by Matt Dunn
When, finally, she rinses me off, I stand up, thankful for the billowing folds of the gown I’m wearing, then make my way awkwardly back to the sofa and sit down, shaking the water out of my ears as I do so.
‘Hello, Benjamin.’
I look round to see Sarah from my art class sitting next to me. ‘Sarah. Hi. What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, I imagine. Getting my hair cut.’
‘Of course,’ I say, realizing not for the first time that I’d do pretty well in the ‘dumb questions’ Olympics. ‘Sorry. How’s things?’
‘Oh,’ says Sarah. ‘Not bad. You?’
‘Good. I . . .’ I stop for a second, wondering whether I should be sharing my news with her given how deeply affected she still seems to be by her husband dying, but then she’s going to find out some time. And probably through Terry shouting ‘don’t do it’ to me at the top of his voice at class tomorrow night. ‘I’m getting married.’
‘Well, congratulations,’ says Sarah. ‘Is this someone you’ve met through your parents?’
‘No, actually,’ I say, realizing I’m quite relieved by that admission, before explaining that Amy and I are back together. But when I’ve finished, Sarah folds her arms.
‘So, this is for good, is it?’
I shrug. ‘I hope so. She’s agreed to give me a second chance, anyway.’
Sarah shakes her head slowly. ‘And that’s going to be your story?’
I’m a little confused. ‘My “story”?’
‘The best marriages always have a story. About how the bride and groom first met. And the more romantic the story, the longer it’s going to last.’
‘Ah,’ I laugh. ‘Amy and me are doomed, then.’
Sarah smiles. ‘Do you know how my husband and I first met?’
‘I do, actually,’ I want to say, as she’s told me their story before, and it almost made me cry, but I shut up, realizing she’s going to tell me again no matter what I say or do. So I sit and listen patiently as she tells me how, fifty or so years ago, her dad was ill, and so she went off to the chemists to pick up some prescription of leeches or something, and the soon-to-be Mr Sarah just happened to be working behind the counter, but on the way home the leeches escaped, and she had to go back and ask the dashing young man if he wouldn’t mind giving her some more. Anyway, apparently he thought it was just a ruse to come back in and see him, but he did it anyway, and the next day she came back in to say thank you, and he asked her out for a date. That was nearly fifty years ago. And they were happy right up until he died last year.
‘So you see,’ says Sarah, as I struggle to swallow the lump that’s been building up in my throat. ‘These things, they happen by chance. Not by design. Because they’re such random events that you can’t possibly try and predict when and where they’re going to be. Or indeed make them happen.’
‘And . . . He was a pharmacist?’ I say, making a sudden connection.
‘Oh yes,’ says Sarah. ‘They make the best lovers.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Have you never heard the phrase “Pharmacists do it over the counter”?’
‘I, er . . .’ I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image of Seema that’s just popped into it.
Sarah chuckles to herself. ‘That was his favourite joke. But seriously, Benjamin, fifty years is a long time. So you need to be sure about what you’re doing.’
‘But Amy and I are determined to give it a go.’
‘Give it a go?’ Sarah smiles. ‘You young people, you meet in one of your discos, go back to your place for a bit of how’s your father, and you’re lucky if you can remember the other person’s name the next morning. Back in my day, you had to be courting for weeks before you even got to hold the other person’s hand.’
‘Yes, but back in your day, you had rationing, and thought blancmange was the height of sophisticated dining. Times change. People change. And therefore they work in different ways nowadays too.’
Sarah listens to my outburst patiently. ‘Fair enough. But how many people my age do you know who are divorced?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t actually know many people your age apart from you. Oh, and mad old Mrs Hodges from next door.’
‘What I’m trying to say, Benjamin, is that there’s a reason we’re in it for the long term, or lasted the course, if you like. Because we started from a position of romance. Not this wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am approach you lot have, or just drifting into it. My daughter’s the same.’
‘You’ve got a . . .’ I stop myself from saying ‘daughter?’ – just. Because I’m with Amy now, and shouldn’t be interested in other women. ‘Point.’
‘Dating for you is like shopping,’ she continues. ‘Buy it, then just throw it away if you don’t like it. We didn’t have a lot of money in those days, so we had to be certain that the thing we wanted was the thing we wanted. And then we stuck with it.’
‘Tell me something,’ I say, ‘when exactly did you think he was the one? Your husband, I mean.’
Sarah rests a hand on my arm and gives me a squeeze. ‘I didn’t,’ she says. ‘Right up until he proposed. But he was so nervous about asking me to marry him, and when I suddenly saw how much he didn’t want my answer to be no, that showed me just how much he didn’t want to lose me.’
As Sarah picks up my discarded magazine, and starts to leaf through the pages, I sit there, stunned, because I’ve suddenly realized something myself. When I proposed to Amy, I was nervous too. But nervous that she’d say yes.
‘Come on, Ben. I’ll do you now.’
‘Pardon?’ I look up to see Jo standing next to me. ‘I mean, great,’ I say, following her over to the chair and sitting down.
‘So, how have you been?’ she asks, smiling at me in the mirror.
