by Mike Gayle
9:00 A.M.
Cars arrived to take us to St Faith’s in Barnet. Estimated time of arrival: 9:30 A.M.
9:30 A.M.
Stuck in traffic. ETA now 9:45 A.M.
9:45 A.M.
Still stuck in traffic jam. ETA now 9:55 A.M. I managed to convince myself that Mel wouldn’t marry me if I was late, and that I’d be condemned to live with Dan until the day I died.
9:54 A.M.
Arrived at the church. Thankfully Mel hadn’t arrived yet. Mum kept checking my suit for fluff and dusted me over every thirty seconds like one of her prized Capo Di Monte figurines. Remembered to ask Dan if he’d got the ring. Few panicky moments when after checking every conceivable pocket and orifice he still couldn’t find it. Fortunately he discovered it on a piece of string around his neck just as I was about to kill him with my bare hands. Good man!
10:00 A.M.
Said hello to waiters from the Star of Punjab, Will and Alice and Alexa. No sign of the New Year’s No Noise Neighbors, or for that matter my fiancée. Spotted Dan behind a Vauxhall Astra in mid-snog with his mystery guest . . . none other than the Lovely Anne, Crap Greg’s ex-girlfriend. Hurrah for Dan indeed!
10:05 A.M.
Still no sign of Mel. Mum helpfully reminded me that it’s a woman’s prerogative to be late. Didn’t reply for fear of being unable to locate my inner Dalai Lama. Julie came over and introduced me to her new man and former pottery teacher, Leon, who lives in Notting Hill Gate. Leon handed me a large gift-wrapped box on behalf of Julie. I tried and failed to resist taking a crafty peek. Typical! Dinner set from Habitat.
10:15 A.M.
Managed to convince myself that Mel had got cold feet and had done a runner. My mum just shook her head and told me me to “stop being so ridiculous.”
10:21 A.M.
Mel’s car is spotted by Dan coming up the road. She loves me!
10:25 A.M.
Following a brief moment for explanation from Mel’s mum and dad (the car was stuck in the same traffic as us) we’re nearly ready to begin.
10:45 A.M.
Standing at the front of the church, I turned to see Mel on her father’s arm, striding up the aisle. It was like seeing her for the first time in my life all over again—that walk, that living breathing version of Chrissie Hynde singing “Brass In Pocket”—even in a wedding dress and six-months pregnant! When she reached me I whispered in her ear, “You look amazing,” and she beamed and whispered back, “Don’t say things like that, because I’ll only cry and I’m desperate to look calm and serene on the wedding video!”
10:55 A.M.
She said, “I do.”
10:57 A.M.
I said, “I do.”
10:59 A.M.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” said the man in charge. “You may now kiss the bride.”
11:00 A.M.
We kissed.
The Best Man
Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the bride and groom I’d like to welcome you to the wedding of Melanie Lara Benson, and of course, the one and only Benjamin Dominic Duffy! As best man it falls to me to come out with a lot of stuff about how wonderful the bride is and then crack a few jokes about the groom . . . and who am I to truck with tradition? No, seriously, although this is a happy day, in some way it’s a sad day, too, because I’m going to miss Duff. Over the last couple of years he has been the best flatmate ever. He is easygoing, reasonably house-trained and never ceased to amaze me with his ability to make lost fridge food edible simply by scraping the fur off it and shoving it into the microwave. Someone said to me this afternoon that I shouldn’t think of today as losing a flatmate, I should see it as gaining somewhere nice and clean to be invited for Sunday lunch—they may well have a point. Decent food apart, though, I hope I’ll also be gaining another friend as good as Duffy. Mel really is the best thing that has ever happened to him and I couldn’t think of a better person to hand over responsibility to for his supervision. And so, I ask you to join me in a toast to these two brave people—brave because no matter how much in love someone is, it is still a leap of faith to make the sort of promise they’ve made today and mean it. So I ask you to join me in raising a toast: to Duffy and Mel—Mr. and Mrs. Commitment.
