Mr. Commitment (15 page)

“Not as sorry as me,” I replied, searching around for my trousers. “Believe me, no one is as sorry as me.”

Not a sausage?

“
A
re you okay, Duffy? You seem a bit odd.”

It was the day after the sleepless night before and I was round at my sister’s, lying across one of her armchairs pouting like a toddler who’d just broken his favorite toy. Charlie was in the garden mowing the lawn, while a now visibly pregnant Vernie was sitting with me, eating a bowl of ice cream and staring at me like I was slightly touched. Not many men would’ve gone to their sister’s to talk over this sort of problem, but I had to talk to someone and there was no way on earth I was going to mention anything this sensitive to Charlie or Dan.

I needed a woman’s perspective on this, because women, I reasoned, were more at ease with their bodies. Vernie certainly was. From the day she hit puberty she was forever discussing periods, swollen breasts and the benefits of evening primrose oil. I tried to tell her that as a young boy not even into his teens, I wasn’t even vaguely interested. I used to cover my ears and sing loudly, but somehow the information seeped into my consciousness. Over the following years I eventually became so well-informed about the technicalities of so-called women’s problems that girlfriends had in the past asked
me
for advice. It therefore required only a short leap in the imagination to conclude that although Vernie wasn’t in possession of the same equipment as me, she might have a handy miracle cure or words of advice that would make everything all right.

“No, I am
not
okay,” I said, answering her question grouchily. “I am
not
in the
least
bit okay. In fact right now I believe this is the
abso-bloody-lutely
least okay I’ve ever been.”

“What’s wrong?” Vernie asked.

“Everything,” I said dejectedly, and proceeded to tell her about my evening with Alexa in all its gory detail.

Perched on the edge of the sofa my sister listened to my tale of woe carefully, and occasionally, in between huge spoonfuls of ice cream, let out gasps of “Oh!”, “How awful!” and “Poor you!” When I concluded my narrative she put down her empty bowl on the carpet and stared at my groin in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“You know in
Some Like It Hot
when Marilyn Monroe kisses Tony Curtis in that incredible dress and you think to yourself you’d have to be dead not to get excited about that? Well, this was a little bit like that, only about fifty billion times worse because it was happening in
my
pants.”

“Yeah, but are you sure? Maybe you’re, you know, nervous because she’s on telly.”

“Believe me,” I sighed, casting my mind back to the night before, “I was totally relaxed.”

“Maybe you’d drunk too much?”

“I’d hardly touched a drop.”

Vernie got up, taking her bowl with her, and left the room. When she came back she was carrying an entire tub of Wall’s Chocolate Swirl virtually fat-free dessert with a spoon jutting out of it. She really was milking this pregnancy craving thing for all it was worth. She settled herself down and recommenced eating.

“Do you know what I think?” she said after two mouthfuls.

“What?” I said sulkily.

“You know how men always think with the contents of their boxer shorts?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I think the contents of your boxer shorts are still in love with Mel.”

“You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Think about it. It used to work, right?”

I opened my mouth as if to say something but Vernie put her hand up to silence me.

“Spare me the details, oh brother of mine. A simple yes or no will do.” I nodded. “And it doesn’t work now.” I nodded again. “That’s it, then. It’s psychosomatic. Your . . . you know . . . is still in love with Mel!”

“That’s absolute rubbish,” I said, quashing Vernie’s eureka moment dismissively. “And you know it.”

“Okay! Okay!” she said defensively. “It was only a suggestion, Duff. There’s no need to be so bloody touchy.”

“Well, if you’ve got any more suggestions like that, I suggest you keep them to yourself,” I said irritably and stood up to leave. “I came round here for your advice, Vern, but if you think that I’m going to go and ask my GP for previous partner aversion therapy or pop down to Holland and Barrett’s for some organic anti-Mel rescue remedy or ask at Boot’s chemist counter for the ex-girlfriend equivalent of a nicotine patch, you’ve another think coming! This has got nothing whatsoever to do with Mel. Nothing.” I calmed down, having finally become aware how ridiculous my indignation sounded. “I’m going to go now and do what I should’ve done in the beginning instead of coming round here. I’m going to sort out this whole sorry episode myself and when you see me next I will be a whole man once more. Goodbye.”

