Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (18 page)

‘You will.'

‘When?'

As always, when cornered, I resort to joking to get me out of a tight spot. ‘Faster than a Britney Spears marriage.'

The gag is lost on the humourless Philip Burke, however, and he bids me a brisk goodnight. We head for our respective cars and I find myself wondering if he too is going home to a cold, empty apartment.

We're both about to hop into our cars when he calls after me, ‘Oh, and Amelia? FYI? That's my parking space you took.'

One thing's for certain though; if Philip Burke isn't actually gay, I'll put money on the fact that he hasn't had a girlfriend in a very long time. There's no woman on earth who wouldn't gladly have thumped that lack of finesse out of him.

I spend the entire journey home full of smart-alec indignation at all the things I wish I'd said.

Now, as it happens, we are actually bringing a new family into
Celtic Tigers
: the Duffys. Normal, ordinary people who will reflect the normal, ordinary hopes and aspirations of our target audience. He's a doctor, she's a primary-school teacher and they have two teenage daughters who will hopefully generate romantic stories amongst the younger male characters in the show.

Bright and early Monday morning, I'm just rushing into a meeting with our casting director when my mobile rings. Rachel.

‘Well, darling, I have
fabulous
news that'll haul you out of your sorrow cycle.'

‘Sweetie, I'm just about to go into a meeting, can I call you back?'

‘You'd better. The FBI couldn't have done a better number on Thickie Brickie than I just have.'

I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one can overhear. ‘EEEEEEK! What did he say?'

‘It was like shooting fish in a barrel. He sang like a canary, if you'll pardon my mixed metaphors.'

‘So where is Tony now?'

‘Get this. He's teaching English and History in Glenstal Abbey. I never bothered asking whether he was married or not, because even Thickie Brickie might have copped on to that one. We'll find out soon enough.'

‘Do you mean Glenstal Abbey in Limerick?'

Glenstal Abbey is one of the poshest and most prestigious boarding schools in the country. You practically have to build a library wing and pledge an AstroTurf pitch just to get your child on the waiting list. Its past alumni are so esteemed that they're virtually guaranteed seats in the cabinet or at the very least a government ministry if they so choose.

‘Glenstal Abbey in County Limerick, the very one. So how are you fixed for a Thelma-and-Louise-style road trip this weekend?'

So much has happened in the week since my last class that I take up almost ten full minutes of Ira Vandergelder's time. Nor am I the only one battling for airtime. In fact, you can hardly shut any of us up. Everyone is bursting to tell their stories about the previous week's adventures in the dating field and when my turn eventually comes, I seize the day.

My instincts, for once, are totally on the money. I
am
in danger of becoming the class comedienne. Worst part is, though, I'm not trying to be funny. I'm just telling the truth. I'm in the middle of relating to them all the saga of Pete Mooney and poor Mags beside me has to hold her sides, she's laughing so hard. ‘Your description of the Dragon bar alone should get a slot on
Saturday Night Live
,' she guffaws at me. And I wasn't even exaggerating.

‘Pete wasn't just a slightly camp friend of Dorothy's, he
broadcast
gay. By the end of the night, he'd hit on my friend Jamie. He even referred to me as Jamie's hag.'

More raucous laughter.

‘When you were dating him, did you see any signs that he might be gay?' Ira asks, peering at me from under her glasses, the only person in the room who's not finding this hysterical.

‘Well, apart from the fact that he wore glittery jackets and eyeliner and would spend more time in the bathroom than me, no. But then this was back in nineteen eighty-six. Not even Boy George had come out then and don't get me started on all the teenage years I wasted lusting after George Michael, thinking that he was straight. For God's sake, even Elton John had a wife back then.'

‘Then it clearly wasn't your fault, Amelia. That time. But the lesson for you here is that you've gotta develop and hone those instincts of yours. If there's something weird that you can't quite put your finger on about any guy you're dating, get out quick. Cut your losses. A smart dater doesn't waste precious time on a relationship that's not moving forward. Did you do your assignment? Did you ask a friend for a fix-up?'

