Mr. Commitment

by Mike Gayle

  —Federico Fellini

  Exchange emotional CVs

  In the beginning there was her and there was me and an awful lot of happiness. We were in love. Totally, utterly and incontrovertibly. People, usually women, would comment on Mel and me at parties saying things like “I can’t believe how well you two get on together,” “You look so in love” and my favorite, “You really are each other’s best friend.” Which was true. I’d never met a woman like her in my life. She was beautiful, compassionate and intelligent. She constantly made me laugh, drank like a fish, and like me enjoyed nothing more than shouting words of advice at the TV for the benefit of the characters in EastEnders. She was some sort of miracle. Some sort of angel from above. The funny thing is, when I first met her I genuinely didn’t think I stood a chance.

  I was twenty-four, and back then I’d just started a two-month block temping in the administration department of a magazine publishing house just off Leicester Square. I spotted Mel on my first lunch break. She was in front of me in the queue in the Italian sandwich shop around the corner from my office building. I walked slowly behind her as she left the shop to see where she went and was immensely pleased when she disappeared into the rotating doors of the Mentorn House, the building where I worked. My joy continued as we shared a wordless journey in the same lift, and nearly exploded when she got out of the lift on my floor and disappeared in the direction of ad sales.

  I stood, openmouthed, watching her, as I attempted to define in my head what it was about this woman that stopped me in my tracks. After a few moments, in which I was told off by a senior member of management for blocking the lift exit, I worked it out. It wasn’t her face or body that attracted me—although both were pretty hard to fault—it was her walk. She had the most hypnotic walk I’d even seen. It was strident, sexy and that rarest of qualities, sassy. A living, breathing, moving version of Chrissie Hynde singing “Brass in Pocket.”

  In the next fortnight I discovered the following facts about my dream woman: her name was Mel Benson, she was twenty-four and had gone to university in Edinburgh. She liked chicken and avocado sandwiches, hated her aerobics teacher, did “something” in the advertising sales department, wasn’t married, and looked brilliant in black. It was a further week, however, before I actually managed to have a conversation with her.

  Every Friday lunchtime the ad sales department went to the George, a pub just across the road from the office. Realizing this could be a way in, I shamelessly ingratiated myself with Tony, a middle-aged ad executive whose sole reason for living was cricket, and within a week he had invited me to the Friday pub session. I ruthlessly abandoned him at the first opportunity and maneuvered myself into position next to Mel.

  We got chatting almost immediately and I asked her what she did. Her answer “I’m a media planner” left me none the wiser. When she returned the question I admitted to my temp status but told her I was a stand-up comedian too. The usual response I got when I revealed this information was, “Tell us a joke,” which I hated, because I wasn’t a performing seal. Mel, however, just said, “It’s nice to meet someone with dreams,” and left it at that. I was impressed. In the twenty-seven minutes that remained of lunch I made her laugh a total of twenty-three times. A personal best.

  I did the same thing the following week and the week after. It soon got to the stage where on a Monday we’d ask about the quality of each other’s weekends and on a Friday we’d ask what each other had planned for our time off. Of all the love crusades I’ve waged in my life, this was by far my longest and most concerted effort.

  On the Friday of the fourth week of my campaign I finally made my move. Mel was standing next to the lift, tapping the pale blue plastic bottle of the water fountain with a biro. “I’ll name that tune in three,” I said, smiling.

  A huge grin spread across her face, so wide it revealed for the first time her teeth, small, perfect and glistening. “Why are you always making me laugh?” she asked as if I were part of some sort of conspiracy to make her happy.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you have a low humor threshold.”

  “Could be. But maybe it’s because you’re a funny guy.”

  Not bothering to work out whether she meant “funny” as in “ha ha” or “funny” as in “Stop following me, you weirdo,” I decided this was it. The opportunity. I didn’t need to be told twice. “Do you fancy going for a drink after work tonight?”

  “Are you asking me out?” she said matter-of-factly.

  I searched around for the correct answer. I’d tried to make my invitation sound as casual as possible, giving her the option to brush me off without smashing my ego to pieces, but here she was asking me to define one of two things you should never, ever define, not even if threatened with death.

  “Er, no . . . well, I suppose . . . yes.”

  “I thought so,” she said, smiling. “Thanks very much. I’m flattered but I’m afraid the answer’s no.”

  I hadn’t even included rejection on my list of possible reactions. I know I should’ve just left it at that and walked away, and on behalf of my mouth I’d like to apologize to my ego for not having done so. Instead, throwing caution to the wind, I asked, “Why not?” the question any man with a modicum of self-respect would never ask because it’s tantamount to begging.

  “It’s just one of those things, I’m afraid,” she said, wringing her hands nervously. “You’ve caught me at the worst possible time.”

  I scuttled back to my desk to lick my wounds and throw myself into my work in a manner I’d never done before. My survival plan was simple: I was going to avoid Mel for the rest of my life. With this in mind I skulked around the office, dodging her in the corridors, by the water fountain and in the George. On the last day of my contract, however, fate had it that I should bump into her in the lift as I was on my way home.

