The Good Bride Guide Page 5

  Kids. Of course. I love kids. Except for those two little buggers who visit Mr Williams, the divorced dad in the flat upstairs, every other weekend, and seem to spend most of their time jumping around on the wood laminate floor that according to the lease he’s not supposed to have. Oh, and the unruly lot that my dad teaches, who he often mentions in the same breath as when he’s talking about bringing back capital punishment. But your own are different, aren’t they? Or at least, that’s what my dad always says, admittedly through gritted teeth.

  I stare at my piece of paper for a while, wondering why the ‘married’ column is so much harder to fill up than the ‘single’ one, and I’m on my fifth HobNob when it hits me – someone to love. The one item on the list that makes everything else irrelevant because it’s so important, and at the same time, means I was wrong last night, and that it isn’t me. Because the thing about being married is that you’ve got someone to love.

  And the more I think about it, the more I realize that that’s all I want. Because up till now, that’s been the problem – what’s missing from every relationship I’ve had. And while that realization is a relief, because it explains why I didn’t want to move things on to the next level, I also find it quite shocking that in thirty years, I’ve never actually said those three little words to anyone – apart from a member of my immediate family, that is – and meant them.

  I have said them, you understand. To Amy, for instance. And it’s not that I was lying at the time. For example, I love HobNobs, but I can certainly live without them – especially when I’ve got a packet of those Fox’s super-chocolatey biscuits in the cupboard. So in actual fact, when I told Amy I loved her, I wasn’t lying, because I did – even though there weren’t any Fox’s in reserve, so to speak. But I realize now that I loved her in the HobNob sense, rather than being in actual, literal, romantic love, whatever that is. And that’s fundamentally why, when she gave me her ultimatum, we split up. Because loving someone like you love a biscuit is really not the soundest basis for a marriage.

  Desperately, I do a mental run-through of my previous girlfriends, trying to think of someone, but the sad fact is that there’s no one I’ve ever dated who’s made me feel how I imagine love should feel. Sure, I’ve missed a few of them when we’ve been apart, or been eager to see them at times, although that’s usually been for other things, like sex, or because I’ve been looking forward to seeing a particular film we’d planned to go to together, and, well, just sex, really. But even though I search as far back as I can remember, there’s no one who’s really made my heart go, well, whatever hearts go like when you’re in love. And all of a sudden, that strikes me as the most depressing thing in the world. With a shake of my head, I crumple my sheet of paper into a ball and throw it towards the bin in the corner. And miss.

  Oh well. There’s nothing for it but to get on with my day, I decide, but to be honest, by the time I’ve finished the paper, a couple more HobNobs, had a shower, then checked through the Saturday TV listings, it’s still only lunchtime, and this ‘celebrate your single status’ lark has started to get pretty boring. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m craving any company, let alone female.

  I can hardly phone Ash – he and Priti are probably busy working out what the names of their kids are going to be – and by one o’clock I’m starting to run out of options. Seeing as there’s no food in the fridge, and I can’t be bothered to trudge round Tesco, there’s only one thing for it. One place where I’m guaranteed a warm welcome. And where there’s a good possibility that I’ll get fed too.

  Chapter 6

  As I walk in through the kitchen door, my mum looks round from where she’s unloading the dishwasher. ‘Don’t tell me it’s lunchtime already?’

  I look at my watch as innocently as I can, relieved that I remembered to put it on after my shower. ‘Is it?’

  As I shut the door behind me, she peers over my shoulder. ‘On your own today?’

  There are a hundred answers to that question, but I settle for a simple ‘Yes, Mum.’ I love my mother to death, but the disappointment in her voice whenever I admit that I’m not getting married, and therefore not presenting her with grandchildren yet, is getting a little hard to bear. Which is probably why I haven’t told her that Amy and I have split up yet. ‘Where’s Dad?’ I say, deciding that there’s no time like the present. Plus, I might get some sympathy food too.

  My mum shrugs. ‘Probably outside in his shed. Though God knows what it is he does in there.’

