Mr. Commitment (10 page)

My favorite dress

I
t 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.

I
t 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.

At Mel’s suggestion we had arranged to meet in the basement bar of a vaguely trendy Thai restaurant in Soho. I’d never been there before and to the best of my knowledge she hadn’t either. I remember at the time thinking that she’d done this on purpose—selecting somewhere unfamiliar to us both so that it would be free of associations. It was a smart move on her part because the suggestion on the tip of my tongue had been the bar, Freud, where it all began.

Mel had called me briefly at work in the afternoon to remind me that she could only meet me for an hour because she had other plans for later on in the evening. I’d said it wasn’t a problem even though it was. My confidence was running high now that she was meeting me, and I’d convinced myself that if I played my cards right, any plans she’d made for the night would be canceled to make room for a whole bunch of my own.

I arrived at the Paradise out of breath but with plenty of time to spare and so I headed downstairs to the bar, perched myself on a ridiculously high stool, bought a bottle of Michelob and sat staring up at the metal staircase expectantly.

When Mel arrived (fifteen minutes late), it was her legs that I saw first. She was wearing her short black sleeveless dress, my favorite dress, the one I’d always thought made her look perfect.

She greeted me with a kiss and sat down. “Hi, Duff.”

“Hi,” I said sheepishly, returning her kiss with a peck on the cheek followed by a hug to balance the lack of intimacy of the kiss. These were all delicate maneuvers that required a deftness of touch I wasn’t sure I possessed.

“You look great,” I said warmly.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You look a bit sweaty.”

I examined myself in the mirror behind the bar. Mel was right. I couldn’t have looked sweatier if I’d been in a sauna. All that running to get here on time had taken its toll on a body as unaccustomed to exercise as mine. I attempted to make myself look a little less flustered while she spoke to the barman. She ordered another beer for me and paused carefully before ordering a vodka and orange for herself.

Our conversation was nowhere near as stilted as it had been on the phone. In fact, after a while it was almost possible to forget that we weren’t a couple. We updated each other on the small but important details of our lives (I told her about work, recent gigs and last night’s
EastEnders,
while she told me about work, her flat and new bars and restaurants she’d been out to).

Mel really was pleased when I told her the news of Vernie’s pregnancy, and made me give her all the details that I knew. I told her she should go and see Vernie, but she smiled awkwardly and said she didn’t think she’d have the time because of work. It was a real shame that our not being together had to mean that she and Vernie couldn’t be friends. She asked me to send her love to Vernie and Charlie and made a note in her diary to send them both a card. She asked me about Dan, too, and I told her he was okay. I considered telling her about the wedding invitation from Meena, but reasoned it was a subject too close to home for us to be comfortable with. In the end, though, it cropped up in the conversation all by itself.

“I had a letter from Meena,” said Mel. “You know, Dan’s ex-girlfriend. You’ll never believe this, but she’s getting married.”

“I know,” I said warily. “She sent an invitation to Dan.”

“Oh,” she said ominously. “I suppose she has her reasons.” She paused. “Meena sent me an invitation, too, along with the letter. Well, actually it’s addressed to you and me. She didn’t know about us—”

“I think it must just be for you,” I interjected quickly, stopping her from finishing the sentence. “Meena was never exactly my biggest fan.”

“No,” she said, handing me the invitation. “You take it. It’s ages since I’ve seen Meena. I’ll just send a present or something in the post.”

I handed the invitation back to her. “Look, she’s inviting you because she likes you. My name’s only on the invitation because she’s being polite. Anyway, if Dan’s not going—which he isn’t—then I don’t think I should go either. Why don’t you and Julie go or something? You know how you love a good wedding—” I stopped, glaringly aware of my own stupidity. “I’m sorry . . . you know what I mean.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what you mean.”

The bar was beginning to fill up with after-work drinkers, so to help create a “groovy” ambience the barman dropped a tape into the cassette deck behind the bar. I was hoping it would be something inspirational to lift my mood, but instead through the speakers came one of those songs you recognize immediately because it’s played every thirty seconds on daytime radio.

“Mel,” I said, as the song reached its annoyingly catchy chorus, “it really means a lot to me that you could come today. I kept thinking that you must hate me and want me dead and all that. I just want you to know that I still love you—it wasn’t anything to do with you. What I mean is . . . it’s not that I couldn’t marry you. I couldn’t marry anyone . . .”