‘Yes,' I say, delighted that at least I've done something right. ‘With a really sweet man.'

‘Why do I sense that there's a but coming?'

‘Too old. No chemistry.'

‘How old is too old?'

I'm aware Ira will probably say a good man is a good
man at any age and that I should be thankful he's not living in an old folks' home that smells of wee, so I know I have to tread carefully here. Either that or make a joke of it. ‘Well, it's all relative. To anyone born during the Napoleonic era, I'm sure he's a spring chicken.'

‘Do you always use humour as a defence, Amelia?'

This shuts me up. God, Ira's good, to see through me so easily. I'm really amazed. Talk about laser-like penetration …

‘But then, as I always tell my students, if there's no spark, there's no spark,' she goes on, addressing the packed classroom. Then, to my complete surprise, she adds, ‘There is no compromise in my class, nor is there room for desperation. Do not fall into the trap of thinking: What right have I to reject a perfectly good man just because I'm not attracted to him; at my age, I should take what I can get and be thankful for that. You all wanna be happily married to a man you truly love and you all should settle for nothing less. But there is something you
can
do, Amelia,' she says, turning her focus back to me.

‘Yeah?'

‘OK, so this older man didn't exactly light your fire, but your friend who fixed you up must think very highly of him.'

‘Yes, she does. He's a dote of a man really, sweet and attentive and knows how to treat women well.'

‘Are you familiar with the phrase “One man's meat is another man's poison”?'

There's a lot of mutterings from the back row.

‘What I mean,' says Ira, ‘is that in a few weeks' time, we are gonna throw ourselves a class party. I will be asking one of you ladies to host it and the rest of you to provide food and wine. But there's a catch. Each of you will have to bring along a date; but not your normal type of date. A single, straight guy who you've personally vetted to make sure that they're a good, decent person, but who you yourself are not attracted to at all. Maybe one of your classmates will fall madly in love with him, who knows? In the United States, we call this a treasure-or-trash party. Amelia, I strongly suggest that you bring along this older guy of yours. Just because you weren't keen, doesn't mean one of these other lovely ladies won't be.'

Genius. Fab idea.

I'm just silently glancing over at Mags and idly wondering whether she finds men in their sixties who still live with their mothers attractive when Ira moves on to the woman on my left. I really want to say, ‘Wait! Please! I wasn't finished!' but, in fairness, I've already hogged quite enough of her time. Besides, the story about
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
is so mind-bogglingly far-fetched, who in the class would even believe me?

Some of the other fix-up stories are a scream. A
woman called Sheila sitting behind me said she was matched up with a guy who her best friend did meals-on-wheels with. She very naturally jumped to the conclusion that this meant he was a kind, considerate, civic-minded member of the public. Turned out he was doing meals-on-wheels as part of his community service.

‘What's good about this,' says Ira, ‘is that you're getting back into the dating zone. OK, so this man wasn't for you, but who's to say the next man won't be?'

To my shock, in no time at all, it's almost nine o'clock and Ira is already giving us our homework for next week. What is it about this class that seems to make time stand still?

‘Number one assignment: you are all to get to work on tracking down your next ex-boyfriend and see what you can learn from him,' she commands.

I'm well ahead of you there, I think to myself smugly, absolutely dying to get in touch with the lovely Tony Irwin. He has to be married by now, I reckon, how could he not be? Whoever she is, though, there's one thing for certain. Mrs Tony Irwin has to be the luckiest woman alive …

‘Number two: I want you all to write out your personal matrix and then figure out a way to expand it.'

A lot of ‘Huh?'s and what's-she-on-about looks. I'm inclined to forget that Ira is, first and foremost, a marketer.