  She always says this, and I know the answer. He doesn’t actually ‘do’ anything in there, apart from tidy it up, or sort out his toolbox. But the real reason he goes out there is to get away from her. Not that my mother needs to be got away from – in fact, both of them would be lost if they had to spend more than a day apart. It’s just that my dad, like most people, occasionally needs his own space. And it’s ironic that in this rather large four-bedroom house that he’s worked all his life to pay for, the space he’s chosen is a draughty eight-by-six wooden construction at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘It’s just, well, I wanted to tell you something. Both of you.’

  My mother freezes, then drops the pan she’s been wiping into the sink with a loud clang and rushes out into the garden. I walk over to the kitchen window just in time to see her hurry down the path and almost drag my dad bodily out of the shed, silencing his protests with a kiss, before escorting him smartly into the kitchen a few moments later. They’ve been married for almost thirty years, and yet sometimes their relationship seems so fresh, so much fun, that you’d be forgiven for thinking that it had only been thirty minutes.

  As she closes the door behind him, he gives me a long-suffering smile. ‘How’s my favourite offspring?’

  ‘Dad, I’m your only offspring. So that’s not much of a compliment, is it?’

  ‘Sorry, son,’ he says, ruffling the hair on the top of my head as if I’m about five years old. For some reason, my dad never calls me by my name, as if perhaps ‘Ben’ wasn’t his first choice all those years ago, and therefore he refuses to acknowledge it. But then again, he usually refers to my mother as ‘your mum’, so I suppose I shouldn’t take it personally. ‘Your mum says you’ve got some sort of announcement to make?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s to do with Amy. We’ve, well . . .’ I glance at my mother’s face, trying to ignore the look of expectation, as if she’s hoping I’m going to say that we’re engaged. ‘We’ve decided to go our separate ways.’

  ‘Oh, Ben, how could you?’ My mum pulls out a chair and slumps down at the kitchen table, and I immediately feel guilty.

  ‘Who’s decided?’ asks my dad, sitting down next to her, and beckoning for me to follow suit. ‘You? Amy? Or was it one of those “mutual” decisions you keep having forced upon you?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, she decided,’ I say, wondering whether to try explaining the circumstances of our parting. ‘She wanted us to think about getting married.’

  ‘Think about?’ asks my dad. ‘Or actually get married.’

  ‘Well, both, I suppose.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to get married?’ says my mum accusingly.

  ‘I did. I mean, I do. Desperately. I just wasn’t sure whether I did to Amy.’

  ‘So this parting of the ways was your fault again?’ says my mum crossly. She’s always really liked Amy, so it comes out as more of an accusation than a question.

  ‘You’ll be the death of me, you know?’

  ‘It’s no one’s fault,’ says my dad, leaping to my defence. ‘Sometimes these things just happen.’

  My mum doesn’t look entirely convinced. ‘Well, why do they always happen to Ben?’

  My dad and I stare at each other, unsure who that question is actually directed to. ‘I don’t know, Mum. And thanks for your support, Dad, but maybe Mum’s right.’

  She looks surprised. ‘I am?’

  ‘Well, maybe. I mean, not necessarily about me
and Amy, but generally. I’m starting to think it’s all my fault.’

  She frowns. ‘What is?’

  ‘The reason I’m not married yet,’ I say, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asks my dad.

  I take a deep breath, and try to explain. ‘Well, you know how I’ve had rather a lot of girlfriends? And none of them have really, er, done it for me.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my dad smirk. ‘That must have been frustrating.’

  ‘Not like that,’ I say, as my mum tuts at him. ‘You know what I mean. So I’m just starting to worry that I might be . . .’ My mouth goes a little bit dry, and the two of them exchange worried glances.

  ‘Go on, son,’ says my dad.

  ‘Well, I think that possibly I’m . . .’

  ‘What?’ says my mum, desperately.

  ‘I don’t know. G . . .’ My voice cracks a little after the first letter, but before I can clear my throat and finish the sentence, my mother leaps out of her chair and rushes round to my side of the table.

  ‘Oh, Ben,’ she says, enveloping me in a huge hug.

