Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (3 page)

‘Not on some bloody night course anyway,' says Rachel. ‘Unless he's teaching it. I'm sorry, darling, but face facts. If it hasn't happened by now, it's not going to. The secret of a happy life at our age is to gracefully accept that yes, men do like strong, independent women, once they're hot, sexy and under thirty-five. It's like that fabulous quote: “Being an old maid is a little bit like drowning. A really delightful sensation once you give up the struggle.” '

Just then, an imposingly tall, good-looking, preppy guy, who looks and dresses like he has a proper job, approaches Rachel. ‘Hiya,' he says confidently. ‘Just wondered if I could buy you a drink?'

‘Piss off,' she says, without even looking at him.

See what I mean about the lethal Rachel pheromone? The poor guy skulks off without even a backward glance in my direction and suddenly I get all defensive. It's OK for her, she's had two husbands; it's OK for Caroline, she has a perfect life; and it's OK for Jamie, he changes boyfriends the way the rest of us
change shoes. I just have to work a bit harder at it, that's all.

There is no lethal Amelia pheromone.

Nor can I help feeling that this is my very, very, very last chance to do something about it.

‘Well, I've tried everything else,' I reply. ‘Internet dating, speed dating, blind dates; short of joining the Knock marriage bureau, you name it, I've given it a whirl. And all with zero per cent success. I must be doing something wrong, so why not try the business marketing approach? I mean, huge corporations spend millions on this sort of thing, so if it works in the world of commerce, why not dating?'

‘But, Amelia,' says Caroline gently, ‘you have such a fantastic life as it is. Try walking a few miles in my shoes and you'll appreciate just how great you have it. You get to stay in bed all weekend, if you feel like it. Your purse is full of disposable income.'

‘Yes, we loveless loners are so lucky.'

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

‘Come on, girlies. I don't know why it is, but finding a partner is just so
easy
for some people, but to me it's like climbing Mount Everest.'

What I really mean is … I seem to have a hex on me. It's almost as if some wicked fairy came to my christening, just like in the Disney cartoon
Sleeping Beauty
, and said, ‘OK, I got good news and bad news
for you.' (In my imagination, the wicked fairy talks a bit like a mafia don.) ‘The good news is, everything in your life will be great, but the bad news is, you're destined to live it out alone. Capeesh?'

I may not be able to break the curse, but one thing's for sure: I'll get there or die trying. This is the year.

I'll give it twelve months and if it still hasn't happened, then I'll gracefully give up and spend the rest of my life going on lesbian walking tours at weekends. I'll leave instructions in my will that my headstone is to be engraved with the immortal phrase: ‘Here lies Amelia Lockwood, spinster of this parish. She may have died single, but at least she bloody well tried.'

‘Well, I think it's a fabulous idea.' We all turn to look at Jamie, intrigued. I was fully expecting him, of all people, to make mincemeat of the whole thing. ‘I mean, just look at you, Amelia. In every other respect, you're completely and utterly at the top of your game. You're so pretty; I always say behind your back that you're one of the undiscovered beauties of Ireland. You know, a bit like the Antrim coastline.'

‘You're comparing her to scenery in Northern Ireland?' says Rachel.

‘I am
trying
to be complimentary, girlies. Just look at her, she's an SHB.'

‘A what?'

‘Oh, please, do none of you watch MTV? A super-hot
babe. If Amelia was played by a Hollywood actress, it would have to be … Meryl Streep.'

‘She's fifty-something!' squeals Caroline.

‘Can I finish? Meryl Streep twenty years ago, in
Sophie's Choice
. You know, when she was young and gorgeous and had the long, swishy hair and that ephemeral, dreamy thing going on. Devastating combination.'

‘You only chose her because we both have big noses,' I say.

‘Not true. Amelia, I'll only say this once, mainly because then it's time to talk about
me
, but you're successful, talented, you've got a fabulous penthouse apartment, a flashy car, your dream career and … well, put it this way, what did you spend last Saturday night doing? Watching
Parkinson
? Taking calls from telemarketers?'

‘No, I was saving that for my birthday.'

