Mr. Commitment

by Mike Gayle

  “It’s about the audition,” she said.

  I stopped breathing.

  “The executive producer called me about an hour ago to let me know she’d made her decision. I’m sorry, but you didn’t get the job. I tried really hard to swing it for you. I really did, but they kept going on that you weren’t what they were looking for, whatever that means. But they don’t know anything. Don’t worry about it, Duff. Something else will come up soon, I’m sure.”

  I drained my glass of wine and didn’t say anything. I purposely hadn’t been thinking about the audition, because I knew that if I gave it any thought at all, by the time I’d finished churning out vast numbers of hope-filled “what ifs,” it would become the biggest thing in my life. Unfortunately, it was only now as I sat on this sofa, not saying anything and feeling like the whole world was collapsing around my ears, that I realized how misguided I’d been. Despite my efforts, the audition had been the biggest thing in my life this past few months. It had been the one thing keeping me afloat. It had been the best thing that had happened to me in the eight years of being heckled, ripped off and lied to. It hurt not to have it happen. It hurt more than I could bear. I looked at Alexa and then at the room that I was sitting in. None of this felt right. This was all wrong.

  “You win some, you lose some,” I said eventually. “Who got it in the end?”

  She picked up a scrap of paper by the telephone. “Some guy called Greg Bennet. I think I even met him at one of the auditions.”

  “Grim-looking, balding man with a massive Napoleon complex, talks a lot about football?”

  “Yeah,” she said, puzzled. “Come to think of it, when I spoke to him he did say that he knew you too.”

  I’ve had enough, I told myself. This is the end. “I’m quitting comedy,” I said, letting my thoughts roam free. It felt odd saying those words at long last, and yet at the same time I was relieved.

  “Not because of this stupid audition, surely?”

  “Exactly because of this stupid audition. I’ve given this comedy lark my best shot for over eight years, and this audition was the biggest thing that’s happened to me in all that time. Maybe it’s a sign. I don’t know, maybe it’s time I realized I’m going to be one of the ones who doesn’t make it. I’m not bitter.” I paused. I wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all me. “No, I am bitter. I’m as bitter as it’s possible to be. I’ve given up everything chasing stupid dreams. Too much. Now it’s time to bail out before it’s too late.”

  “This is a bad idea. You’re really talented, Duffy. You’ve just had a knock back. We all get those once in a while. You wait. Take a few weeks off, forget all about the audition and then everything will look different.”

  “Did you know,” I said, wondering how I was ever going to tell Alexa that I didn’t want to see her anymore, “that Margaret Thatcher once said, ‘If a man finds himself a passenger on a bus, having attained the age of twenty-six, he can account himself a failure in life’?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, she did. I read it in an article in the Guardian last year. I pinned it on the cork notice board in the kitchen.” I sighed heavily. “Do you know how I get to work every day?”

  “By bus?”

  “For the last three years,” I said. “I’m two years past Maggie’s sell-by date and I’m still catching the bus. That’s why I’m giving up comedy. I need to get real. I need to stop traveling on buses.”

  “Come on, Duff. What would you do? Get a permanent office job? You’d be banging your head against the walls within a week.”

  I shrugged. “I could go back to college maybe. I don’t know. Do something constructive.”

  “You’re just feeling depressed about not getting the job. Everyone knows what it feels like to be disappointed. There’ll be other auditions, other opportunities.”

  “Maybe.” I sighed again. “And maybe not.”

  “But that’s not all, is it?” she said, her eyes searching my face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, us.”

  Alexa had obviously developed the same mind-reading technique that Mel possessed.

  “Yeah, well, I was going to get round to ‘us.’ The thing is—”

  “You’re still in love with your ex.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “I know, but it’s true. You were going to string me some old line about things not working out between us, because you’re too scared to admit what’s really going on. I’m no expert on love, but I am a woman. It’s totally obvious you’re still in love with Mel. There are only three reasons why any man would agree to go to dinner with his ex and her new boyfriend. One: he’s mad. Two: he’s stupid. Three: he’s still in love with her. You’re not mad or stupid, so what’s left? You talk about commitment like it’s an alien concept. This thing that you just can’t do. But all this time hasn’t it dawned on you that ‘commitment’ is what you’re doing right now? I read this brilliant thing once in a book: ‘What’s the difference between involvement and commitment? Think of eggs and bacon. The chicken was involved. The pig was committed.’ You, Mr. Duffy, are, probably always were, and definitely always will be, a pig.”

  Alexa’s words slowly began to sink in. “So what you’re saying is I’ve been acting like a fool because I’m already committed to Mel . . .”

  She nodded.

  “So if I’m already committed to her, then it’s ridiculous being afraid of commitment. So there’s nothing stopping me from . . .” I stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know,” said Alexa.

  “Aren’t you mad at me or anything? I’ve led you a right dance: I’ve helped you spend hideous amounts of money on clothes you needn’t have bought, and if that’s not enough, I wouldn’t sleep with you even though you practically begged me.”