The Bride
Hello, everyone. Due to thousands of years of patriarchal oppression women have been denied the right to make speeches at weddings and make jokes at the groom’s expense. As a fully-fledged flexible feminist I’m not about to have my wedding day dictated to me by anyone—especially as I paid for half of it. Anyway, I’ve prepared a few words that I’d like to say. When Duffy and I first planned to get married, I’d had my heart set on a huge wedding. Now it’s me who is huge and not the wedding. But to be serious for a second, I’m glad we’ve done it small—just the people we love and care for most. I couldn’t have wished for a better day. Anyway, I’d like to thank everyone for coming: you really have made today a day to remember. I’d especially like to thank my mum and dad for all the hard work they’ve put into making this day a success, and Julie for being there for me, and Charlie and Dan for making sure that Duffy didn’t come to too much harm on his stag night; and to Duffy’s mum for everything she’s done, especially for sorting out the catering—you have her to thank for the wonderful Moroccan-style chicken starters. And finally, I’ve got a surprise for my husband. For the past few months he’s been under the impression that we’re having a band playing at this evening’s reception, but we’re not—we’re having the Derek G Mobile Disco Experience instead. And yes, Duffy, I made sure before I hired him that he’s got “Come on Eileen,” “Three Times a Lady” and even “The Birdie Song.” That’s all I’ve got to say really, but before I sit down, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my husband, who is the most special person in the world . . . he’s kind, gentle and . . . and . . . a . . .
The Groom
That’s exactly why women aren’t supposed to give speeches at weddings—they just burst into tears. Mel, her mum, my mum, Vernie, have been shedding tears all morning. It’s only because I shed all mine last night watching ET that I’m the only one in the house with dry eyes. There’s nothing in the world that I want more than to be with Mel for the rest of my life. Now it’s not my intention to shuffle off this mortal coil until I’m oh, what shall I say, eighty, ninety? I want to see for myself whether one day we will all be drinking blue drinks, wearing shiny silver spacesuits and taking winter breaks on Mars. I wouldn’t mind living forever, which of course will mean being married forever. Which is as great as it sounds. This is what I’ve spent the whole of my life not searching for, mainly because I didn’t know I needed it. A few hours ago Mel promised to love and cherish me for the rest of her life. She didn’t say obey, which is okay, because I don’t want to control her, I just want her to want to be with me and me with her. I know I sound like some sort of New Man, fully in touch with his emotions, able to cry at romantic comedies starring Meg Ryan and capable of having women as friends without harboring secret desires to see them naked. It’s not true—well, apart from the naked women friends thing—I’m still me. I still don’t like it when she talks when the TV’s on. I’ll admit I don’t understand her all of the time. But I know I wouldn’t want it any other way, because I’ve seen the other ways. And so, I’d like for you to join me in a toast—to Mel, my wife, the best a man can get.
Three months later
She’s gorgeous
“Isn’t she beautiful?” said Mel holding her up for all to see.
“Gorgeous,” said Vernie, taking our baby in her arms. “Absolutely gorgeous. Look at her eyes—the way they sparkle.”
“Duffy,” said Julie, “don’t you want to hold her?”
“Er,” I uttered noncommittally, “I’m not sure about this. I’ve never held a . . . you know . . . anyway, she looks a bit fragile to me. What if I drop her? Maybe later, eh? When Mel’s mum and dad arrive. Give them the chance to see their granddaughter in one piece before I sta
rt juggling with her.”
“No,” replied Mel firmly. “You’re going to hold her now. You’ve been making up excuses for the last two hours. It’s time for the two of you to bond.”
“My hands are really sweaty. She needs to be held by someone with a better grip than mine.”
“Are you seriously intending not to hold her until she’s more robust?” asked Mel. She turned to hand me my daughter. “Here you go, Daddy.”