‘OK,' she says. ‘I want all of you ladies to cast a wider net, or, in other words, to expand your market. I give these classes the world over and I'm constantly amazed at the number of single women whose list of criteria they need in a potential husband is so long, you wonder if such a man even exists. Fact: the odds of finding a husband over thirty-five change. Quite simply, women outnumber men. So we need to figure out a way of meeting a whole new range of eligible guys. This means you all gotta forget about your “type”. In my class, that's a dirty word. You're gonna learn to be flexible. Your future husband may be shorter than you, he may not earn as much as you, he may not love the theatre the way you do. But if he's a really wonderful person and you could truly love him, should you really overlook him just because of a few trivial details?'

Someone from the back asks a question. ‘Ira, what's a matrix?'

‘Let me explain. When cell phones first came on the market, they were designed for business people on the move. That was the primary market. But then the phone companies got smart. They realized they could make a lot more money by expanding their target market to include secondary buyers, like teenagers or busy moms. Smart move, I think you'll all agree; that's where they made their fortune. And that's what all of you ladies are gonna do. For next week's assignment, I
want you all to write out your matrix, and then figure out how you can expand it.'

By way of explanation, she whips out a red marker and starts drawing a chart on the whiteboard. It looks a bit like this:

My Type       Cast My Net Wider

Age

Profession

Background/education

Height/physique

Interests/hobbies

Personality type

Income

Marital status

 

‘From this day on, ladies,' she continues, ‘you
have
no type. I want you all to fill out this matrix and really give thought to the kind of guy who's
not
your type. Remember this is only an experiment, I'm not asking you to compromise yourselves in any way. All you're doing is learning to cast your net wider.'

Class has run way over time by now and eventually Ira wraps it up.

I purposely loiter behind, dying for a quick, private chat with her. Pretty soon, the room empties and I go for it. ‘Ira, I'm sure you're dying to get home, but could I have a minute of your time?'

‘Sure, honey, fire away.'

I find myself telling her all about
He-whose-name-shall-forever-remain-unspoken
, the unedited version, right the way up to his impending marriage and plans to move across the road from me. I don't even know why I'm telling her except that (
a
) I'm dying to know what she thinks and (
b
) in a million years, there's no way I'd be up to discussing this in front of the class.

Even Ira, with all her boundless energy, has to grab a seat for this one. ‘Wow, that's some tale,' she says, shaking her head.

‘I suppose I really just wanted to tell you that you were right,' I say. ‘You told me that when a man doesn't want to commit, all it means is that he doesn't want to commit to you. And you were right.'

‘You poor girl, I really feel bad for you,' she says. ‘I don't ever believe in putting men down, but what an asshole.'

‘Don't worry, that's mild. You should hear what my friends have to say about him.'

‘In all the time you were together, did you ever get signs that he wasn't for you?'

‘Honestly?'

‘Yes, honestly.'

‘Loads of them. So many signs, I've lost count,' I say, remembering things like the time he was to come to Spain with me for my dad's surprise seventieth birthday and let me down at the last minute (for
absolutely no good reason); the year he completely ignored Christmas; then there was one occasion when he was moody and rude to me at his friend's wedding where I knew absolutely no one … it's quite a list.

He was also someone who needed what I can only describe as the uninterrupted ego-massaging normally associated with heirs to the throne in ancient civilizations. You know: the type of guy who thinks that everything centres on him, at all times, always.

Funny how a bit of perspective from a failed relationship can make you feel like a total idiot. When I think what I put up with, in the name of love …

‘All I can say in my defence is that I really, honestly adored him. I thought he'd change and that I could make it work. Plus, if I have one talent, it's bashing square pegs into round holes.'

‘Never think you can change a man, sweetheart,' says Ira, kindly. ‘Biggest mistake you'll ever make. If you want my opinion …'

‘Yes, please.'

‘I think the best thing you can do is stick with this course. You have to stop dating dumb and learn to date smart. If you'd been in my class when this guy first started mistreating you, I'd have ordered you to dump him right there and then. There is no point in throwing good time after bad. Good luck to him and his bride-to-be. There's someone so much better out there for you and we are gonna find him and you, my dear,
are gonna have the happiest ending. Where I come from we have an old saying: “There is no Oz without Kansas.” '