Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (25 page)

Politeness prevents me from contradicting him, but this is the only time that what he's saying sounds like complete and utter psychobabble.

Apart from that one blip, Simon comes across as saner than I am myself and certainly an awful lot lower maintenance than most of the actors I have to work with on
Celtic Tigers
. In fact, we're getting on better now than we ever did when we were dating.

Another comfortable silence.

‘Now it's my turn to ask
you
something, Amelia,' he says. ‘Is that OK?'

‘Sure.'

‘Are you with anyone at the moment?'

Now, ordinarily, a direct question like that immediately has me groping for a good, fat lie such as, ‘I just came out of something long-term and I
really
want to be on my own for a bit,' or, quoting Rachel, ‘What people don't realize is how fantastic it is being single. I'm having the time of my life right now,' but somehow, with Simon, I just can't bring myself to tell such
blatant whoppers. He's been honest with me; the least I can do is be honest back.

‘Yes, I'm single,' I answer simply.

‘So why aren't you married? I think it's fairly obvious why I'm not, unless there's some nice bipolar manic depressive in ward five that would do me, but there are guys out there who'd kill to be with someone like you.'

‘It's not for the want of trying on my part, let me tell you. But at this stage, even my mother has given up asking why there's no man on the scene. She keeps saying things like, “Cheer up, Amelia. Look at Condoleeza Rice. There's a great example of what a woman can achieve if she stays on her own.” She even sent me an article about having your eggs frozen. I don't think it's exactly what she and poor old dad had planned for me; their only hope of ever having grandchildren stuck in a deep freeze somewhere.'

He laughs again. ‘Oh God, you have no idea how good it is to talk to someone who doesn't speak to me in a special-needs voice. So …'

‘So?'

‘So would it be terrible if you and I had a drink sometime? When I'm back home again?'

I look at him fondly. No, it wouldn't be so terrible to see him again at all. He's changed so much over the years since I knew him; he's almost like a different person.

‘I'd really like that. Thanks.'

‘Great. I've a lovely pagan altar in my flat, strewn with human remains. You'd love it. We could watch a movie, drink blood from skulls … Gotcha! You are so gullible.'

Now I'm laughing with him. ‘You messer! For a minute there I thought you were going to start rearranging all my clothes again.'

‘I told you, my days of controlling women are long past.'

Yet another comfortable silence. It's really great how unembarrassed he is by the whole situation. And after all, I remind myself, what's to be embarrassed about? He had a bit of a breakdown and came here to get well.

I can't help smiling, though. Just wait till tonight and my next class with Ira Vandergelder. I came to a psychiatric home to visit my ex-boyfriend and ended up leaving with the promise of a date. Now if that's not getting out of my matrix, what is?

Just then, a doctor comes round the corner, white coat flapping in the breeze, and sits down beside us.

‘Hey! Doc Simpson, how's it going?' says Simon, introducing me. ‘This is an old girlfriend of mine, who … well, who hasn't given up on me.'

I smile and shake hands. Dr Simpson is mid-fifties, I'm guessing, grey-haired and sallow-skinned, with warm, friendly eyes, the type who could almost have come from central casting if you were looking for a kindly, twinkly-eyed doctor.

‘Yes, Simon,' he says, ‘I heard you had a visitor. That's why I'm here.' Then, turning to me, he says, ‘It's very good of you to come. I hate to interrupt, but do you think I could have a quick word with you in private?'

I'm a bit surprised at this and Simon looks … well, put out, but waits on the bench as Dr Simpson leads me down the path and towards a rockery, well out of earshot. ‘Please don't think me rude, Amelia,' he says, ‘but why exactly did you come here?'

Oh dear. If I tell him the truth, I'm half afraid he'll lock me up in the women's ward and throw away the key. I'm fumbling around for a good lie when Dr Simpson interrupts me.

‘I don't want you to misinterpret my question, it's just that we're at quite a critical stage in Simon's treatment, you see. It's wonderful for him to have a friend who'll come to see him, but what I need to know is: do you plan on coming to visit regularly?'