  ‘Get off him, woman,’ says my dad. ‘What were you going to say, son?’

  ‘Going about this relationship lark the wrong way,’ I say, attempting to prise my mum’s arms from around my neck, but she refuses to let go, and in fact, squeezes me even harder.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she sniffs, finally letting go of me. ‘I thought you were going to tell us that you were, you know, gay. Which would have been fine, of course.’ Although they’re distinctly middle-aged, my mum and dad are not at all stuck in the Middle Ages when it comes to, well, modern life, and thinking about it, my mum’s only objection to me being gay would be the grandchildren issue.

  My dad smiles. ‘In what way, son?’

  I shrug again. ‘I dunno, really. I just kind of thought that I might have been, you know, doing it all wrong.’

  My mum frowns at my dad. ‘Alan, I told you we should have had that birds and bees conversation with him, and not just left him to his own devices. I mean, I know we let you keep that stack of magazines under your bed when you were a teenager, Ben, but those weren’t real women.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ jokes my dad, as I try to stop myself from blushing furiously. ‘But if you wanted some tips in the bedroom department, then of course. Happy to offer my fatherly advice.’ My dad always refers to sex as ‘in the bedroom department’, and I wish he wouldn’t. In fact, I’d actually rather he didn’t refer to it at all. He nods towards the tray of sausage rolls that are visible through the glass oven door. ‘Although perhaps best wait until after we’ve eaten, though.’

  I stare at the two of them for a couple of seconds before what they’ve said actually sinks in. ‘No. Not that. God no. Eurgh. I know what I’m doing in, er, that department, rest assured.’

  My mum smiles sympathetically, and sits down next to me. ‘Are you sure, Ben? Because it’s very important. I mean, one of the things that first attracted me to your father was his ability to . . .’

  ‘Mum, please!’ I shudder. ‘It’s not that at all. I just mean, well . . .’ This is harder to explain than I first thought. ‘You know how I changed my position recently?’

  She folds her arms. ‘If it’s positions you’re worried about, Ben, then your dad’s got this book that . . .’

  ‘Mum, for the last time, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about relationships.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, standing up abruptly. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, then.’ We’re not one of those families who talk about this kind of stuff very often, but whenever we do, my mum always likes us to be drinking tea.

  ‘I mean, I’ve probably gone out with most of the eligible women my age in Margate . . .’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ interrupts my dad, proudly.

  ‘. . . and not found one who I’ve wanted to settle down with. Or who’s wanted to settle down with me.’

  ‘Ah,’ says my dad, a little less proudly.

  ‘Except for Amy,’ says my mum, removing three mugs from the mug tree and banging them down noisily on the granite work surface.

  ‘But that’s the real irony. The one who did want to marry me also wanted me to go back to being something that I’m not. And I wasn’t prepared to compromise.’ I shake my head slowly. ‘Which is why I’m starting to think my whole approach is wrong.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ My dad laughs. ‘You just need to show them who’s boss,’ he says, slapping my mum on the backside as she walks past him.

  ‘Dad, I worked with Amy for over a year. She’s pretty . . . Formidable. Even her actual boss can’t show her who’s boss.’

  He smiles. ‘Son, you just have to be a man about it. Leave them in no doubt as to who wears the trousers. Isn’t that right, Sue?’

  My mum and I exchange glances. We both know who actually runs their relationship, and it’s certainly not my dad, even though she lets him think he does – which I suspect is a rather clever ruse.

  I sigh. ‘But that’s the problem.’

  My dad frowns. ‘How is it a problem?’

  ‘Quiet, Alan,’ says my mum. ‘Let Ben explain.’

  As my dad shuts up obediently, I try to put it into words. ‘What you just said. “Be a man about it”. I’m not sure I know what that means any more.’

  My dad opens his mouth to answer, but my mum shushes him again. ‘Go on, Ben.’

  ‘Well, back when you and Dad got married, the roles were pretty clearly defined, weren’t they? The man went out to work, while the woman looked after the house and the children. And sure, women could maybe do a bit of part-time work, but fundamentally, they knew what their real “job” was, and that arrangement worked.’

