Mr. Commitment (24 page)

The Groom

T
hat’s exactly why women aren’t supposed to give speeches at weddings—they just burst into tears. Mel, her mum, my mum, Vernie, have been shedding tears all morning. It’s only because I shed all mine last night watching
ET
that I’m the only one in the house with dry eyes. There’s nothing in the world that I want more than to be with Mel for the rest of my life. Now it’s not my intention to shuffle off this mortal coil until I’m oh, what shall I say, eighty, ninety? I want to see for myself whether one day we will all be drinking blue drinks, wearing shiny silver spacesuits and taking winter breaks on Mars. I wouldn’t mind living forever, which of course will mean being married forever. Which is as great as it sounds. This is what I’ve spent the whole of my life not searching for, mainly because I didn’t know I needed it. A few hours ago Mel promised to love and cherish me for the rest of her life. She didn’t say obey, which is okay, because I don’t want to control her, I just want her to want to be with me and me with her. I know I sound like some sort of New Man, fully in touch with his emotions, able to cry at romantic comedies starring Meg Ryan and capable of having women as friends without harboring secret desires to see them naked. It’s not true—well, apart from the naked women friends thing—I’m still me. I still don’t like it when she talks when the TV’s on. I’ll admit I don’t understand her all of the time. But I know I wouldn’t want it any other way, because I’ve seen the other ways. And so, I’d like for you to join me in a toast—to Mel, my wife, the best a man can get.

Three months later

She’s gorgeous

“
I
sn’t she beautiful?” said Mel holding her up for all to see.

“Gorgeous,” said Vernie, taking our baby in her arms. “Absolutely gorgeous. Look at her eyes—the way they sparkle.”

“Duffy,” said Julie, “don’t you want to hold her?”

“Er,” I uttered noncommittally, “I’m not sure about this. I’ve never held a . . . you know . . . anyway, she looks a bit fragile to me. What if I drop her? Maybe later, eh? When Mel’s mum and dad arrive. Give them the chance to see their granddaughter in one piece before I start juggling with her.”

“No,” replied Mel firmly. “You’re going to hold her now. You’ve been making up excuses for the last two hours. It’s time for the two of you to bond.”

“My hands are really sweaty. She needs to be held by someone with a better grip than mine.”

“Are you seriously intending not to hold her until she’s more robust?” asked Mel. She turned to hand me my daughter. “Here you go, Daddy.”

“It’s not difficult,” reassured Julie as I took her from Mel’s hands. “Just be gentle with her.”

My baby was oblivious to the fact that someone new was holding her. Her eyes were firmly closed and her mouth was pouted just like her mum’s when she’s having a sulk.

“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” inquired Mum. “I can’t believe you’ve left it this long.”

“We wanted to wait until she was here before we named her. It didn’t seem right calling her something without seeing her.” Mel looked up at me and smiled. “We’re open to suggestions. What does everyone think?”

“I don’t know,” said Mum, “I’ve never been all that good at thinking on my feet.”

“She looks like a Philippa,” said Julie. “Or maybe a Jane. Or maybe even a Philippa-Jane.”

“Elvis!” said Dan and Charlie in unison.

“I reckon Jackie,” said Vernie, carefully balancing Phoebe in one arm in order to thump Charlie playfully with the other. “There hasn’t been a world-famous Jackie since Jackie Onassis. The world needs another one as soon as possible.”

“What do you think?” said Mel, directing her question toward me. “You’re her dad, you should have a whole list of names by now.”

I looked fondly at the new addition to the Duffy family, who was still resting peacefully in my arms.
She’s beautiful,
I thought.
No doubt about it. This has got to be the best-looking baby there has ever been. She needs a name that sums up her personality. Something that says, hello, I’m smart and funny and irresistible—just like my dad.

“I know exactly what her name is,” I said, looking into her tiny face. “Mel chose it a long time ago, and as ever, she was spot on. I think we should call her Ella.”

“I can’t believe you remembered!” said Mel fondly. “You’re right, she does look like an Ella. So Ella Elvis Duffy it is.”

“Elvis?”

“Of course,” said Mel with a flourish. “She’s a Duffy, isn’t she? So she’s bound to be a star.”

M
IKE
G
AYLE
is a freelance journalist and a popular advice columnist. He lives in Birmingham, England.

Also by Mike Gayle

My Legendary Girlfriend

Praise for
Mr. Commitment

“A male Bridget Jones.”

—The Express
(London)

“Mike Gayle gives us a sharp, funny peek inside the male mind, with all its fears and phobias about love and marriage laid out, in the hilarious new novel
Mr. Commitment
.”

—Book Page

“In his second novel, Gayle brings the same wry wit and hilarious plot twists that have earned him comparisons to Nick Hornby.”

—Booklist

“Full of belly laughs and painfully acute observations”

—The Independent on Sunday

“Delivers its punch lines directly to the heart . . . a soulful romance and wry comedy that stop comfortably short of the sentimental.”

—Birmingham Evening Mail

“A delicate blend of realism and whimsy . . . funny and clever.”