O
ver the following seven days, in an attempt to right the wrong that had happened to me, I saw Alexa twice. Both times we got on incredibly well. We’d laugh, flirt and have a great time, but the minute things started to get even vaguely heated, well . . . nothing. Bizarrely, she seemed keener on me than ever before. It was as if her reputation as TV’s Hottest Totty was at stake and she was determined not to lose her crown. Time and time again she asked me up for “coffee” and time and time again I said no, not wanting a repeat of that deflated Saturday night. The more I said no, the more she wanted me to say yes. This was a unique position for me to be in and one that would’ve been of great benefit in my youth. Had I managed to convince girls at sixth form that it was
me
refusing
them
sexual congress, rather than the other way round, my “A” level life would’ve been considerably more bearable. None of this mattered, however: despite everything I’d done to try and alleviate the problem—purchasing baggier pants, eating Bran Flakes and browsing the female underwear sections of clothing catalogs—the problem remained.

A
re you okay, Duff?”

It was a week later and I was round at Dr. Vernie’s sexual ailment surgery once again. This time I was prepared to take her advice for a miracle cure, whether it involved leeches, losing a limb, or even my ex-girlfriend.

“No,” I said sulkily.

“Is it still . . . ?” She pointed to my lap and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Yes.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

“Not a sausage?” Vernie doubled up with uncontrollable laughter, barely stopping herself from falling off the sofa. She wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and sniffed. “I’m sorry, Duff, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you couldn’t.” I held my head in my hands in despair. This really was becoming a nightmare from which it was possible I would never wake up. “Do you really think that it’s got something to do with Mel?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure. Your theory fits. It’s just—”

The sound of the front door opening interrupted our conversation. It was Charlie coming in from work. He came into the lounge carrying two large plastic Threshers bags that were making excessive clinking noises. “Bumped into Dan on the tube,” he said to Vernie, explaining not only why he was an hour late but why he smelled of Guinness too. “He’s just nipped to the newsagent. He’ll be up in a minute.”

“Is that right?” said Vernie, now unquestionably annoyed. “Why didn’t you phone to say you were going to be this late?”

A man after my own heart, Charlie pretended he hadn’t heard her question and instead opted to create a diversion. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said abruptly. There was no way I was going to let him use my current infirmity to get him out of trouble with Vernie.

Charlie refused to give up, though. His only hope was to harangue me into submission. “I could hear you laughing from outside. Come on. What’s going on?”

Vernie opened her mouth as if about to begin a sentence.

“No, Vernie!” I yelled and leaped over to cover her mouth.

Charlie looked at me and then at Vernie, clearly bewildered, but aware that with a little more pushing he’d be off the hook for good. “I’ll find out sooner or later, you know.”

“It’s private,” I said with my hand still over Vernie’s mouth as she giggled wildly.

She bit my hand forcing me to let her go. “I can’t keep secrets from Charlie, he’s my husband,” she said, trying to suppress her laughter. “We tell each other everything, don’t we, Charlie?”

“Of course we do, darling,” said Charlie, adopting an angelic tone of voice in order to mock me. “What is it that your dear, dear, brother doesn’t want you to tell me about?”

“You are
not
telling him anything!” I barked at Vernie threateningly.

“Oh, Duffy,” pleaded Vernie. “Charlie only wants to help. Anyway, I think it might help for you to talk it over with another man. He might have some advice on what to do in this type of situation.”