‘Oh, well … I suppose …'

‘Let me explain. Simon is in a place where he needs routine and recurrent patterns in all external stimuli around him.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘What I mean is, if you're planning on visiting him on a regular basis, then we need to set up a weekly meeting slot for you. That way, he knows you're coming, he knows to expect you and in time he will
grow to trust the fact that there are people out there who won't let him down. From Simon's point of view, the worst thing you could do is come and see him a couple of times and then not return. Giving up on him could set his recovery back months. Of course, no one is forcing you to keep up regular visits; if you never want to return after today, that's absolutely fine. My concern, you understand, is with my patient and his wellbeing. I'm only looking out for him.'

I think for a second. Simon has changed so much since I knew him, I've actually
enjoyed
meeting up with him again. Of course I want him to get well. And I'm delighted he's asked me out. And if it means coming to see him regularly every week, that's fine by me. It's the very least I can do, isn't it?

‘I'd be delighted to come back again, doctor,' I say. ‘I'm sure I can set up a weekly time slot with you. Lunchtimes are good during the week, or I could come at weekends if you feel that would be better for Simon?'

‘Well done,' he says, looking at me with what I can only describe as admiration. ‘That's wonderful news. I'll let you get back to Simon, but perhaps you could come by my office before you leave? I'll need to sort out a visitor's pass for you.'

‘Of course,' I say as we stroll back to where Simon is still sitting on the park bench, smoking.

I shake hands with Dr Simpson and sit back down again.

‘It was nice to meet you,' he says.

‘And you.'

‘My office is on the second floor. Just ask at reception and they'll direct you,' he says, going back inside.

I glance down at my watch. Almost two-thirty p.m.

‘Sorry about this Simon,' I say, ‘but I'm going to have to get back to work. I've a meeting with the finance director at three, so—'

‘So you're going upstairs to see your boyfriend then, are you?'

‘
What
did you say?'

‘I saw you. You were flirting with Simpson. Practically threw yourself at him.' His tone has totally changed. Now he sounds cutting, intense,
scary.

‘Simon? He was asking me about you. He wanted me to come and see you regularly, that's all.'

‘One minute you agree to go out with me; the next you're hitting on my doctor. Even making arrangements to go up to his office to see him privately. What kind of person are you, Amelia? What kind of person does that?'

OK, now I'm actually frightened. ‘Let's just clear this up right now,' I say, trying to sound calm and measured. ‘All I was doing was—'

‘You were nothing but a slut when I knew you and you still haven't changed. Bet you're sleeping with him, aren't you?'

I'm late for class and I hate being late for class. Not my fault. Well, not entirely. Firstly, a production meeting I had with Janet Taylor, the set designer on
Celtic Tigers
, ran way over time. (We were sitting in the canteen, poring over the preliminary sketches for this new family that are about to join the show, the Duffys. More anon.) Janet's great, dead easy to work with and a real pro. The set designs are absolutely spot-on; they hit just the right balance between interior-designed tastefulness and nouveau riche.

I was in the middle of throwing in my two cents' worth when I realized that it was after eight p.m. ‘Janet, would you mind if we took this from here in the morning?' I asked, frantically packing up my things.

‘Sure, of course … what's the mad rush?'

I'm sure I must look like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. ‘It's … emm … it's a long story … Emm … let's just say I have to be somewhere.'

‘Say no more, Amelia.' She grins at me. ‘Dark horse, aren't you?'

‘What?'

‘You can't fool me. You've got a fella, haven't you?'

‘I'm neither confirming nor denying …' I laugh, doing a really crap impersonation of a government minister.

‘Oh, spare me the current affairs spiel. Just go and enjoy yourself. And if he happens to have any single mates, let me know. See you bright and early.'

Then, as I'm driving down the motorway to UCD, my mobile rings. It's not a number I recognize, so I let the machine take it.

Damien Delaney.

Shit.

I'd almost forgotten about him. I play back the message.