—The Guardian

“Funny, sharply observed, and right in tune with aging adolescents desperately clinging to the wreckage of their youth.”

—Marie Claire

“Touching and funny.”

—Sunday Mirror
(London)

“A funny, frank account of a hopeless romantic.”

—The Times
(London)

“
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
meets
Men Behaving Badly
.”

—
Daily Telegraph
(London)

A Sneak Peek at the new novel from Mike Gayle:
My Legendary Girlfriend,
—on sale July 9, 2002—

MIKE GAYLE
AUTHOR OF
MR. COMMITMENT

My Legendary Girlfriend

Meet the lovable, lovestruck Will Kelly. It’s been three years since his heartthrob, Agnes, wrecked his life with a chat that started, “It’s like that song. ‘If you love somebody, set them free.’ ” But no matter how much time goes by, Will doesn’t feel very free. He still makes lists of each birthday present Aggi ever gave him, has gymnastic fantasies about a perfect reunion night with her and dwells on the first words she uttered to him.

How long can a person stay down in the dumps after being dumped? And how long before Will dumps Martina, the sweet but clingy girl he’s seeing? Will anyone ever measure up to Will’s Legendary Girlfriend?

Broadway Books is delighted to offer readers a sneak peek at Mike Gayle’s
My Legendary Girlfriend
, on sale now in hardcover—a fresh, hilarious, romantic romp perfect for anyone who’s ever dumped, been dumped or lived in a dump.

6:05 P. M.

“Mr. Kelly, which football team do you support?”

As I strolled along the edge of the pitch clutching a football underneath each arm, I considered fourteen-year-old Martin Acker and his question carefully. He had been the last of my pupils to leave the pitch and I knew for a fact that he’d lingered with the specific intention of asking me his question, because amongst other things, not only was he genuinely inquisitive as to where my footballing allegiances lay, he also had no friends and had selected me as his companion on that long and lonely walk back to the changing rooms. He was quite literally covered head to foot in Wood Green Comprehensive School football pitch mud, which was a remarkable achievement for someone who hadn’t touched the ball all evening. Of his footballing prowess, there was little doubt in my mind that he was the worst player I’d ever witnessed. He knew it, and he knew that I knew it, and yet I didn’t have the heart to drop him from the team, because what he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. This was of great encouragement to me, proving that for some, the futility of an occupation was not in itself a reason to give up.

While Martin was hopeless at playing soccer but excelled in its trivia, I, on the other hand, could neither play, teach, nor fake an interest in this most tedious of distractions. Owing to PE staff shortages and the need to impress my superiors, the mob of fourteen-year-olds that made up the year-eight B-team was entirely my responsibility. The headmaster, Mr. Tucker, had been much impressed when I volunteered for the task, but the truth was less than altruistic: it was either football or the school drama club. The thought of spending two dinnertimes per week aiding and abetting the kids to butcher
My Fair Lady,
this term’s production, made football the less depressing option, but only marginally so. I was an English teacher—created to read books, drink cups of sugary tea and popularize sarcasm as a higher form of wit. I was not designed to run about in shorts on freezing cold autumnal evenings.

I peered down at Martin just as he was looking up to see if I’d forgotten his question.

“Manchester United,” I lied.

“Oh, sir, everyone supports Man U.”

“They do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who do you support?”

“Wimbledon, sir.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

And that was that. We continued our walk in silence, even failing to disturb the large number of urban seagulls gathered, wading and pecking in the mud, by the corner post. I had the feeling Martin wanted to engage me in more football talk but couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

Martin’s fellow teammates were bellowing and screaming so loudly that I was alert to their mayhem before I even reached the changing room doors. Inside, chaos reigned—Kevin Rossiter was hanging upside down by his legs from a hot water pipe that spanned the room; Colin Christie was snapping his towel on James Lee’s bare buttocks; and Julie Whitcomb, oblivious to the events going on around her, was tucked in a corner of the changing room engrossed in
Wuthering Heights,
one of the set texts I was teaching my year-eight class this term.

“Are you planning to get changed?” I asked sardonically.

Julie withdrew her amply freckled nose from the novel, squinting as she raised her head to meet my gaze. The look of bewilderment on her face revealed that she had failed to understand the question.

“These are changing rooms, Julie,” I stated firmly, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Boys’
changing rooms, to be exact. As you are neither a boy nor getting changed, may I suggest that you leave?”

“I would, Mr. Kelly, but I can’t,” she explained. “You see, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

I was intrigued. “Who’s your boyfriend?”

“Clive O’Rourke, sir.”

I nodded my head. I hadn’t the faintest clue who Clive O’Rourke was.

“Is he a year eight, Julie?”

“No, sir, he’s in year eleven.”

“Julie,” I said, trying to break the bad news to her gently, “year elevens don’t have football practice today.”

“Don’t they, sir? But Clive said to meet him here after football practice and not to move until he came to get me.”

She dropped her book into her rucksack and slowly picked up her jacket, as though her thought processes were draining her of power, like a computer trying to run too many programs at once.

“How long have you been going out with Clive?” I asked, casually.