‘Good,’ I say, although to be honest, after my chat with Sarah I’m feeling anything but.
‘And to what do I owe this honour?’ she says, starting to comb her fingers through my hair. ‘I thought you
were growing it.’
‘I was. But I’m, er, getting married.’
‘What?’ Jo makes a mock horror face. ‘Well, congratulations,’ she says, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek. ‘So what am I doing – a special look-good-in-thewedding-photo haircut?’
‘No, we haven’t actually set a date yet. My, er . . .’ I can’t quite bring myself to use the word ‘fiancée’ – mind you, I have only just given Amy the ring this morning, dropping it off at her office rather than doing the whole down-on-one-knee thing again, as I’ve had to have it re-sized to fit her unusually fat fingers, which she insists are just slightly above average thickness, and even then, that’s just from using a calculator so much. ‘I mean my girlfriend, Amy, just wants me to get it cut. She says she prefers it shorter.’
Jo looks at me strangely. ‘And what do you want, Ben?’
‘Er ...’ What do I want? ‘Well, I quite like it long.’
‘So tell me,’ says Jo, standing behind me with her scissors poised. ‘What am I doing?’
And as I stare at my reflection, I realize I should really be asking myself the same question.
Chapter 33
I can’t concentrate on work for the rest of the day, such is my nervousness about seeing Amy this evening for what she’s expecting to be a celebratory dinner. Thinking back over my relationship history, I’ve never actually dumped anyone, so don’t have the faintest idea how to get, well, disengaged.
Whenever I’d wanted to finish with a girlfriend in the past, there was always something stopping me – something more than just cowardice, that is. Bad timing – perhaps their birthday was coming up, or we’d booked a holiday, or Valentine’s Day was around the corner. It always seemed to me that just at the moment I decided I had to end it, there’d be something that would make me appear even more heartless if I did it just then. So, inevitably, I hung around, until it was them who finished with me.
Something that always made it all the more difficult was
the fact that you’re not just splitting up with the person, are you? It’s all their friends, who have come to know you as a couple. And their parents, who you might like, and, assuming they can get over the fact that you’re sleeping with their daughter, maybe quite like you too. Then there’s my parents – I’ve lost count of the times that my mother has cried more than I have over me splitting up with a particular girlfriend. And as they’ve told me on countless occasions, they love Amy. I just wish that I did.
And the thing that makes the prospect of this evening worse, is while I know that Amy sees this marriage as much as a business decision as anything emotional, I’ve seen how angry she gets when she loses out on a deal at work. And that’s not something I want to be on the receiving end of. Or put her through, to be honest.
I spend most of the afternoon pacing around my studio, wondering what the best approach is. I could send her an email, I suppose. I mean, that’s how people communicate formally nowadays, isn’t it? Or a text. Maybe even a fax. But the trouble is, whatever medium I use, I’m just not that good at giving bad news to people, because I always feel like I’m letting them down. And while the last thing I want to do is let anyone down, I know now that if I do go through with this marriage, the person I’ll be letting down most is myself. And Amy too, of course, because after all, she has agreed to spend the rest of her life with me – after I asked her to. And now, just a few days later, I’m withdrawing the offer.
Plus, she’s going to want a reason. A bona fide excuse. Something that she can hold on to, or rationalize, as to why I don’t want to marry her. I could try the ‘love’ angle, I suppose, but she’d probably think I was silly for wanting it in the first place.
Trouble is, she’s good at arguing too, so I’m likely to lose if we get into any sort of debate, and unless I’m firm from the outset, there’s a danger I’ll end up staying with her simply because she’ll refuse to accept my reasons for wanting out. So I’m just going to have to be strong – for my own good, not just hers. Cruel to be kind, I suppose. And if she’s upset, I’ll just have to deal with it. Because that’s the nature of ‘dumping’ – you leave someone down in the dumps.
In a way, of course, Amy’s response will tell me if I’ve made the right decision. If she’s all emotional about it, then obviously she does really care about me, and while that’ll be tough to take, at least it means I’m worth caring about. I’ve had women in the past dump me simply because they wanted to see my reaction; if I was all cut up about it, and pleaded with them to take me back, then they’d at least have the satisfaction of knowing I was interested in them. But, as was more often the case, if I was more relieved than upset, well, again they’d know they’d made the right decision too. So all I have to do is tell Amy straight out that I don’t want to get married to her, and watch her reaction, and if it’s what I suspect it’ll be, then that’ll be fine. If it isn’t, however, I’m in trouble.
As I walk up the High Street and into Marcello’s, I try and look on the bright side. At least I’ve come to this conclusion now, and not a few years down the line, when I’m unhappy, and she’s unhappy, and maybe our kids would be unhappy too. And, in effect, that means what I’m intending to do is a good thing, because I’m sparing both of us even more hurt in the future. But somehow, now matter how many times I tell myself this, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I’m a little early, which gives me just enough time to gulp down a glass of wine before Amy arrives – as usual – at seven o’clock precisely.
‘Ben,’ she says, sitting down at the table without even kissing me hello. She’s wearing my grandmother’s ring, but doesn’t seem to want to show it off to me, the ‘second-hand’ element obviously still a little bit raw.