Now Rachel is cackling. ‘Oh, for God's sake, look! The teacher is called Ira Vandergelder. You seriously want to enrol on a course run by a woman called Ira Vandergelder? She sounds like the mother out of
Rhoda
.'

‘Shut up, Rachel,' says Jamie. ‘I think Amelia should go for it. It's been so long since she produced a boyfriend that people will start thinking she's GUPO.'

‘What's that?' I ask innocently.

‘Gay until proven otherwise.'

I turn to Caroline. ‘I will give you one hundred euro if you change the subject right now.'

‘No, it's my go!' says Jamie. ‘Amelia's had her airtime and I haven't even
started
the bitch-fest about my little dalliance last weekend yet.'

‘Can you all stop the sailor talk for a minute?' says Caroline, taking a deep breath and pausing for dramatic effect. ‘I don't mean to sound prudish or anything, but there's an expectant mother in your midst.'

‘AGHHH! You're up the duff again!' Rachel and I squeal, almost going ultrasonic as we smother her in hugs.

‘This is it, though,' says Caroline, ‘this is definitely the last one. As my mother always says, never have more children than you have windows in your car.'

‘Shame on me, I should have guessed the minute you ordered a virgin bloody Mary,' says Jamie, sounding a bit choked. ‘I am
soooo
happy for you, sweetheart, I feel like I'm in a musical. Does anyone else feel not just happy, but
Broadway
happy right now?'

Hours later, as I'm crawling into bed, I think about Caroline. And Mike. And their perfect life and their two perfect children, and now another one to come.

And how
lucky
they both are.

Right there and then I make up my mind. I have absolutely no idea what the coming year will bring, but I'm certain about one thing: I'm getting married.

Next day in work is a battlefield. This is nothing unusual, it's just that by mid-afternoon I still haven't had either the chance or the privacy to pick up the phone and book myself a place on the ‘find a husband' course.

At times like this, I really feel like calling up Jayne Lawler, my predecessor on
Celtic Tigers
, and offering her my entire annual wage packet, plus any vital organ of mine she may have a use for, if she'll just come back to work. Jayne, however, is younger than me, happily married to a gorgeous guy and now on extended maternity leave, which is why I was drafted over from the current affairs department to deputize for her in the first place.

Jealous? Me? Bitter? Moi?

Anyway, I'm up to my eyes casting for a major new character that's coming into the show in a few weeks' time. This may sound straightforward enough, but actually involves (
a
) contacting every actor's agent in
Dublin to see who they have on their books who'd be suitable, (
b
) winnowing out the ones who can act from the ones who can't and, most difficult of all, (
c
) fielding calls from Jamie who's been pestering me all morning demanding that I cast him.

‘I am so perfect for the part it's not true. There's nothing I can't play, you know. I'm an actor's actor.'

‘Jamie, just listen for a moment—'

‘Don't you think I'm TV pretty? You know, kind of like that gorgeous guy who plays Will in
Will and Grace
? A straight gay type, that's the look I'm going for.'

‘You're wonderful-looking, as you very well know, but the problem is—'

‘If I don't get a decent job soon, I will be
unable to shop
.'

‘Jamie, you're not listening—'

‘You have GOT to give me the gig. Otherwise what is the point of me hanging around with Miss Big Shot Deputy Producer anyway?'

‘Sweetheart, you know me; ordinarily I'll cave in to emotional guilt, but in this case, you're wasting your time. You're completely wrong for the part.'

‘Wrong, how?'

‘Well, for starters you're not over six feet tall.'

‘I can wear shoes with lifts, like Tom Cruise.'

‘And you're not from Nigeria.'

‘You've never heard of make-up?'

‘Jamie, forget it. If we were to cast you, the make-up budget alone would bankrupt the show. I've told you a thousand times, I'm on the lookout for the right part for you, but trust me, this isn't it. Now go away, I have to work.'

He sighed. ‘I suppose you're right, darling. You know me, completely NID.'

‘NID?'

‘Not into details.'

Then Rachel calls. ‘Hey, sweetie, just wondered if you'd booked yourself on to the I'm-so-desperate-to-find-a-man-I'm-prepared-to-go-back-to-college course thingy.'

