Dan Taylor Is Giving Up On Women. Neal Doran
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then on, the subject of the marriage was one that would come up regularly amongst our friends, and the consensus was that really they’d been quite immature and irresponsible actually. While Rob and Hannah were off in the flashy married couple’s accommodation they’d swung from the uni, assembled under-twenties would shake their heads sadly and say that they’d regret the decision when they were older and wanted to get married to their true life partners, starting out with a divorce already on their records.
They were also depriving themselves of the opportunity to really enjoy the university experience by tying themselves down, we’d concur as we sat dragging out a pint in an old man’s pub with an out-of-order pool table. But, as far as I could tell, all the rationalising was hiding the fact we’d have been too terrified to even think of doing something similar. The rest of us broke out in a cold sweat at the idea of explaining to our mums we’d got spontaneously married to a girl we barely knew.
I knew I was a bit jealous too. While outwardly toeing the party line that the grand old age of twenty-eight would be the right time to think about settling down to marriage, the idea of finding the person of your dreams at such a young age and being able to take on the world together seemed incredibly exciting and romantic — too many American sitcoms at an impressionable age, I imagine. From when I was fourteen I don’t think there was ever anyone that I fancied where I didn’t spend a lot of time daydreaming about how we’d be an old married couple together. If I couldn’t see that happening, I’d lose interest in them pretty soon. Oh, all the carefree short-lived sexual adventures I missed out on because of my overly idealised notions of love and relationships…
OK, there were none, but there might have been if I’d tried harder.
Rob and Hannah, with all the drama of big rows, threats of divorce, occasional drunken dalliances with strangers at parties, and emotional reconciliations that followed on from their big day at the town hall, had done what I wished I had the guts, and the opportunity, to do.
And here we were more than a decade later, Rob and I. Him still married, me, still a bit jealous and idealistic.
‘What kind of spats?’ I asked.
‘It’s the kids thing. I don’t think she’s going to shift on it.’
‘You don’t think a bit more time?’
‘We’ve been having this conversation for how long now? Three years? She’s getting more stubborn on it, not less. She doesn’t want them, she never has. And I knew all this when I signed up, she reminds me. Which is a frigging stupid thing to say. When I “signed up”, as she puts it, she was vehemently certain the future of rock and roll was Ocean Colour Scene. She managed to change her mind on that.’
Rob stabbed the panel on his treadmill and upped his running pace to a point where breathing, never mind talking, was a challenge, but male pride meant I had to try and catch up. I accelerated and was soon matching pace for pace, which meant he went faster. So I went faster again, until we were both virtually sprinting. I managed a nod to the old ladies next to us, who looked back sympathetically at the wheezy young man having a hot flush.
As suddenly as he had started, Rob finished his sprint, thumping the stop button and levitating himself off the track with his arms. I hit stop too, but just slumped on the control panel as the mill slowed down, face resting on the cold plastic while the rubber under me dragged my feet backwards.
‘You know the main thing though, sport?’ asked Rob, closer to being his peppy usual self, as we trudged back to the changing-room showers. ‘I have a terrible responsibility now. Like the noble red Indian…’
‘Native American,’ I corrected.
‘Right, Tonto. Like the noble native American indigenous tribesman and casino magnate, I believe that saving someone’s life makes you responsible for protecting it in the future. And so I have to redouble our efforts to find the woman to make your life worth living. Or at least get you laid.’
‘You know, I’m still not sure about this,’ I told Rob as we battered life back into our limbs in the showers. ‘I tell you, I could be getting a lot of stuff done if I just avoided situations that leave me hugging myself in a foetal position of shame and embarrassment.’
‘Bollocks to that. The last thing anyone wants to see is you taking up knitting as a hobby. The only way to get you out of that foetal position is to get you into some more erotic ones. Oh, hi, Darren.’
Darren, one of the big body builders, spun on his heel and decided perhaps he’d wait for his shower until he got home.
‘But what if I’ve had all my luck? What if I’ve had my one grand affair and my destiny now is to go on alone?’
‘Destiny? Luck? I don’t need to get the tarot cards out to know that that’s double bollocks. Scraping the bottom there, sport, when you should be out there grabbing them,’ Rob said as we headed to the lockers to get dressed.
‘No, you’re our baby now. And if I can prove to Hannah we can look after you, maybe she’ll think we could manage a real one, which would probably involve less puking and high-pitched crying. So stay by your phone because once I get home we’ll be getting stuck into the next phase of the project to get you sorted. Unless Hannah’s decided there’s nothing more arousing than a man still glistening and pumped from a hard physical workout — see you later, Tom, bye — and can be convinced to go for another set of twenty reps. But let’s work on one miracle at a time.’
We finished getting dressed and wearily grabbed our bags, heading for the exit. As we opened the door into the lobby the muffled throb of motivational dance music got louder and we edged past a group of fitness instructors and regulars working on timetables for their chosen methods of torturing themselves. Out in the surprising cold of the car park, Rob pulled up.
‘I’ve forgotten something. You go on ahead. I’ll call you later. Remember, stand by your phone.’
I wandered on, not paying much attention, distracted as I was by my phone. A text message from Delphine.
Maybe things were looking up.
Chapter Five
Alex is such a bastard. I’m so stupid. :-(
In case the message itself weren’t enough, the emoticon let me know that Delphine was not happy this Sunday morning. But what other significance did the message have? I’d spent the walk home pondering what it might have meant, and how I would reply. It was terrible when someone you knew and liked was so obviously unhappy, and going through a difficult emotional time. But hey, the upside was she was telling me about it.
My stomach got a jitter of excitement at the thought I might be the person she turned to at these times. It crossed my mind that I should let Rob and Hannah know what was going on — this fell into their responsibilities under our wager after all. But they had their own stuff to deal with, and I thought it’d be cool if, as they slaved away trying to find the right person for me, I could turn around and say, actually, I’ve got myself sorted, thanks. So let me buy you that dinner and let’s crack open the champagne and toast my gorgeous, interestingly angst-ridden, extraordinarily bendy, French girlfriend.
But just maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, I thought. It was eleven o’clock by the time I got home, meaning the message had come in thirty-five minutes ago. I had to reply quickly now to be sure the window of opportunity didn’t close.
You’re not stupid! Are you OK?
I hadn’t exactly managed to hone the one hundred and forty characters that’d solve all her problems and make her fall into my arms in one text, but I figured this would be just the start. An opening move in text chess, and I’m a grandmaster. I poured a big bowl of chocolate Shreddies®, made an oversized mug of tea, and switched on the Cheers marathon on the comedy channel as I settled down and waited for the next move. I felt the buzz through the arm of the sofa as my mobile vibrated and beeped to say I had a new message.