  “Well, now you put it like that . . .” Alexa started to laugh. She leaned forward and kissed me. “Look, firstly I love buying clothes. Secondly, you’re kidding yourself if you think me and my brand-new shoes are staying in tonight pining for you while you’re proposing to your ex-girlfriend. And thirdly, rejection is good for the soul. Even if you are TV’s Hottest Totty. Duffy, you’re a nice guy, you really are, and I hope we can be friends, but the real reason I’m not bothered is because at the end of the day I’m just a sucker for a happy ending.”

  In the back of a cab with a wet late-evening London whizzing past in a continuous blur I could hear nothing other than the sound of my heart beating. With the benefit of my new enlightenment, the key mistakes I’d made in all my time with Mel were suddenly clear to me in a way they’d never been.

  For starters I’d entered our relationship determined to stay exactly the same—which I’ll admit is pretty stupid, but at the beginning had made perfect sense to me. Changing meant that I wasn’t the man I used to be, and I quite liked the man I used to be. Mel, however, had taken me on a journey out of the wilderness I inhabited with Dan and led me part of the way to the land of the living, where there were three different types of shampoo in the bathroom, duvet covers that matched pillows and food that didn’t come out of a tin or make its appearance accompanied by toast. Admittedly, sometimes I’d felt like I was slap-bang in the middle of no-man’s-land—not quite my old self and not revised enough to be a new self—and yes, there were occasions when I found myself wanting to run back to what I knew. But I’d tried being a superstud of seduction and it hadn’t worked, precisely because I was a changed man. In the past my deepest thoughts used to be about stand-up, music and women. Thanks to Mel’s influence I’d expanded my repertoire of subjects to include life, the universe and everything.

  Mel was the best girlfriend I could’ve asked for. She was funny, gentle and most of all, loyal. She was one of a kind and I’d nearly blown it for good because I had a problem with all the stuff that seemed to come with the relationship. Like Ikea. Like dinner parties. Like . . . marriage. The one th
ing she most wanted but the only thing I couldn’t deliver.

  Well, I could now.

  Blue

  The taxi pulled up outside Mel’s and I sat motionless in my seat as my head occupied itself with the following problem: how on earth was I going to announce to her that I didn’t just want to have dinner with her, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her too? I looked out of the cab window for inspiration. Mel’s 2CV was glistening brightly in the rain but I couldn’t see Rob 1’s coolmobile anywhere. He’s probably got a taxi so he can have a drink, I reasoned. A thought which led me to consider the bottle of wine in my hand. During my afternoon shopping trip with Alexa, in a bid to be wild and unpredictable like her, I’d abandoned my normal strategy for wine purchasing and picked a bottle at random in Selfridges and bought it. It had cost me £17.99, which to my mind meant that it had better be up there with the best the sensual world had to offer or I was asking for my money back.

  Enough of the procrastinating, Mr. Duffy, I reproached. It’s now or never. I stood and watched the cab pull away. My legs felt incredibly unsteady, like I’d just run a marathon. It was amazing. They just wouldn’t work properly. In addition to this, my saliva had turned tinny and watery. With each swallow the scales of digestion were tipping further and further toward projectile vomiting. I was comforted by this fact because it meant that both my conscious and unconscious selves were in agreement that this situation I was about to get myself into was a momentous one.

  I rang the doorbell and waited, practicing my proposal, so that when the moment came, at the very least I’d be word perfect.

  Mel, I love you. Will you marry me?

  Nice.

  Mel, I’ve been a fool. Will you be my bride?

  Okay, but a touch melodramatic.

  Baby, I’m thinking me in a suit, you in a white dress and the vicar in whatever he wants.

  Who am I, John Travolta?

  I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, and tried to calm myself down. Eventually I heard the lock on the front door turning and I opened my eyes to see Mel standing there. She’d been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I exclaimed, observing the traces of smudged mascara across her face. “Are you all right?”

  She wiped away a stray tear with the palm of her hand and said, “You’d better come in.”

  I followed her upstairs into the living room, wondering what could’ve happened. I thought that perhaps she’d had a row with Rob 1, but it seemed to be more than that. Then it occurred to me that something might have happened to her parents. Mel’s mum had suffered a slight stroke a couple of years ago and had been in and out of hospital ever since.

  “Are you all right?” I asked when we reached the lounge. “It’s not your parents, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “They’re fine.”

  I put my bottle of wine on the table and scanned the room for evidence of Rob 1’s presence. “Where’s Rob?”

  “He’s been . . .” she said, sitting down on the sofa “. . . and he’s gone.”

  I sat down next to her, and all I wanted to do was put my arms around her. “Have you had some sort of row?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said quietly. In a strange sort of way I actually meant it.

  “There’s no need to lie, Duff.” She smiled weakly. “At least not for my sake. Me and Rob were never going to go anywhere. I’ve known that from the beginning. It’s funny: I think I was only with him because he was so much the opposite of you.” She paused. “Anyway, he’s not the reason why I’ve been crying.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, moving closer to her. “What’s upset you so much?”

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, not looking at me.

  I tried to grasp the meaning of what she’d said, but it just seemed to escape me. It was like my brain was stuck. I had no reactions at all. I was totally calm. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t feel anything and could barely hear anything apart from the sound of my own heart.