‘Still haven't had a chance. Can I call you back?'

‘I'm just trying to be the voice of reason here, before you do something you'll live to regret. Are you really sure this is what you want? To go back in time and live the rest of your life in a 1950s detergent commercial?'

‘No, just a husband will do fine, thanks.'

‘I just think that, at your age, you should be slowly eliminating the need for a man out of your life. Maybe think about going on a kill-a-spider course instead.'

‘Rachel, call you back!'

Five minutes later, I'm outside in the TV studio car park, frantically trying to get through to the UCD admissions office from my mobile. I don't normally make phone calls from the car park, you understand, it's just that … well … in this life, there are some
conversations you don't really want anyone to overhear and as anyone who works in an open-plan office will tell you, loose lips cost ships.

‘And which evening class are you interested in booking?' asks a warm, friendly woman's voice.

I glance over my shoulder, just to double-check there's no one around. ‘The one about how to find a husband …' I mutter under my breath.

‘I'm really sorry, but you're breaking up on me. What did you say?'

‘Over the age of thirty-five.'

‘The signal must be terrible where you're calling from. I'm sorry, what was that again, please?'

Whether I like it or not, I'm forced to raise my voice, while hopping around the car park like a demented lunatic trying to see if the signal will improve.

‘I said the one where you learn how to find a husband over the age of thirty-five.'

The administrations woman is shouting by now too. ‘Hello? CAN YOU HEAR ME?'

‘YES! I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR. THE COURSE I WANT TO GO ON IS THE ONE WHERE YOU LEARN HOW TO FIND A HUSBAND OVER THE AGE OF THIRTY-FIVE.'

‘Sounds very interesting.'

I turn around and there's Dave Bruton, easily our nicest and most gorgeous director. (Married, worse
luck …) Anyway, he must have spotted me through the office window and followed me outside.

‘I'm sorry about this, can you hold for a moment?' I say into the phone, trying to sound all businesslike and

… well, you know …
normal
.

‘Didn't mean to interrupt you,' he said apologetically, ‘I just wanted to let you know we have another three actors at TV reception waiting for the auditions. I'm just going to have a quick chat with them about the scene I want them to read and then we'll be ready when you are, Miss de Mille.'

‘Fantastic,' I laugh nervously. ‘Just give me two secs and I'll be right with you.'

‘Take your time,' he says. ‘I'll let you get back to your call. Booking a night course then, are you?'

‘Ehh, yes …' I stammer, frantically trying to think of something plausible when Rachel's words come back to me. ‘It's a course for single women, in killing spiders and … emm … rodents and, well, you know, basic household pest control really.'

‘For the over thirty-fives?'

‘Yes … well, you know, whatever your age, it's never too late to learn the basics about … emm … rat poison.'

Dave smiles and moves off.

‘I'm so sorry,' I say to the nice admissions woman who, miraculously, I can hear clear as a bell now, ‘I just … well, I just didn't want anyone in work to know what I was up to.'

‘Oh, don't you worry,' she laughs, ‘just about everyone else who's enrolled for the course has said pretty much the same thing. First class is tonight at eight p.m. sharp.'

‘Tonight? Oh, OK then. Thank you.'

‘And bringing a paper bag to put over your head is entirely optional.'

I hang up, delighted. This really feels like a step in the right direction. You know, like I'm finally facing up to the problem and taking control, instead of doing what I normally do which is to (
a
) moan about being single and dumped, (
b
) read loads of happiness-and-romance-are-just-within-your-grasp type self-help books, realize none of them actually work and then (
c
) go out and get trolleyed drunk with my friends.

I once read a book about creative visualization, a self-help technique where you envisage yourself living your perfect life to help you through stressful times. Apparently they teach this to the astronauts at NASA, to help them cope with the claustrophobia of being cooped up inside the space shuttle and to stop them going completely mental and pressing all the wrong buttons, as I probably would if they were ever daft enough to send me on a mission to the moon. You take a deep breath and imagine yourself in a wide open space or on a sandy beach, miles away from Cape Canaveral and flight simulators and voices on headsets saying, ‘Houston, we have a problem.'