“What kind of example are you showing your unborn?” I pointed to her moderately pregnant stomach. “He can hear you, you know. He’s probably thinking to himself, ‘Why’s Mummy tormenting Uncle Duffy like this? She can’t be a very nice lady. I’m going to show my disapproval of her shocking behavior by taking fifty-two hours to come out.’ ”

“Any more than twelve hours and I’ll drag you out myself!” yelled Vernie at her bump. “Anyway, if the baby is a
he,
” she said, patting the sides of her stomach fondly, “he’s learning a valuable lesson—not to be anything like his uncle Duffy. Baby Jacobs, when you grow up, don’t keep things inside. Talk. You can talk to me. You can talk to your dad—though I wouldn’t recommend it—and you can even talk to your uncle Duffy. One day the whole of the world’s male population will spontaneously combust because they’ve kept too much stuff in for too long, and I don’t want it happening to you.” She paused. “If you’re a girl, Baby Jacobs, let me tell you how very lucky you are. Life is so much easier being a woman. We’re so much more . . . I don’t know . . . unburdened.” Vernie then looked up at me, smirking. “Try it, Duff. Try a little unburdening. Share your problem with Charlie, he might actually be able to help you.”

Charlie looked at me eagerly while I grimaced at Vernie’s attempt to be earnest. “Has it happened to Charlie then?”

“Never,” said Vernie, barely able to suppress a snigger. “Not my stud muffin.”

A look of horror crept across Charlie’s features as the unmentionable of all unmentionables reared its ugly head inside his consciousness. “You mean your . . . y’know . . . oh, mate, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

I bowed my head in shame.

“I’ve heard it’s quite common,” said Charlie, clearly trying to bolster my spirits. “I shouldn’t worry about it, mate. Leave it alone for a while and it’ll be all right.”

“Leave what alone?” said Dan, who had just entered the room carrying a family-sized packet of Quavers.

“Duffy’s you-know-what,” said Vernie matter-of-factly. “He thinks he’s impotent.”

Dan shivered visibly. “Oh, mate,” was all he initially managed to say by way of comfort, then he added shakily, “I agree with Charlie. Leave it alone for a while. It’s probably resting or hibernating or something.”

“You lot are hopeless!” chided Vernie. “You and your ‘It’s only a flesh wound’ mentality. Go on, listen to Charlie and ‘leave it alone for a while’—just make sure when it drops off you bring it to him to fix for you, and not to me. Get yourself down to a doctor, Duffy. Doctors see people with things that are wrong with them all the time! That’s what they’re there for.”

“Nah,” said Dan warily. “Bunch of quacks, mate. You do not want to be lowering your trousers in a doctor’s surgery. You don’t know what might happen. One minute you’re following orders, slipping on to the examining table with the paper towels on it and the next he’s telling you all sorts of things have got to come off. Ignorance, my son, is bliss.”

“Oh, stop it, you two,” said Vernie, finally taking pity on me. “You can take a thing too far, you know. Duffy’s worried enough as it is thinking that it’s all got something to do with Mel.”

“What’s it got to do with Mel?” asked Dan quizzically.

“Everything,” said Vernie.

“You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you?” said Dan after Vernie had expounded her theory.

“What?” I said, expecting this to be yet another joke at my expense.

“Exorcise it.”

“Exorcise it?”

“Well not ‘it’ exactly,” said Dan, laughing. “I don’t think there’s a priest in the world that would want that job. But I think you’ve got to confront your demons. Vernie reckons that you’re like this because you still find Mel attractive, right? So if you stop finding her attractive you’ll be okay, won’t you?”

I nodded.

“You’ve been talking for ages about wanting the two of you to be friends, so all you’ve got to do is stop talking and start doing. Once you see Mel as a close friend rather than your ex-girlfriend your troubles will be over.”

“Makes sense,” said Charlie, his tone of voice revealing that he was somewhat shocked to discover Dan could make sense. “It’s the only thing you can do, mate.”

“He could have a point,” said Vernie, looking at Dan, barely able to comprehend that she too was agreeing with him.

“Friends it is, then,” I said, looking at all three of them. “I just hope it works.”

We should do this more often

“S
o how are you, Duffy?”

“Okay. And you?”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.”