“It’s not difficult,” reassured Julie as I took her from Mel’s hands. “Just be gentle with her.”
My baby was oblivious to the fact that someone new was holding her. Her eyes were firmly closed and her mouth was pouted just like her mum’s when she’s having a sulk.
“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” inquired Mum. “I can’t believe you’ve left it this long.”
“We wanted to wait until she was here before we named her. It didn’t seem right calling her something without seeing her.” Mel looked up at me and smiled. “We’re open to suggestions. What does everyone think?”
“I don’t know,” said Mum, “I’ve never been all that good at thinking on my feet.”
“She looks like a Philippa,” said Julie. “Or maybe a Jane. Or maybe even a Philippa-Jane.”
“Elvis!” said Dan and Charlie in unison.
“I reckon Jackie,” said Vernie, carefully balancing Phoebe in one arm in order to thump Charlie playfully with the other. “There hasn’t been a world-famous Jackie since Jackie Onassis. The world needs another one as soon as possible.”
“What do you think?” said Mel, directing her question toward me. “You’re her dad, you should have a whole list of names by now.”
I looked fondly at the new addition to the Duffy family, who was still resting peacefully in my arms. She’s beautiful, I thought. No doubt about it. This has got to be the best-looking baby there has ever been. She needs a name that sums up her personality. Something that says, hello, I’m smart and funny and irresistible—just like my dad.
“I know exactly what her name is,” I said, looking into her tiny face. “Mel chose it a long time ago, and as ever, she was spot on. I think we should call her Ella.”
“I can’t believe you remembered!” said Mel fondly. “You’re right, she does look like an Ella. So Ella Elvis Duffy it is.”
“Elvis?”
“Of course,” said Mel with a flourish. “She’s a Duffy, isn’t she? So she’s bound to be a star.”
MIKE GAYLE is a freelance journalist and a popular advice columnist. He lives in Birmingham, England.
Also by Mike Gayle
My Legendary Girlfriend
Praise for Mr. Commitment
“A male Bridget Jones.”
—The Express (London)
“Mike Gayle gives us a sharp, funny peek inside the male mind, with all its fears and phobias about love and marriage laid out, in the hilarious new novel Mr. Commitment.”
—Book Page
“In his second novel, Gayle brings the same wry wit and hilarious plot twists that have earned him comparisons to Nick Hornby.”
—Booklist
“Full of belly laughs and painfully acute observations”
—The Independent on Sunday
“Delivers its punch lines directly to the heart . . . a soulful romance and wry comedy that stop comfortably short of the sentimental.”
—Birmingham Evening Mail
“A delicate blend of realism and whimsy . . . funny and clever.”
—The Guardian
“Funny, sharply observed, and right in tune with aging adolescents desperately clinging to the wreckage of their youth.”
—Marie Claire
“Touching and funny.”
—Sunday Mirror (London)
“A funny, frank account of a hopeless romantic.”
—The Times (London)
“Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus meets Men Behaving Badly.”
—Daily Telegraph (London)
A Sneak Peek at the new novel from Mike Gayle:
My Legendary Girlfriend,
—on sale July 9, 2002—
MIKE GAYLE
AUTHOR OF MR. COMMITMENT
My Legendary Girlfriend
Meet the lovable, lovestruck Will Kelly. It’s been three years since his heartthrob, Agnes, wrecked his life with a chat that started, “It’s like that song. ‘If you love somebody, set them free.’ ” But no matter how much time goes by, Will doesn’t feel very free. He still makes lists of each birthday present Aggi ever gave him, has gymnastic fantasies about a perfect reunion night with her and dwells on the first words she uttered to him.
How long can a person stay down in the dumps after being dumped? And how long before Will dumps Martina, the sweet but clingy girl he’s seeing? Will anyone ever measure up to Will’s Legendary Girlfriend?