  “You’re avoiding me, aren’t you?” she said as the doors closed, and she pressed the button for the ground floor.

  Once again I searched around for the correct answer. I’d tried to make my avoidance of her as casual as possible, giving her the option to stay well away from me, but here she was, asking me to define the other thing you should never, ever define, not even if threatened with death. “No . . . well, I suppose . . . yes.”

  “I thought so,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been hoping I’d bump into you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve changed my mind,” she said shyly. I noted her curious choice of words but refused to let her say any more. Additional conversation would only confuse the matter. If I could change her mind without knowing it, I could just as easily change it back again by accident. So we descended the fifteen floors to the lobby in silence. When the doors opened she took out a biro from her bag, grabbed my hand, scribbled her phone number across my palm and walked away.

  We arranged to meet in a bar called Freud that same evening. Mel arrived at a quarter to nine—fifteen minutes late—an ideal length of time for me to reach the wet-palm stage of nervousness and for her to appear more enigmatic than I thought humanly possible. She was wearing dark blue jeans, trainers, a white T-shirt and a jacket. She’d dressed down, which was good. Dressing down called for the kind of self-confidence I admired in a woman.

  “Can we get one thing straight?” she said, sitting down at the table. I looked at her blankly. “I don’t want a . . . you know . . . a relationship.” I put on my Blank Face. “We’ll just be friends.” My Blank Face went into overtime. “Don’t take this personally but relationships are too complicated and I could do with the easy life right now. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a nice guy, but this is a case of wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl, wrong planet.” She paused as if sensing my disquiet. “Well, aren’t you going to say anything?”

  It was at this point in the proceedings that I took a chance, the like of which I’d never taken before or since. I kissed her—contravening not just one but two of the rules of snogging people you don’t know very well:

>   Rule one: always drink too much.

  Rule two: always wait for The Moment.

  In my hand was a glass of lime cordial and soda water (the cheapest drink in the house), and as for The Moment, I can only assume it was subject to delays due to leaves on the track. It was just as I was contemplating where this impulse might have had its origin when she kissed me back. We came up for air three breathless minutes later, somewhat flushed and distinctly hot under the collar.

  “I can’t believe I’ve just done that,” she said, avoiding all eye contact.

  “Neither can I,” I replied, looking at my shoes. “But we have.”

  We spent the rest of the evening drinking and talking—totally enthralled with each other. Later, we became hungry and Mel suggested we get something to eat. The last of my money had long since disappeared, forcing me to explain my poverty-stricken situation to her. She didn’t seem to mind at all, in fact she thought it was funny, and so at her expense we ate at a nearby Italian restaurant. In the middle of a mouthful of pasta, I noticed she was staring at me not saying anything. She clearly had something on her mind.

  “What?” I said, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “I’ve got tomato sauce on my chin, haven’t I?” I wiped my hand across my mouth.

  “No, it’s nothing,” she replied in a manner that clearly meant the complete opposite. I shoveled in another mouthful of pasta just as “nothing” was metamorphosing into “something.” “We’ve kissed each other. We barely know each other. Don’t you think we ought to do that background thing?”

  “Exchange emotional CVs?”

  Mel smiled winsomely. “Swap relationship résumés.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but you first.”

  She told me she’d recently split up with a man she’d been with for two years who she thought might be The One. Unfortunately he thought she definitely was The One and wanted her to move in with him, but she didn’t feel the same. She took two hours to tell me this information. Her narrative was all over the place and massive amounts of useless information came with it, huge chunks at a time.

  I discovered that when she was six years old she fell over and cut her knee and now had a scar that looks like a smile. I discovered that three years ago she’d bought an Ella Fitzgerald album at a car boot sale which she claimed was her most treasured possession. I discovered that she had always wanted a cat but now she was single it seemed a bit of a cliché. It was all utterly endearing but confusing at the same time.

  The record of my own romances took all of five minutes to reveal. Reluctant to go into the whole Amanda crossover skeleton thing for obvious reasons, I concluded the ups and many downs of my love life with the one before her, Rebecca, whose last words to me were, “I’m leaving the country. Don’t try and follow me.” I thought that was quite funny but Mel didn’t seem to want to laugh.

  “Is that it?”

  “What?”

  “Your love life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are your details? I need details.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “You told me nothing. I told you everything.”

  I gave her my Bewildered Face—a slight variation on the Blank Face.

  “What is it with men? Why can’t they talk? Do you learn this at some strange boy school? Do you have your vocal cords removed at birth?”

  “No,” I said. Thankfully she laughed this time. So I told her more about my past even though I felt incredibly uncomfortable doing it. I knew it was a good sign—that she was interested in me—but I couldn’t help thinking all this talk of failed relationships was somehow tempting fate.

  I think it’s time for us to go,” she said, licking the back of her dessert spoon and looking around the restaurant. When we’d come in the room was full; now it was empty and the waiters were dropping the heaviest of hints that we were the only thing preventing them from going home.

