His 'n' Hers (13 page)

‘I was just looking at you in that get-up,’ I confess, ‘and well . . .’

Alison laughs and comes round from behind the table to kiss me. ‘Just remember that if this kind of thing happens in your real interview you’re a dead man.’

Outside the phone-box the minicab driver I’ve asked to wait for me beeps the horn.

‘Where to, mate?’ he asks, when I get into the back of his car.

‘I know it’s Christmas Eve,’ I begin, ‘but how much would you charge to take me to drop a parcel in Norwich tonight?’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Absolutely not.’

He thinks for a minute, then quotes me a price that he probably thinks is so ridiculous I’ll change my mind. Without hesitating, I reply, ‘It’s a deal.’ Frankie the cab driver and I go to the nearest cashpoint where I take out the money and hand it to him. We then drop round to my parents’ house to get the present and proceed to make the six-hour round trip to Alison’s parents’ front door. When I reach Alison’s I think about knocking on the door but I don’t. Instead I open the porch door and leave it on the welcome mat. As I carefully shut it it occurs to me that it’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to being Father Christmas.

Alison and I are at a houseparty in Moseley, surrounded by all of our friends. Everyone is counting down to the new year. When we reach zero everyone shouts at the top of their voices.

‘Happy new year,’ I say to Alison, as I put my arms around her.

‘Happy new year to you too.’

‘Any new-year resolutions?’

‘I think I’m going to take up smoking again,’ she says. ‘Someone needs to try to balance the number of people who are always giving up. Think about the cigarette manufacturers. We can’t have them going out of business. What about you?’

‘Only the one.’

‘What is it?’

‘To be nicer to you. I know I’ve neglected you a bit recently—’

‘You haven’t.’

‘I have. And you know it. I just want you to know that I’ll make things right.’

‘Well, I’ll try hard too,’ she says. ‘I really do think this is going to be our year.’

It’s a couple of weeks into the new year and Alison has just come over to my place for something to eat. She’s sitting at the table in the kitchen watching me cook one of my only recipes: Jim Owen’s World Famous Vegetarian Cottage Pie (which is essentially the same as Jim Owen’s World Famous Normal Cottage Pie, sans meat).

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ says Alison, reaching into her bag.

‘Whatever anniversary you’re celebrating, babe, not only have I forgotten but I haven’t bought you anything.’

She laughs and her eyes flit briefly to the present in her hand. Her face changes but only for a moment. It’s a look that’s excited and apprehensive at the same time. She hands me a small parcel and I take off the wrapping paper to reveal one of those small cereal boxes you get in variety packs. The label on the box says ‘Coco Pops’. I give it a shake. It jingles. I look at Alison for clarification.

‘It’s a set of keys,’ she says.

‘A set of keys to where?’

‘To mine,’ she says sheepishly.

I take them out of the box and look at them. ‘A key exchange? You do know what this means, don’t you?’

‘Apart from you not having to throw stones at my window when you’ve been to the pub and think you’ll be able to get lucky?’

‘This means you won’t ever be able to get away from me even when you might want to.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘But I can’t think of a situation when I’ll want to get away from you.’

I dig in my pocket, pull out my keys and hand them to her. ‘Fair’s fair,’ I tell her. ‘Now neither of us will have anywhere to hide.’

It’s Valentine’s Day. I receive two cards in the post:

1. A picture of a single rose – inside, in Alison’s handwriting, it reads, ‘Dear Jim, Happy Valentine’s Day. Loving you has made my life sweeter than ever. All my love Alison.’

2. A cartoon drawing of two kittens kissing – inside, in Alison’s handwriting, it reads, ‘Dear man with the can-opener, have a puuurr-fectly happy Valentine’s Day. Thanks for all the Whiskas, feline love, Disco.’

I’m sitting in Alison’s kitchen minding my own business when she comes in, looking pensive.

‘Jim?’

‘Yeah?’ I respond, a forkful of beans on toast hovering in front of my lips.

‘What are you doing two weekends from now?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve got to see my mum and dad.’

I shovel the beans into my mouth and wonder why she considers this information worthy of disturbing my dinner. ‘That’s nice,’ I say, chewing. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’

‘Well, hopefully you won’t.’

‘You’ve got no worries there, babe,’ I reassure her. ‘I’ll definitely miss you.’

‘No, you’re not getting me,’ says Alison. ‘I’m hoping you won’t miss me because I want you to come with me.’

I put down my fork in an attempt to add gravitas to what I’m about to say. My action says: Look, I have put down my eating implements. I am not messing about. ‘That’s sweet, Al, but I don’t really do parents.’

‘I know it’s asking a massive favour,’ pleads Alison, ‘but they’ve specifically asked to meet you.’

‘No offence, Al, but your parents have always sounded a bit high-maintenance.’

‘They are,’ says Alison. ‘One hundred and ten per cent. And now they want to meet you. And I know for a fact that they won’t take no for an answer because I’ve tried. So, what do you say?’

I think for a moment and then respond. ‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘I mean, no. As in “Thank you for inviting me to your parents’ for the weekend but I don’t want to go.” That kind of no.’

‘But you can’t just say no like that. I’m your girlfriend.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have just said, “No.” What I should’ve said is, “No, sweetheart.”’

‘That doesn’t make it any better,’ says Alison, exasperatedly.

‘Well, you tell me how I can say no and have you accept it and I’ll say it.’

‘But why?’

‘I’m just not very good at it.’

‘What?’

‘Meeting parents.’

‘Of course you are.’

‘No, I’m not. Every time I’ve met girlfriends’ parents it’s gone terribly.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m not joking. Samantha Gough’s parents invited me for dinner. Her dad didn’t say a single word and just glared at me across the table. Natalie Moore’s parents invited me to their holiday cottage in south Wales for the weekend and her mum got drunk and tried it on with me. And, worst of all, I met Christine Taylor’s parents one evening when I went round to pick up their daughter for a night out. They were nice enough until we were just about to go and her father shook my hand and I could feel he was holding something in the palm of his hand which ended up in mine.’

‘What was it?’

‘Have a guess. They usually come in threes but he’d just given me the one.’

‘No!’ exclaims Alison. Her laughter fills the room.

‘Yes, and on top of that, he whispered, “If you can’t be good, be careful.” It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was fourteen and it was the first time I’d ever been out with her. I’m telling you, I’m cursed.’

Despite my protests Alison refuses to take no for an answer. Instead she badgers me until I have no choice but to give in. It occurs to me that, of all the early stages of a relationship, for me meeting a girlfriend’s parents is right up there at the top of the list of ‘Things that I’d Much Rather Not Do If I Had the Choice’. The fact is, however, that I don’t really get the choice. As she says, I’ve got away with it for long enough.

I’m going to have to go.

And from the moment I agree to go Alison begins briefing me on her parents as if she’s planning a military operation (which, in many ways, she is). I’m informed of what to do, what not to do, and what will be expected of me. And if that’s not enough, I’m tested on a daily basis.

‘What is the number-one topic of conversation that is absolutely off-limits?’ she asks me first thing in the morning right after what we currently refer to as the Sunday Roll in the Hay.

‘The general topic of politics,’ I say carefully.

‘Correct,’ says Alison. ‘And what about politics specifically?’

‘The Labour Party since 1979?’

‘Not bad,’ she says coolly. ‘Not bad at all.’