The Importance of Being a Bachelor

The Importance of Being a Bachelor

Mike Gayle

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

1

Copyright © 2010 Pizza FTD LTD

The right of Mike Gayle to be identified as the Author of the Work has been

asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher,

nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is

published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 9781848949348

Book ISBN 9780340918500

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

Thus we never see the true state of our condition, till it is illustrated to us by its contraries; nor know how to value what we enjoy, but by the want of it.

Robinson Crusoe
Daniel Defoe

To C. for everything

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Sue Fletcher, Swati Gamble and all at Hodder, Simon Trewin and all at United Agents, Phil Gayle, The Sunday Night Pub Club, Jackie Behan, The Board, Ron Davison, Danny Wallace, Chris McCabe and everyone who took the time to drop me a line this year. And thank you, above all, to C, for pretty much everything.

Part 1

‘But are they happy?’

‘Do you think we’ve done OK?’

It was just after six on a balmy Saturday night in June and sixty-eight-year-old pensioner and former GMPTE bus driver George Bachelor was settling down to watch his all-time favourite film that was just starting on Channel Five when Joan, his wife of nearly forty years, asked her question. George, who was more than a little bit concerned about missing the beginning of the film, considered the mug of tea in his left hand (strong and sweet just the way he liked it) and then the TV remote control in his right. George took great comfort in the fact that he knew the buttons on the remote control if not better than the back of his own hand then at least better than any hand belonging to any other member of his family. Since they had first bought their thirty-two inch Sony Bravia TV just over eight years ago, George had spent a lot of time with its remote control and considered it possibly the single most useful tool that he owned. He often found himself remembering with disdain the days before TVs had remote controls. Obviously life had been simpler back then as there had only been a handful of channels but he recalled with perfect clarity just how much effort it sometimes took to summon up the will to leave the comfort of his chair (the very same chair in which he was sitting now) and rise to his feet (having endured the stresses and strains of a day at work on the buses) and turn over the channel at nine o’clock so that he could watch the news.

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

George looked over at his wife. She appeared as though she was expecting some sort of reply but to what he couldn’t begin to fathom. His hearing wasn’t quite what it used to be plus he’d done all that thinking about tea and remote controls in between so the thread of whatever thought he might have had about whatever Joan had been going on about had long since been lost.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Of course I heard you.’

‘So what do you think?’

George shrugged and turned off the sound on the TV. If he heard the dialogue he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. ‘I don’t mind. Whatever you think is best is fine by me.’

‘You weren’t listening, were you?’ said Joan.

‘You’re sat less than a yard away from me. Of course I was listening. I heard every single word you said.’

‘So what did I say then?’

‘How am I supposed to know?’ said George, looking at the TV forlornly. He hated missing the beginnings of films and that included films of which he had previously seen the beginnings. It made him feel unsettled. ‘You asked me a question and then started with a million and one questions about the first question followed by a lot of accusations about whether or not I was listening. I can’t be expected to keep all that lot in my head can I?’

Joan sighed in the manner of a woman well versed in the art of communicating non-verbal displeasure. ‘You were thinking about the film weren’t you? It’s only
Bridge On the River Kwai
.’

‘Which is my favourite film.’

‘Which you also happen to own on both videotape
and
on one of those DVD things too that came free with the Sunday paper.’

‘It’s not the same,’ said George. ‘I like films when they’re on TV. They just seem better somehow.’

Joan said nothing and so George found himself feeling guilty. ‘So what is it that you were asking?’

‘If you thought that we’d done OK.’

‘With what?’

‘The boys of course: Adam, Luke and Russell.’

‘I know who they are,’ he said impatiently. ‘You don’t need to remind me of our children’s names. What about them?’

‘Do you think we’ve done OK with them. You know, done a good job of raising them to be decent young men.’

‘What a thing to ask right at the beginning of
Bridge On the River Kwai
! What’s brought all this on?’

‘There was an item on the radio this morning while I was ironing. Jenni Murray was interviewing a lady who had written a book about the difficulties women face in raising sons and then they opened it up to the panel that they had in the studio. It was very interesting actually and it just got me thinking about what kind of job I’d done with the boys. I mean, look at them. All three of them are grown men and yet none of them are married.’

‘It’s different now,’ explained George. ‘Times have changed.’

‘But are they happy?’

‘How would I know?’ shrugged George. ‘They seem fine to me. Why don’t you ask them tomorrow when they come for lunch?’