‘How do you manage it?’
‘Manage what?’
‘To always be exactly on time. For everything.’
Amy glances at the clock on the wall, and then her watch. ‘I didn’t know I was.’
I wait to see if she’s joking, before remembering that Amy rarely jokes. About anything. ‘Listen, Amy, I . . .’
‘I thought you were supposed to be going to get a haircut?’
‘I did. Go, that is.’
Amy peers closely at me. ‘Ben, when I asked you to get a haircut, I didn’t mean a hair cut,’ she says reproachfully.
‘No. I mean, I went to the salon, and everything, but . . .’ I stop talking, conscious that I shouldn’t have to be explaining to Amy – or anyone – about my hairstyle.
‘Ben, we can hardly have you looking like that for the party. Or the wedding, come to think of it.’
‘Who’s we?’ I say, my nervousness turning to irritation at the assumptions that Amy’s making.
Amy frowns across the table at me. ‘Pardon?’
‘Who can’t have me looking like this for the wedding? Who have you discussed the suitability of my hair with? Ash? My mum and dad? The vicar? Or are you deciding on my behalf?’
‘No, I just thought . . .’
‘You thought. And what else did you think? Do I need to lose a bit of weight? Or get a bit taller, perhaps?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ben. I just don’t want you to let yourself down, that’s all.’
‘Let you down, you mean.’
Amy rolls her eyes. ‘Well, someone’s got to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
Amy sighs, and leans in towards me, as if she’s explaining something to a child. ‘That you need to make a few . . . changes.’
Here we go. I sit back in my chair and stare at her for a second, conscious that this is my big chance. ‘And that’s exactly why this marriage is going to be in trouble before it’s even happened.’
‘What?’ Amy suddenly sits bolt upright. ‘Why?’
‘Because marriage should be about finding someone who’ll let you be yourself. Not someone who wants to change you. I mean, I’m not asking you to make any changes, am I?’
Amy looks at me blankly, as if to ask why she’d need to. ‘I’m not trying to change you, Ben,’ she says huffily. ‘I just want you to see that you need to change yourself.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Amy stares at me, then at the menu, as if she’ll find the answer in there. ‘Well . . .’
‘We’re all individuals, Amy. And the secret of a happy marriage is letting someone be who they really are. Not trying to make them into your idea of who your perfect partner is. Because then there’s resentment. And pretence. And those things aren’t the basis for love.’
‘Love?’ Amy looks at me in disbelief. ‘This is a marriage we’re talking about, Ben. What’s love got to do with it?’
‘And there, ladies and gentlemen, is the name of the song they’d play for our first dance as husband and wife,’ I say, as if to the whole restaurant. ‘Tell me something, Amy. When you walked in here this evening, what was the first thought that went through your head when you saw me?’
Amy frowns. ‘The first thought?’
‘Yes.’
‘Apart from your hair?’ She shrugs. ‘Well, I was a little surprised you were early, I suppose. Oh, and that you hadn’t ironed your shirt very well.’
I sigh, then lean across and put my hand on top of hers. ‘And that’s why this just isn’t going to work, I’m afraid.’
‘Because you can’t iron a shirt?’
‘No. Because that’s what you noticed about me. You should have been happy to see me. Excited about our life together. Not . . . Critical.’
Amy looks at me levelly for a moment or two, then slowly removes her hand from underneath mine and pulls my grandmother’s engagement ring off her finger. There’s an awkward moment when it jams momentarily at her knuckle, but with one last tug, it’s off. ‘Your loss,’ she says, handing it back to me.
‘I know. And I’m sorry.’ I slip the ring carefully back into my pocket, relieved to have it back in my possession. ‘Really I am. I just need to find someone who loves me for, well, me. And so do
you.’
Amy shrugs. ‘That’s okay. Plenty more fish in the sea.’
‘You mean for me, right?’
Amy stands up abruptly, then leans over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I hope so, Ben.’
‘I hope so too,’ I say.
I watch her leave, feeling slightly guilty, but knowing it’s for the best – and not just for me. Amy needs someone a bit more, well, mouldable. Someone who doesn’t mind that she’ll run things. Boss them about, even. And there are people out there like that. I know – I’ve read about them on the Internet.
And even though I’m on my own again, I feel more than a little relieved, because I’m starting to understand that there’s only one thing worse than being on your own, and that’s being in a relationship with the wrong person.
Because you’re even more lonely then.
Chapter 34
‘Here,’ I say, handing over the creased Boots carrier bag.
‘Thanks.’ Seema removes the box of condoms and frowns at it. ‘But I didn’t get you anything.’
‘No, I . . .’ I can’t stop myself from blushing. ‘It’s for, well, a refund. Like you said.’
She puts the box down on the counter. ‘Have you got the receipt?’
I peer inside the bag, then check my wallet. ‘Er, no. But you sold them to me. Remember?’
Seema smirks at me from behind the till, then shakes her head slowly. ‘I’m teasing you, Ben.’
‘Oh. Right. Very good.’
‘Can you write down your details for me?’ she says, reaching under the counter and handing me a pad and pen. ‘I need your address, and telephone number.’
