
‘Well, if you think that, then you don’t have to convince me. Although it sounds like you’re still trying to convince yourself.’
‘Ash, out of all my failed relationships, this one has failed the least. And, besides, how can you ever be sure when it comes to getting married?’
‘I am,’ he says, looking at me strangely, before taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly. ‘Anyway. A toast,’ he says, picking his glass up and holding it out towards me. ‘To you and Amy.’
‘To me and Amy,’ I say, picking up my beer, and clinking it against his. But as I do it, I can’t help noticing something.
My glass is half empty.
Chapter 32
‘Morning, handsome.’
It’s Thursday lunchtime, and I’m heading into Julia’s Scissors, the salon at the top of the High Street where, at Amy’s request, seeing as she ‘doesn’t want to accompany a hippy to Ash’s engagement party on Saturday’ – her words – I’m getting my hair cut. My dad had offered to do it for me, but I’d politely refused, remembering all too clearly the time when he’d arrived home with some ‘automatic barber’ device he’d purchased from Woolworth’s, and the subsequent trip to A&E.
As I walk in, Jo, my hairdresser, makes the ‘haven’t seen you for ages’ face, and just as I’m thinking that it can’t have been that long since I was last in here, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror on the far wall, and realize that it probably is. I haven’t had my hair cut since I quit my job, and while that’s partly symbolic – a rebellion against the conventional environment I was leaving behind – it’s also partly because haircuts were an expense I could do without.
I smile back to where she’s attending to some old lady who appears to be having her hair dyed a shade of pastel blue. Jo is very pretty – although unfortunately very married – and I used to feel particularly flattered by her ‘handsome’ comment. Until I heard her saying it to my dad as well.
I shut the door behind me, then make my way over to the sofas at the back of the salon, trying to avoid treading in the huge clumps of hair on the floor. Normally it’s the trainee’s job to sweep these up, but they’ve begun to collect, possibly because she seems to be being instructed by one of the other hairdressers in the mysterious art of how to use a broom. Given the rapt attention she seems to be paying, it’s as if she’s completely unfamiliar with the concept of ‘brushing’, but then again, by the looks of her own gel-spiked hairstyle, she quite possibly is.
I brush a few offcuts from the sofa and sit down, causing some hair to go up my nostrils, which makes me sneeze loudly, then look around for a magazine to read, but as usual there’s just a few dog-eared copies of Hello, along with a couple of hairdressing titles. I pick one of them up and flick through, wondering whether I’ll find a new style to cheer me up instead of the old short-back-and-sides-but-slightly-messy-on-top that Amy’s expecting me to get, but then picture her face and chicken out.
As Jo looks over and mouths ‘five minutes’ to me, I settle back to watch a bit of MTV on the screen on the wall, remembering how much I used to love getting my hair cut. Although thinking a
bout it, what I really liked was Jo washing my hair beforehand, which always felt more like a massage than a simple shampoo. I used to kid myself that she’d give me extra special attention because she fancied me, but in reality I’m sure all the caressing, stroking, and ‘accidental’ brushing of her breasts against my ear was just to alleviate the boredom she must have felt from a day that consisted primarily of asking her clients where they were going on holiday.
But not today, apparently, as instead Jo asks the trainee to take a break from her advanced sweeping class to wash me, so reluctantly I walk over to the sink, where the girl drapes one of those strange poncho-like things over my shoulders, then Velcros it slightly too tightly around my neck. Despite the fact that I’m worried her hairstyle might take my eye out, she’s not unattractive, and as I settle down into the chair, and she leans over me to wedge a towel down the back of my neck, I’m afforded a view down her rather low-cut top. But then, and to my surprise, instead of walking round behind me, the girl straddles my legs, evidently preparing to wash my hair from the front rather than the more traditional from-behind-the-sink approach. I’m just about to protest, and ask whether she’s actually done her shampooing training yet, but before I get a chance she grabs the shower head and directs a stream of lukewarm water over the back of my head.
‘Is that too hot for you?’ she asks, her breasts inches away from my face.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, assuming she’s referring to the water, and not the proximity of her considerable cleavage. In truth, it’s a little cold, but I don’t want to risk her having to lean in even closer to adjust the tap on the back of the sink, so just shut my eyes and hope she doesn’t decide to chat, although to be honest it’d be hard to hear anything she said given the amount of water running into my ear canal. Instead, I tell myself to relax, trying not to concentrate on the slow, sensual movements of her fingers through my hair which, combined with the kind of occasional touching that I imagine you only get in a lap-dancing bar, mean she’s not the only one in danger of working up a lather.
I can’t cross my legs, given the way she’s standing over me, and so I try and think of something – anything – to take my mind off my growing excitement, eventually settling on an image of Ash in his underwear, and as she rinses the shampoo out of my hair, I foolishly think I’ve just about got away with it. The mistake I make, however, is to nod ‘yes’ when she asks me if I want conditioner, thus accidentally sticking my wet ears – albeit briefly – in between her pillow-like breasts. As I open my eyes and mumble an apology, she takes a pace backwards, and the first thing I see are a couple of wet patches where her nipples are.