“Thanks,” she said bitterly. I desperately wished I’d left well alone.

“I don’t understand. Why are you taking this the wrong way? I want us to be friends. I need us to be friends.”

Mel emptied the contents of her glass in one smooth movement. “This is so typical of you, Duffy. Sometimes you’re so caught up in yourself that you don’t see anyone else’s needs. What about what I need? What makes you think that I’d want to be friends with you? Every meeting, every phone call a reminder that you’d rather live in”—she flicked through her internal phrase book for the perfect put-down—“the kennel of the unkempt with Dan than with me! I waited four years for you and I’ve got nothing to show for it. This isn’t a meeting of equals: it was
you
who didn’t want to marry
me.
”

I didn’t have a leg to stand on. It didn’t take any great insight to see that she was right. If the tables had been turned, there would be no way that I’d be sitting in some poncy bar that played terrible music, listening to Mel give me excuses why, although she loved me, she didn’t want to be with me until death did us part.

“I’ve done this all wrong,” I said.

“Yeah, you’ve got that right.” She sighed and ordered another beer for me and another vodka and orange for herself.

I tried to get us back on to safer ground by asking how Mark and Julie were getting on.

“They’re fine,” said Mel, sipping her drink slowly. “Mark’s been busy at work as usual. Julie’s busy, too, but she’s somehow managed to take up pottery classes after work. So far all she’s made are ashtrays. Well, they start out as vases and then end up as ashtrays. I’ve got five of the things!” She laughed, seeming to relax a little. “Do you want one?”

“A Watson original?” I said, laughing. “I’d love one.”
This is good,
I thought.
This is what we are about.
“Any other Mark and Julie news?”

She paused, sipped, and thought the question over. “They’ve decided that they’re definitely moving somewhere bigger next year. Hopefully in time for their wedding.” Mark and Julie were obsessed with moving house. In the time I’d known them they’d bought and renovated three houses. I think the plan was that as soon as prices in their corner of Shepherd’s Bush reached critical mass, they’d sell up and finally move to their spiritual homeland, Notting Hill Gate. “Oh, and they’re going to rent a villa in Tuscany at the start of August with a few friends. They’ve invited me along. I told them I didn’t fancy it, but Julie’s twisted my arm, so I just might take up the offer after all.”

She checked her watch. “It’s seven o’clock, Duff. I’m going to have to go.”

“Okay,” I said, sliding off the stool. I was disappointed that she hadn’t changed her mind, but I was sure it didn’t mean that I wasn’t in with a chance. The bar was now completely packed. We worked our way across the room and up the stairs, stepping out through the door into early evening sunshine.

“Okay then, Duff,” said Mel abruptly. “I’ll have to say goodbye now.”

“Off anywhere nice?”

“Just out with some friends,” she replied. “Which way are you going?”

“Leicester Square,” I said, having duly noted that her friends were now nameless.

“Listen,” said Mel, “I’m sorry I was horrible to you just now, about this being friends thing.”

“No. No, you weren’t,” I apologized. “It was nothing less than I deserved. Really.”

She smiled patiently. “This is still hard to deal with but I’m glad that you want us to be friends, because we are, aren’t we? I don’t want us just to drift apart, okay?”

This is it,
I thought.
The Moment.

She kissed me on the cheek and I gave her a hug and returned her kiss briefly. On the lips. It wasn’t a peck either. It was a full-on, pressure-filled “give-me-a-few-more-seconds-and-I’ll-be-playing-tennis-with-your-tonsils” snog. It was wrong of me, shallow and contemptible. My title was that of ex-boyfriend, and as such my kissing location was restricted to the cheek. Cheeks were for ex-boyfriends, acquaintances and relatives. Lips were for current boyfriends, close friends and stuffed animals. Those were the rules and I’d broken them.

Mel’s glare put me right within seconds. She pulled away awkwardly, opened her mouth about to share her thoughts with me on my behavior, but obviously thought better of it. Instead, she sighed as if I’d managed to disappoint her more than even she’d thought possible, and walked away.

Burdened with guilt I made my way down Wardour Street toward Leicester Square tube, but something—you could call it a sixth sense but I prefer to label it my sense of tragedy—made me look back just in time to see a black Saab convertible with the license plate ROB 1 pull up next to Mel. The car’s casually attired driver got out, greeted Mel, put his hands on either side of her waist and kissed her.

On the lips.

He wasn’t a close friend, otherwise I’d know him.