It was mid-afternoon, that post-lunch pre-hometime period of the day when it’s impossible to do anything at work but sleep, stare into space or phone your mates. I chose to phone Mel. During the call I updated her on Vernie’s recent pregnancy scan (“It looks just like a wizened Winston Churchill only smaller and without the cigar”), and Charlie’s continuing battle to get to grips with fatherhood (“He did the introductory quiz in
Pregnancy for Fathers
and scored three out of twenty”) and Dan’s latest attempt to reinvigorate his comedy act with a character called Trip Master Monkey (“He pretends he’s a monkey that keeps falling over. You have to see it to believe it”). Then for no reason at all Mel said, “This is good. This being friends lark.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It shows that we’re growing up. Maturing like cheese and fine wine.”

Mel laughed. “I’m the fine wine. You’re the cheese.” She paused. “I’m glad we’re talking like this, because I want to tell you something and you may not like it, but I think if we are friends I should tell you anyway.”

“Okay,” I said, my stomach muscles tightening, waiting for the blow. “Go for it.”

“Rob and I . . . we’re going to go on holiday to Tuscany next week with Mark and Julie.”

“Oh,” was all I managed as I imagined the two of them frolicking next to a sun-kissed lake, laughing gaily, and later sitting down on their sun loungers to write a postcard that said, “You wish you were here.” It was too much. “I didn’t realize you were at the holidaying abroad stage. We didn’t reach that stage until year two.”

“That was only because up until then five days in the Lake District with me was about as much of a commitment as you’d make.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mel. “You’re right.”

“I’ve got some news of my own.” I’d been meaning to tell Mel about Alexa for a while and as we were being truthful, now seemed as good a time as any. “Remember that woman who knew Mark who came to see my act . . . the one who’s a presenter on
The Hot Pop Show
. . . well, we’re kind of . . .”

“Oh,” said Mel and fell silent for a few moments. “So how long have you and TV’s Hottest Totty been . . . ?”

“A while,” I confessed. I didn’t want to hurt her any more than she’d wanted to hurt me with her holidaying arrangements. We both knew life had to move on but that didn’t make it any less painful.

“It had to happen some time,” she said impassively. “I’m pleased for you. I really am. Does she make you happy?”

We were back to that old one. “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said reassuringly. “We’re getting on okay though.”

Silence.

“So now we’ve both moved on,” I said finally.

“Looks like it,” she replied.

“So this means we can be proper friends.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose it does.”

I paused. “Will I get to see you before you go off on holiday?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve got loads on at work. I’ll just check my diary.” Her voice disappeared for a while, leaving me alone with my thoughts. “Thursday’s the only night I can do.”

“Okay, Thursday.”

Mel tutted loudly. “Oh, hang on, I’ve got a presentation Friday morning, so I’ll have to work late.”

I really was disappointed. I hadn’t seen her since the day I’d visited her at work, and I desperately wanted to see her. To see with my own eyes that we were friends. This wasn’t about exorcising her memory from my pants, this was about consolidating what we had. I felt that unless we did, she’d return from her holiday closer to Rob 1 and further away from me than ever.

“What about just a quick drink, then?” I suggested hopefully.

“I’ll be too tired to be out in public,” she said dolefully. “I’ll tell you what, though, I can do better than just a drink. How about coming round to mine? You bring a bottle of wine and I’ll bag something tasty from Marks and Spencer’s chill cabinet.”

“Sounds great,” I said, brightening immediately. “See you Thursday.”

I
t took me fifty minutes longer than my usual five to get ready to go to Mel’s. My bed was covered in clothes that I’d been trying on and taking off for most of the evening. In the end I wore my jeans, trainers, a white T-shirt and my corduroy jacket. I looked a bit scruffy, but I didn’t care because that was the point entirely. I had to make it known to Mel that I hadn’t made an effort. She was an expert on the semiotics of my wardrobe. The slightest bit of an effort on my part would be immediately construed as a covert attempt to get into her pants.

I arrived ten minutes late (I was working my “No Effort Theory” to the max), and rang the doorbell.

After some moments Mel opened the door. “Hi,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. “Come in.”