  “I enjoyed tonight,” I said, as hand in hand we made our way through the crowds emptying from a nearby theater on Shaftesbury Avenue. “It was . . . interesting.”

  “Me too,” she said as we quickly crossed into the road, narrowly avoiding being struck down by a homicidal bus driver. “But you know this isn’t going to work out, don’t you?”

  I stopped and looked at her, unsure whether it was her insecurity speaking or whether she was trying to let me down gently. “Why?”

  “Because.” She took a step closer to me as traffic whizzed by on both sides. “For one thing, I’m trying to concentrate on my career at the moment . . .”

  “And for the other?”

  “And for the other . . . I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship. Which would mean you’re the rebound. Which means one of us is going to hurt the other, and I already like you too much for it to be me.”

  “So don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Like me. Don’t like me. I’m not your perfect partner. I’m not the man of your dreams. I constantly forget important dates—birthdays, anniversaries and bank holidays—my intentions toward you are totally dishonorable and I spend too long in the bathroom.”

  “How long?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Practically makes you an honorary girl.”

  “But on the other hand, for as long as it lasts we can have a good time. It’ll be a laugh. Like a holiday romance without being on holiday. And I promise no postcards or long-distance phone calls when it’s all over.”

  “A holiday romance,” she said wistfully. “I like the sound of that.” We kissed, and as a passing taxi beeped its horn at us, drawing us back to reality, Mel stood on the tips of her toes and whispered into my ear, “Bring on the sangria!”

  That was then.

  My favorite dress

  It was my mum who took the news of my split with Mel the worst. She was devastated, especially when I told her the reason was all my fault. “Can’t you do anything about the way you feel?” she’d asked me, like it was breaking her heart. I tried to explain to her my way of thinking but she wasn’t convinced. Vernie wasn’t much happier. In no uncertain terms she told me that I was a fool if I thought there was something out there better than Mel. It was clear that with the exception of Dan and Charlie, my friends and family all thought it was my fault.

  The whole of April went by in a blur as in response to such criticism I threw myself into my comedy, traveling to crappily attended gigs in places like Norwich, Chichester and Northampton. I threw myself into an awful lot of alcohol (a strangely romantic feeling, conjuring up the sophistication of The Lost Weekend and apparently very surreal turns behind the mike), and such was my state of mind that I even threw myself into my temping job.

  The only blip on my fast-track attempt to forget Mel came near the start of April, when I woke up on the fifth and realized it was her twenty-ninth birthday. I’d wanted to call her more than anything in the world. Not just because it was her birthday, but also because I missed her. She hadn’t even collected her things. Her designated space in my bedroom chest of drawers still contained a jumper, a bra, two pairs of pants, a box of tampons and a pair of tights. The tattered Nike trainers she used for aerobics were still underneath my bed. The freezer still contained the massive bag of broccoli she’d bought after reading a magazine article that said it helped prevent cancer. What am I going to do with three tonnes of sodding broccoli? I’d asked myself when I discovered it behind a box of fish fingers. In the end I chucked it in the bin—it was too painful a reminder. But now a month had gone by since I’d last seen her, and as far as I was concerned I’d respected her wishes by not calling—now it was time for her to respect mine.

  In the past, like most people, I’d used the phrase “Let’s be friends” as shorthand for “Please don’t put my photo on a dartboard,” but as I thought about calling Mel I really meant it. Pre-Mel girlfriends had always been functional creatures—designed to fulfill their destiny as “girlfriends” and little else. But this was different. This was
Mel. What we had couldn’t be scrapped without some attempt to salvage a friendship from the wreckage.

  I called her at work at the beginning of the week. “Hi, Mel, it’s me,” I said brightly.

  “How are you?” she said eventually.

  “Okay. How are you?”

  “Okay. Not too bad.”

  “How was your birthday?”

  “Good.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went for a drink with some friends.”

  Silence.

  “How’s work?”

  “Okay. How’s the comedy?”

  “Okay.”

  Yet more silence.

  It quickly became apparent that without day-to-day interaction our small-talking abilities had wasted away. This is what time apart does to you, I thought angrily. Leaves you unable to talk about the small stuff with your ex-boyfriend. I attempted to get to the point of my call before the repertoire of our relationship disintegrated any further.

  “I know it’s over between us, Mel, and I know that you’d rather we didn’t see each other, but I want . . . I need us to be friends. I know it would be a lot easier just to get on with our new lives alone, clean breaks, and all that. But I don’t want a clean break. I want you and me to be part of each other’s lives no matter how difficult it is.”

  I’d like to think my big speech was a sign of newfound maturity, and I think that’s how Mel interpreted it, because she actually agreed to meet up with me that Thursday. If I’m really truthful, though, I’d have to admit that there was the slightest possibility that it had less to do with maturity than it did with me wanting to hang on to any scrap of my ex-girlfriend that I could get.

  It was the day that we’d arranged to meet. I left work ten minutes early, cunningly sneaking past Checkpoint Bridget. Once out of the office I avoided any form of transport that might cause me to be late and instead opted to race through central London on foot to my destination.