‘Oh, you know what they’re like. I can never get a straight answer out of any of them. I ask Adam why he’s never brought anyone home to meet us and he just rolls his eyes like I’m some kind of lunatic. I mean it’s not exactly a daft question, is it? He’s never brought a single girl home! Then I ask Luke if he and Cassie have ever talked about making things official and he gives me the run-around saying that after last time “marriage just isn’t on the agenda”. And as for Russell, what am I supposed to think? The only girl he ever brings around here these days is that friend of his, Angie, and she’s got a boyfriend! I don’t understand it, do you, George? Why is a twenty-nine-year-old man spending so much time with a young woman who’s in a relationship with someone else? It doesn’t make any sense at all, does it?’

‘I think she’s a lovely girl,’ said George, resigned to the fact that there was little or no chance of his being able to watch this film. ‘He says they’re friends. There’s no harm in that, is there?’

‘Well,’ replied Joan. ‘I don’t think it’s right.’

There was a long silence. George wondered if he could be bothered to put in the effort it would take to search out that free DVD Joan had been on about and recall his middle son’s instructions on how to work the DVD player that he and Cassie had bought him for Christmas. He looked at his wife and then at the remote control. It might only take a minute or two to get into the film if Joan had actually finished with her questions for the evening.

‘So, do you really think we’ve done OK with our boys?’

For the sake of a quiet life George considered the question carefully. ‘I think we’ve done fine,’ he said at last. ‘They’re just late developers, that’s all.’

‘Not exactly girlfriend material.’

At roughly the same time that George Bachelor found himself considering the question of his and his wife’s ability to raise their children his eldest son, Adam Bachelor (bar owner, man about town and current holder of the title ‘second best-looking bloke in Chorlton’), was standing at the crowded bar of Cheshire’s exclusive Forest Hill Golf Club at the wedding reception of his friend Leo listening to his friend Jon proffering the following question: ‘Which of us do you think will be the next to get hitched?’

As the laughter began and various theories were put forward Adam closed his eyes and yawned not just because he wasn’t interested in getting into any debate that involved matrimony but also because right now all he wanted was to go to sleep. He was more used than most of his friends to the occasional late night, but the previous evening had been something of a marathon even for him.

Gathering together the boys for what was ostensibly Leo’s second (and secret) stag do, Adam had led his friends into a night of monumental drinking that had taken in all their old haunts that still existed. The night had crawled to a conclusion some time after six that morning where, following breakfast at an all-night café in Rusholme, they had climbed into the back of the limousine that Adam had rented for the night and were dropped off at their own front doors before Adam finally allowed himself and the groom to be taken back to Adam’s flat in Chorlton.

With eight hours to go before the actual wedding Adam and Leo assured themselves they would have plenty of time to recover from their evening of festivities. But when, sometime after seven, Leo’s fiancée called Adam on his mobile with a long list of things that needed doing in his role as best man, Adam had to concede that he was well and truly up the creek. For the next seven hours he barely had a moment to himself as he ran around south Manchester undertaking all manner of errands before finally arriving back at his flat to pick up a suited, booted (and incredibly well rested) Leo and taking him to the church. And even though there had been times when he had wanted nothing more than to be sick or fall asleep (and on one occasion both at the same time) he had executed his duties like a true professional. He handed the rings to the groom at precisely the right moment, was charming to any elderly people passed to him for safe keeping, delivered a memorable and witty best-man speech and – when it looked like Joanna might get into a slanging match with one of the caterers over the fact that they had ‘under-ordered’ on the vegetarian main courses – he sorted that out too without even the slightest hint of bloodshed to offend the aforementioned meat-shy. All in all he had done a top job of being best man even if he said so himself.

‘My money is definitely on Martin,’ said Jon as Adam tuned back into the debate.

‘No chance,’ laughed Martin. ‘Kay gave up all hope years ago, mate. For what it’s worth my money is on Rich and Emma. He doesn’t think we noticed but Emma’s been sporting a big old rock on her left hand for a good few weeks now.’

‘It’s just a dress ring!’ protested Rich. ‘At least that’s what she told me! Moving swiftly on, my money’s on Del and Jen. The way Del’s missus was talking up matrimony with Em over a chicken bhuna at mine last week makes me think he’s got six to eight months tops!’

‘No way!’ said Del. ‘No way at all. The way I see it is this: obviously discounting those of us that are already hitched, namely Fad, Leo of course and Dave, I reckon it’ll be Rich and Emma first; me and Jen second; third Jon and Shelley; fourth Martin and Kay; and fifth Ade and Lorna.’

Adam looked at Del. ‘What about me?’

Del looked confused. ‘What do you mean what about you?’

‘Exactly what I said: “What about me?” ’

As one Adam’s friends turned to him wearing the same expression of disbelief and confusion.

‘What?’ he said defensively. ‘Why does one simple question cause you all to look at me like I’m a dog that’s just walked into a bar on its hind legs and ordered a pint?’