I followed her upstairs to her flat. She was wearing dark blue jeans, a shiny black top and a green cardigan. The look was understated, homely and comfortable. She obviously had a “No Effort Theory” of her own. I handed her a bottle of wine, my contribution to the evening’s meal. I’d bought it from Safeway. I didn’t have the faintest clue whether it was any good or not. All I cared was that it had passed my three basic criteria of wine purchasing:

1. Does it have a nice label?

2. Do I know anyone who has holidayed in the country of origin?

3. Is it under a fiver?

The label on the bottle had a picture of a cedar tree on it, and it was made in Italy (a country Dan had visited on a school trip many years ago), but the thing that had really swung it for me was that it was £4.99—not quite cheap and yet not exactly reassuringly expensive.

“I’ll get the glasses.” Mel headed off into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the lounge. I looked around the room for any changes. There were some new curtains and she’d moved the large lamp that used to stand next to the sofa over into a far corner. There were a couple of new videos in her collection—
The Big Blue
and
La Grande Illusion
(undoubtedly presents from Rob 1)—but apart from that nothing had changed. This pleased me immensely and immediately set me at ease.

We sat down to eat at the kitchen table. There was a huge pile of bills, a Next catalog and a copy of
Elle
at one end and us and a candlestick at the other. Mel really was a big fan of the “No Effort Theory.”

I bet she’s never this relaxed with Rob 1.

I poured more wine into our now half-drunk glasses and we began our meal, which was undoubtedly the best thing I’d eaten since we’d split up. As I chewed a mouthful of fondant potatoes Mel apologized for not cooking something proper and I told her not to worry. Why? Because this was yet another thing she . . .

. . . would never do with Rob 1!

The meal over, two empty wine bottles on the table and a third already open, we tucked into dessert, a summer fruits pudding for her and a cherry cheesecake (my favorite) for me. Everything felt relaxed. Everything felt . . . okay.

“This is nice,” said Mel, moving her chair next to mine so that she could sample my pudding as well as her own without stretching. “We were always friends as well as boyfriend and girlfriend, don’t you think?”

“Yeah”—I nudged her gently with my shoulder—“buddy.”

She nudged me back, slightly harder. “Yeah . . . mate.”

I nudged her in return harder still. “Yeah . . . chum.”

She then proceeded to nudge me so hard that I fell off my chair. Laughing hysterically from my position on the floor I managed a “Yeah . . . pal!” as Mel tried to help me up. Holding on to my hand, she lost her balance and ended up on top of me in a fit of giggles. Having determined that the wine was making it too difficult for either of us to stand up, I grabbed the remaining bottle from the table and on all fours we crawled our way to the living room to relax.

“So, you’re okay?” I asked, slouching back on the sofa sipping another glass of wine. “I mean, everything’s good in your life?”

Mel didn’t answer. I nudged her again. “Yeah.” She shook her head as if waking herself up. “Sorry, you must excuse me. I was just thinking . . . Sitting here, drinking too much wine, talking, laughing. This kind of comfortable doesn’t happen overnight.”

“No.” I kicked off my trainers. “You’re right it doesn’t.”

“People always go on about how fantastic relationships are in the beginning, and of course everyone hates relationships when they end, but what about the middles? The middles where you know everything there is to know. Where you can look at the person you love and know what they’re thinking; see something on the telly and know how they’d react; when you know exactly what they’d wear to come round and see you.”

I smiled fondly. “Did you know what I’d be wearing tonight?”

“Look under Fat Buddha’s bum,” she said.

I slid off the sofa, crawled over to the mantelpiece and picked up the small ceramic Buddha Julie and Mark had brought back from a trip to Thailand several years ago. Fat Buddha used to be the butt of all our politically incorrect jokes about fat men when we were together. I picked him up by his neck and underneath was a torn-out page from a pocket diary. It read, “White T-shirt. Jeans. Trainers. Corduroy jacket.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you knew exactly what I was going to wear?” I said, crawling back to the sofa.

“I’m not
trying
to tell you anything.” She laughed. “I bet you’ve even got your marl gray underpants on.”

