Mr. Commitment (9 page)

“It’s like that joke,” Dan replied languidly. “Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?”

“Dunno,” said Greg.

“Because it was dead.” He paused for a moment, letting the punch line soak in. “Why did the second monkey fall out of the tree?”

“Dunno,” repeated Greg self-consciously.

“Because he thought it was a new game and didn’t want to be left out.”

“And your point is?” said Greg, the only one of us not laughing.

“Well, this one here’s already married.” Dan pointed to Charlie. “This one here’s getting married.” He pointed to me. “It was only going to be a matter of time before another monkey thought it was a good idea, and it’s not exactly going to be me, is it?”

“Are you calling me a monkey?” said Greg, working himself up to a point beyond indignation but just outside anger.

“No, Greg. I’m not,” said Dan, deflating a potentially combative situation. He’d drunk too much and Greg’s presence was bringing out the more antagonistic side of his nature. He offered his hand in congratulation. “I’m pleased for you, mate.”

“Cheers,” said Greg, shaking Dan’s hand warily.

“Married, eh?” said Charlie, offering Greg a handful of dry-roasted peanuts. “When did you ask her?”

“Last night,” said Greg, accepting the peanuts. “I’d been thinking about it for a while now and I just thought why not?” He turned to me. “How about a double wedding, then? You and me, Anne and Mel. It’ll cut costs in half!”

I didn’t laugh. I didn’t grin. I didn’t even shrug my shoulders. I didn’t do any of the things I was supposed to do. Instead I cried. Big fat tears by the bucketload. Everybody has a few really embarrassing moments in their lives. Well, I decided to have all mine and somebody else’s right there in the pub. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried. Mel used to joke that I’d had my tear ducts removed, but the truth is, I think I just forgot how to. And now she had reminded me.

No one spoke. Instead they stared emptily into their pints. I think even the jukebox stopped playing, although that could’ve been my overactive imagination. I’d let myself down. Badly. There was a time and place for emotions and this wasn’t either of them. Not here in a bar, with my mates watching me like I was some sort of freak show, and not now over Mel. All my tears did was point out the obvious—that whatever I did to avoid or escape it, real life would ultimately rear its ugly head. Everyone around the table knew real life existed—we also knew that was why after Stone Age man invented the wheel, the very next thing he did was invent the pub.

After some moments of awkward silence so painful that I strongly believe they’ll scar me for my duration on this planet I reasoned that perhaps I owed my friends an explanation, which would perhaps make me feel better but would without a doubt only serve to make the situation worse. “Mel and I have split up,” I confessed. “She said I wasn’t sure about getting married. Which is true. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love her . . .” Overcome with emotion I failed to finish the sentence. The heavy sense of despair that had been bearing down on my shoulders since this morning finally crushed me. “My life has turned to arse. Somebody, anybody, tell me how to be sure.”

There was a huge silence. A tall, wiry-looking bar man with spiky blond hair came over and collected our empty glasses. I wiped my eyes and attempted to clear the snot from my sinuses. Still no one uttered a single word.

A few moments passed and then as if he’d just woken up Charlie said quietly, “Vernie’s pregnant. She told me yesterday at that restaurant she took me to. I knew something was up. We never go out for posh meals without a reason . . . I thought I was ready . . . I thought I’d get used to the idea but I haven’t and now it’s happened I . . . I don’t want to be a dad.”

Silence.

Dan coughed loudly and we all looked at him. “You all know about Meena’s wedding invitation. Well, last night, as I sat chatting up that girl I met after my gig even though I knew my heart wasn’t in it, it dawned on me that I made the biggest mistake of my life splitting up with Meena. I think she was . . . you know . . . The One.”

We all exchanged glances and then stared at our pints and then at our laps and nobody said a word.

After a few minutes of contemplative silence, Greg sniffed nervously, lit up a Silk Cut and offered them round the table. We all took one, waiting to hear whether he too had had a shock revelation that would gain him membership to the inaugural meeting of Emotional Losers Anonymous.

“Right,” he said, settling down in his seat and holding his cigarette nervously, “did anyone see that Lassie film last night?”

I am committed to
non-commitment.

—Federico Fellini

Exchange emotional CVs

I
n 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.

W
e 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.