  “Before you ask,” she said, “it’s not Rob’s. Practical impossibility. Call me old-fashioned, but I couldn’t sleep with someone I didn’t love, and I didn’t love Rob.”

  “When did you find out?”

  She looked at her watch. “Three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago. Not that I’m counting or anything. I was over a week late. I’ve been late before, but like they always say, this time I knew. I bought three tests, three different brands. Any less than three opinions isn’t enough for a woman like me.” She laughed softly, stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece and picked something up. “I thought I’d keep them as a memento.” She unwrapped a tissue and laid the three test sticks on the table one by one. “Blue. Blue. And Blue. It’s a baby all right.”

  She looked at me expectantly. It was my turn to say something. The best I could muster was, “I thought we . . .”

  “That’s life,” she said sharply. “Accidents happen.” She began pacing the room nervously. “If this is a shock for you, Duff, I’m sorry, but it’s a whole lot bigger shock for me. It’s turned my whole world upside down.”

  “Listen, Mel,” I interrupted. I had to say something. I had to let her know that I loved her. That I wanted to be with her. That whatever happened we were going to be all right. “I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

  “Will you not do that!” she yelled, tears now streaming down her face. “I’m speaking, Duffy! I’m fed up of you talking over me all the time. For once just shut up and listen!” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she spoke again her voice was calmer and more controlled. “I want you to know that I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to have this baby, Duffy. But I have to make it clear to you here and now that we won’t be getting back together. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? Let’s get back together?”

  “It’s not like that, Mel. It’s not like that at all. I want you back. That’s what I came here to say. That’s why Alexa’s not here. Because I want to be with you.”

  “Oh stop it, Duffy! Just stop it. Why won’t you listen to me? I don’t want you to do the right thing. I don’t want us to be together because I’m pregnant. I wanted us to be together out of love, but it’s too late. It’s funny. In all the time we’ve been apart I’ve not once told you that I love you. We used to tell each other ‘I love you’ every day. When we split up that stopped and I missed it more than anything. Instead we’ve been going on about how we ‘care’ for each other and ‘need’ each other, afraid to admit that we still love each other. Well, I love you, Duffy. I love you so much it scares me, but I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that even though I love you it’s over between us. I’m saying that right now I can’t even handle having you near me. I’m saying that things have changed now beyond our control. I’ve always tried to do what’s best for you but now I’ve got to think about me.”

  I looked into her eyes, overflowing with tears, and could see that she meant every word, and as the tears filled my own eyes, I knew that she was right. If I’d thought that there was even the slightest chance I could change her mind I would’ve gladly spent every second from then on trying to convince her. But she was never going to believe me. It wasn’t the situation that was impossible, it was her. I could see already from the way she spoke and looked at me that she’d created a barrier between us to protect herself, and she was never going to take it down.

  Standing in front of her, my head swimming with thoughts and my heart overloaded with love, I pleaded with her. “Please, Mel, I’m begging you. Is there anything I can do, anything at all that will change your mind?”

  “No,” she said. “Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

  Rituals are important. Nowadays it’s hip not to be married. I’m not interested in being hip.

  —John Lennon

  The Italian Job

  Fri
day. 11:30 P.M. The flight from Paris arrived three hours late into Heathrow’s Terminal Four, which was just about typical of the entire torturous fourteen days I’d spent there. On my very first night in Paris I came up with the great idea of sleeping rough in the Gard du Nord, thus saving me the many francs I would’ve squandered on a room with such frivolities as a bed, toilet and running water. It was only when I saw the state of the premier Paris train station that I realized what a mistake I’d made. The air was thick with fumes from the trains, and even the pigeons cooing quietly in the rafters were a dirty, sootish gray. At three o’clock in the morning, which is when I arrived, the only place with a higher concentration of criminals would’ve been a prison. Within half an hour I’d been solicited by four prostitutes, offered hard drugs by a man wearing a dressing gown, and received threatening glances from a group of young men who had nothing better to do than hang around a train station at 3 A.M. After a sleepless night in which I did nothing but wish I was back in Muswell Hill, I booked into a hotel.

  Over the next two weeks I saw all the sights that Paris had to offer: the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the flea market, the Left Bank, but without anyone to share them with, it all seemed kind of pointless. Everywhere I went there were couples smooching; gazing into each other’s eyes; feeding each other food across restaurant tables. I knew Paris was supposed to be the city of love, but this was ridiculous—it was like going to Ikea on a bank holiday, only worse because there was no escaping it, and it all served to remind me just how alone I was.

  Even checking in for the flight home was a nightmare. The woman on the desk had asked me if I wanted a window or an aisle seat and I told her that I wasn’t bothered. The clerk tapped away at her computer keyboard and told me that all the window seats had gone for my type of ticket. Now that I couldn’t have one, of course I wanted a window seat, I needed a window seat, I would’ve torn off my right arm for a window seat. Where did she put me? A middle-row seat right at the back of the plane. When she asked me if I’d packed my own bags I briefly contemplated telling her that my mum, the renowned diamond smuggler, terrorist and drug overlord, had done it for me, but I chickened out because I didn’t know what other punishments she could inflict on me with her mighty seating computer.