This was typical Mel. I remember her once telling me that as a teenager she’d been a massive fan of the pop band Wham! So much so that she knew every personal detail about George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley, right down to their shoe sizes. I’m sure back then she didn’t question why she collected all this information—she did it simply because it made her happy, not realizing that she was actually learning skills that she’d one day need in the future. Seventeen years or so down the line, she was still an avid collector of personal details, only this time round they were mine. In the four years we’d been together Mel had learned off by heart every detail about me—chest size, name of first girlfriend, favorite episode of
Dad’s Army
—everything. I’d often wondered why she’d done this, but it was only now, as I sat on the sofa that I realized that there was indeed a method to her madness. To her, to know truly, was to be intimate. To be intimate was to know the person you love as well as you know your own self. She’d built up the information inside her head to the point where she had created a virtual me, a model which she could use to predict my behavior down to the last detail—even to the choice of color of underwear. I was impressed.

“Congratulations,” I mocked. “When’s your membership to the Magic Circle arriving?”

“Ahhhh,” she joked. “Have I hurt your feelings?”

“No,” I said, faking a sulk.

Mel leaned toward me. “Come here,” she said, rubbing my cheeks. “Let me make it all better.”

Then she kissed me.

Then I kissed her.

Then we fumbled about with each other’s clothing.

Then we fumbled some more.

And life came back to where there had been none.

And so we did it.

Twice.

Okay, once and a half.

R
ays of sunshine broke through the curtains, rousing me from my slumber. Consciousness came immediately, but I didn’t move in case I woke Mel. Instead I slowly opened my eyes and carefully maneuvered my body to face her. I quickly realized I needn’t have bothered being so quiet. She was already up and making shower noises. I lay back on the pillow, arms behind my head, and savored the sweet smell of victory.

I always knew we’d get back together. I knew it would just be a matter of time. We meant too much to each other to give up so easily. I think we’ll take things slowly to begin with. See each other twice a week until we’re safe. And then everything will carry on as it was before. Except this time I’ll make sure that I never lose her again.

Mel entered the bedroom wearing her hooded white toweling dressing gown, brandishing her hair dryer sternly. Her hair was still wet. She didn’t look happy.

“My hair dryer’s dead, Duffy,” she said. “This is a sign.”

“Of what?”

“A sign to punish me for what we did . . . there”—she pointed to her bedroom rug—“and there”—she pointed at a small peach armchair her gran had given her—“and there”—she pointed to the bed. “My hair, Duffy. What am I going to do? I can’t go to an important meeting with wet hair.”

I sat up in bed and tried to do that sexy, ruffled look that characters in big Hollywood films always have the day after. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. I looked about as sexy as an alcoholic tramp. “It’s probably the fuse,” I said helpfully.

“You don’t know that,” she snapped exasperatedly. “You know bugger all about DIY. Remember, you were the one who fitted a handle on my bathroom door upside down, and three years later it’s still the same way.”

This was not the mood I’d expected. I was hoping for a little joy. Maybe even euphoria. Irritability at my presence expressed through a knackered electrical appliance wasn’t really what I had in mind.

“I take it you regret last night.”

Mel flopped down heavily into her peach armchair. “Regret? Duffy, this is beyond regret. I cheated on Rob! I can’t believe I did that.”

I instantly felt relieved. She didn’t regret last night at all, she was merely torturing herself because she felt bad that she was going to have to hurt Rob 1 when she dumped him. She needed help. She needed Bloke Logic.

“There you are wrong, Mel,” I said pointedly. “What you did . . . what we did, well, it’s not cheating. Not really. It’s just a question of timing. You were going to dump Rob 1 anyway, so the fact that we did what we did before you’d told him, is at the very worst a gray area.”

Mel’s face transformed from neutral to thunderous instantly. “Point one!” she yelled. “Will you stop referring to Rob as Rob 1? It’s really annoying! Point two: it’s not a gray area, Duffy! It’s very black and white. Point three: I’m not going to dump Rob. You and I should not have done what we did. It was very wrong.”