‘Hello, Amelia dear. It's Damien here. Just wondered if we could have tea soon? I've told Mummy all about you and she's so looking forward to meeting you. Do give me a call. Take care now, and God bless.'

Instantly, I think:
Oh no! Do I have to?
Then I remember I promised Caroline I'd give him a whirl. A proper whirl. Double shit. I really, really,
really
don't want to call him back. An image of me in my Vera Wang with my headless groom comes back. Don't I want to be married within the year? I ask myself sternly. Yes, that's the whole point.

Brainwave. I'll text him.

Then I think he's probably too old to understand about texting – and I do have a clear recollection of him complaining about how he's not able to read small print on menus and contracts and stuff like that any more. Then I banish that thought on the grounds that it's mean and it's like the trivial kind of thing I'd slag Jamie off for saying. Then I realize I've already missed half the class and I'd better get a bloody move on or I'll miss the whole thing.

I save his voice message though. If Ira gives me a hard time about not getting out of my dating matrix, I'll play this back to her as proof.

I make my way to the classroom, slip inside and look around for a free seat, trying not to draw any attention to myself. Ira waves at me and so does Mags, who's saved me a seat beside her.

‘Thanks a million,' I mouth at her.

‘I was afraid you weren't coming,' she hisses back at me. ‘We could all do with a good laugh.'

As usual, everyone is battling to get their stories out and the snippets of conversation I'm overhearing make me doubly furious with myself for being late.

‘… meeting up with my ex made me realize that, to paraphrase Princess Diana, there were three of us in this relationship. Me, him and the television …'

‘… dating after thirty-five is such a high-stakes
game, they can practically
smell
the wedding seating plan from you …'

‘… my ex said to me, “There are a million reasons why you could have dumped me, so which one did you pick?” '

‘… for God's sake, his name was Travis. Well, I now learned a new rule. It's probably not a good idea to go out with anyone whose name is Travis …'

‘… I really don't know what to do here, Ira. Let's face it, my plan of waiting until divorcees came back on to the market again has been a spectacular failure …'

By the end of it all, my neck is sore from nodding in agreement.

Funny, I think, how we see other people's stuff with such clarity, it's just our own that gets a bit foggy. You should just see these women. They're all lovely. There's absolutely nothing wrong with any of them, they've just made bad choices over the years, and now time is running out and we're all getting panicky.

Right, that's it. I'm ringing Damien Delaney straight after class. And I'll do the afternoon tea thing with his mother and I'll be on my best behaviour and not curse or anything in front of her.

Or introduce her to either Jamie or Rachel and their bad talk. Could you imagine if the poor woman had a heart attack and it was all my fault?

‘Amelia? Would you care to join us?' Ira's peering
over her glasses at me and suddenly I'm aware of how quiet the class has gone.

‘Ehh … sorry?'

‘You had drifted off there. I was asking you how you'd progressed this week.'

They're all looking at me. That's the downside of having a reputation as the class comedian: everyone expects you to perform on demand and be effortlessly hilarious. I'm just not sure I'm up to this after the week I've had …

‘You don't want to know, Ira, trust me.'

‘Come on, share with us. How bad can it be?'

How bad can it be?
‘Ira, like so much in my life, if you put the story of my last two exes in a book, no one would believe it. Not in a million years.'

‘Spit it out. We're all in the same boat and we're all here to contribute.'

Right, well you asked for it.
‘OK, then. Here goes. I managed to trace two exes this week. One is in a monastery and the other one is in a psychiatric home.'

They all roar laughing, but I wasn't trying to be funny.

‘Don't get me wrong, they're both very happy where they are.'

More giggles.

‘Amelia, be serious,' says Ira sternly.

‘You think I'm making this up? How could you make this up?'

She looks at me in that assessing way she has, weighing up whether I'm messing or not. Nor can I blame her, this is
very
far-fetched. ‘What have I said to you before about your screening process, Amelia? Now, I'm sure you were young when you dated these guys and of course you can't be held responsible for what became of them in the meantime. But I think you need to focus on the fact that you pursue unsuitable partners.'