Broadway Books is delighted to offer readers a sneak peek at Mike Gayle’s My Legendary Girlfriend, on sale now in hardcover—a fresh, hilarious, romantic romp perfect for anyone who’s ever dumped, been dumped or lived in a dump.
6:05 P. M.
“Mr. Kelly, which football team do you support?”
As I strolled along the edge of the pitch clutching a football underneath each arm, I considered fourteen-year-old Martin Acker and his question carefully. He had been the last of my pupils to leave the pitch and I knew for a fact that he’d lingered with the specific intention of asking me his question, because amongst other things, not only was he genuinely inquisitive as to where my footballing allegiances lay, he also had no friends and had selected me as his companion on that long and lonely walk back to the changing rooms. He was quite literally covered head to foot in Wood Green Comprehensive School football pitch mud, which was a remarkable achievement for someone who hadn’t touched the ball all evening. Of his footballing prowess, there was little doubt in my mind that he was the worst player I’d ever witnessed. He knew it, and he knew that I knew it, and yet I didn’t have the heart to drop him from the team, because what he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. This was of great encouragement to me, proving that for some, the futility of an occupation was not in itself a reason to give up.
While Martin was hopeless at playing soccer but excelled in its trivia, I, on the other hand, could neither play, teach, nor fake an interest in this most tedious of distractions. Owing to PE staff shortages and the need to impress my superiors, the mob of fourteen-year-olds that made up the year-eight B-team was entirely my responsibility. The headmaster, Mr. Tucker, had been much impressed when I volunteered for the task, but the truth was less than altruistic: it was either football or the school drama club. The thought of spending two dinnertimes per week aiding and abetting the kids to butcher My Fair Lady, this term’s production, made football the less depressing option, but only marginally so. I was an English teacher—created to read books, drink cups of sugary tea and popularize sarcasm as a higher form of wit. I was not designed to run about in shorts on freezing cold autumnal evenings.
I peered down at Martin just as he was looking up to see if I’d forgotten his question.
“Manchester United,” I lied.
“Oh, sir, everyone supports Man U.”
“They do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who do you support?”
“Wimbledon, sir.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
And that was that. We continued our walk in silence, even failing to disturb the large number of urban seagulls gathered, wading and pecking in the mud, by the corner post. I had the feeling Martin wanted to engage me in more football talk but couldn’t think of anything else to ask.
Martin’s fellow teammates were bellowing and screaming so loudly that I was alert to their mayhem before I even reached the changing room doors. Inside, chaos reigned—Kevin Rossiter was hanging upside down by his legs from a hot water pipe that spanned the room; Colin Christie was snapping his towel on
James Lee’s bare buttocks; and Julie Whitcomb, oblivious to the events going on around her, was tucked in a corner of the changing room engrossed in Wuthering Heights, one of the set texts I was teaching my year-eight class this term.
“Are you planning to get changed?” I asked sardonically.
Julie withdrew her amply freckled nose from the novel, squinting as she raised her head to meet my gaze. The look of bewilderment on her face revealed that she had failed to understand the question.
“These are changing rooms, Julie,” I stated firmly, shaking my head in disbelief. “Boys’ changing rooms, to be exact. As you are neither a boy nor getting changed, may I suggest that you leave?”
“I would, Mr. Kelly, but I can’t,” she explained. “You see, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”
I was intrigued. “Who’s your boyfriend?”
“Clive O’Rourke, sir.”
I nodded my head. I hadn’t the faintest clue who Clive O’Rourke was.
“Is he a year eight, Julie?”
“No, sir, he’s in year eleven.”
“Julie,” I said, trying to break the bad news to her gently, “year elevens don’t have football practice today.”
“Don’t they, sir? But Clive said to meet him here after football practice and not to move until he came to get me.”
She dropped her book into her rucksack and slowly picked up her jacket, as though her thought processes were draining her of power, like a computer trying to run too many programs at once.
“How long have you been going out with Clive?” I asked, casually.