  My dad shrugs. ‘So, what’s your point?’

  ‘My point, Dad, is that nowadays, that’s all changed. Women have careers. Ambitions. Higher aspirations than maybe just being “her indoors”. And that’s great. But the trouble is, it also means their expectations for us are different too.’

  As I say this, I wonder if I’m talking about men and women in general, or just me and Amy. Because that was always one of the issues I had with her, or rather, she had with me. She loved her job, and could never quite understand why I’d given mine up to follow this ‘pipe dream’ – her words – of mine to become an artist.

  ‘It’s not so different,’ argues my dad. ‘I mean, your mum’s got a career, and we’re from a different generation.’ As well as my dad teaching, my mum works part-time in You’ve Been Framed, the picture framing shop on the High Street. Which is handy for me, of course.

  ‘Mum’s got a job, Dad, which she’s only been doing since I left home. And no offence, Mum, but it’s not the same thing.’

  ‘None taken, Ben,’ she says, fetching a packet of PG Tips from the cupboard and dropping three teabags into the teapot.

  ‘But I’d have been happy if she’d wanted one,’ says my dad defensively. ‘After all, men are perfectly capable of raising children.’

  ‘Oh, are they?’ interrupts my mum. ‘Not in your case, they’re not.’

  My dad looks like he’s about to answer her, then evidently thinks better of it, as he knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. On the odd occasion growing up, when Mum was ill, or away visiting sick relatives or something, I’d come home from school, and Dad would be standing cluelessly in the kitchen, wondering exactly which pan to use to make the only thing he knew how to make for dinner. And while his omelettes always tasted good, that was because he’d made them, not because they were particularly light, or fluffy, or even eggy, come to think of it. But that was just the way it was back then. Because men knew their place. And people made allowances because of that. So while I’m pretty sure that if you asked my dad whether he’d be happy that a wife of his had a career, and of course he’d say yes, he’d still have expected his dinner to be on the table when he got home from his.

  ‘So why does that make a difference, son?’ asks
my dad.

  ‘Because the problem is, women aren’t quite sure exactly how to behave with this new-found liberty themselves, and because – if we know what’s good for us – we follow their lead, then we sure as hell aren’t. And that’s what makes relationships so difficult.’

  My mum stands up and shakes her head. ‘But surely all a woman can ask for in a man is someone who’ll be a good husband and a father?’ she says, resting a hand on my dad’s shoulder.

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But nowadays, tell a woman that that’s your biggest ambition and she won’t look twice at you, or even worse, she’ll probably castigate you for not wanting to be some captain of industry, even though underneath it all, that’s what she wants for you too. Would you have wanted Dad to be some high-powered businessman instead of a teacher, if it had meant he’d miss out on seeing his child grow up, and didn’t see much of you either?’

  ‘Of course not,’ admits my mum, walking over to the oven and removing the tray of sausage rolls. ‘Although the money would have been nice.’

  ‘But that’s because the relationship’s what it’s all about,’ says my dad, smarting a little at the ‘money’ comment. ‘The family. And out of that comes everything else.’

  ‘But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It doesn’t work like that any more. Try and chat up a woman nowadays, and if you’re not a “new man”, who’s just as happy running a multinational company as he is wearing a sarong, they don’t want to know. Or even worse, if they do agree to go out with you, they spend the whole relationship trying to turn you into that. So the fact that I don’t have a high-paying job any more, or a flash car . . .’ I stop talking and look at them both helplessly. ‘Maybe it’s me. Maybe I have just been going out with the wrong kind of women. Or maybe, by giving “it” all up to become an artist, I’ve actually gone and painted myself into a corner.’

  ‘Never mind, Ben,’ says my mum, pouring some hot water into the teapot. ‘You’ll soon meet someone else.’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening to anything that I’ve said? It’s tough out there. Particularly for someone like me. Someone who’s a little . . . Unconventional. I used to be sure there’d be someone out there who’d let me be me, but now I’m not so sure. And to be honest, I’m starting to feel too tired to keep on looking.’