She examined the worn soles of her scuffed Nike trainers intently before answering. “Since dinnertime, sir,” she confessed quietly. “I asked him out while he was in the dinner queue buying pizza, beans and chips in the canteen.”

Hearing this tale of devotion, which included remembering details of a beloved’s lunch, was genuinely moving. My eyes flitted down to my watch. It was quarter past six. School had finished nearly three hours ago.

“I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a practical joke,” I said, spelling it out in case the penny hadn’t dropped. “Somehow I don’t think Clive’s going to turn up.”

She turned her head toward me briefly before examining her trainers once again. It was clear she was more heartbroken than embarrassed, her eyes squinting, desperately trying to hold back the tears, and her lips pressed tightly together, attempting to lock in the sobs trying to escape. Eventually, she allowed herself the luxury of a carefully controlled sigh, rose and picked up her bag.

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked, even though it was obvious that she wasn’t.

With tears already forming in her eyes, she said, “Yes, sir, I’ll be all right.”

I watched her all the way to the changing room doors, by which time her grief was audible. Some teachers might have thought no more of her, but not I. Her image remained in my head for some time because in the few brief moments we’d shared, I had realized that Julie Whitcomb was closer in kind to myself than anyone I’d ever met. She was one of us—one who interpreted every failure, whether small or large, as the out-working of Fate’s personal vendetta. Clive O’Rourke’s name would never be forgotten, it would be permanently etched on her brain just as my ex-girlfriend’s was on mine. And at some point in her future, mostly likely after completing her journey through the education system right up to degree level, she’d realize that a life pining after the Clive O’Rourkes of this world had made her bitter and twisted enough to join the teaching profession.

The sound of a small boy emitting a noise roughly approximating
Whhhhhhhoooooooorrrrrraaaaaaahhhh!!!
signaled that Kevin Rossiter had changed adrenaline sports and was now racing around the far changing room, naked but for his underpants on his head. I couldn’t begin to fathom his motivation for such a stunt, let alone find the required energy to tell him off this close to the weekend, and so, sighing heavily, I slipped unnoticed into the PE department’s tiny office, closing the door behind me.

Rooting around in my bag, I discovered my fags, slightly crushed under the weight of my year eights’ exercise books—I had one left. I mentally totted up those that had fallen: five on the way to work, two in the staff room before registration, three during morning break, ten during lunch break. It was difficult to work out which was the more depressing thought: the fact that I—who had only in the last three years made the jump from social smoker to anti-social smoker—had managed to get through enough cigarettes to give an elephant lung cancer or that I hadn’t noticed until now.

As the nicotine took effect, I relaxed and decided that I was going to stay in my small but perfectly formed refuge until the last of the Little People had disappeared. After half an hour, the shouting and screaming died down to a gentle hubbub and then blissful silence. Pulling the door ajar and using my body to block the smoke in, I peered through the crack to make sure the coast was clear. It wasn’t. Martin Acker was still there. He was dressed from the top down but was having difficulty putting on his trousers, mainly because he already had his shoes on.

“Acker!”

Bewildered, Martin scanned the entire room nervously before locating the source of the bellow.

“Haven’t you got a home to go to?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said dejectedly.

“Then go home, boy!”

Within seconds he’d kicked off his footwear, pulled on his trousers, pushed his shoes back on, grabbed his things and shuffled out of the changing rooms, shouting “Have a good weekend, sir” as he went through the doors.

The newsagent’s en route to the tube was manned by a lone fat Asian woman who was busily attempting to serve three customers at once while keeping an eye on two Wood Green Comprehensive boys, lingering with intent by a copy of
Razzle,
which someone far taller than they had thoughtfully left on the middle shelf. When my turn came to be served, without taking her eyes off the boys, she located my Marlboro Lights and placed them on the counter. It was at this point in the transaction that I got stuck; Twix wrappers, torn pieces of silver paper from a pack of Polos and fluff were the nearest items I had to coins of the realm. The shopkeeper, tutting loudly, put my fags back on the shelf and started serving the man behind me a quarter of bonbons before I even had a chance to apologize. As I brushed past the boys, their faces gleefully absorbing the now open pages of
Razzle,
I berated myself for not having used my lunch hour more wisely with a visit to the cash machine on High Street. Smoking myself senseless in the staff room had seemed so important then, but now, penniless and fagless, I wished with my whole heart that I believed in moderation more fervently.

Stepping out into the cold, damp Wood Green evening, gloomily illuminated by a faulty lamppost flickering like a disco light, three women, approaching from my right, caught my attention, due to the dramatic way they froze—one of them even letting out a tiny yelp of surprise—when they saw me. It took a few seconds but I soon realized why these women were so taken aback: they weren’t
women—
they were
girls.
Girls to whom I taught English literature.

“Sonya Pritchard, Emma Anderson, Pulavi Khan: come here now!” I commanded.

In spite of everything their bodies were telling them, which was probably something along the lines of “Run for your lives!” or “Ignore him, he’s the teacher that always smells of Polos,” they did as they’d been told, although very much at their own pace. By the time they’d sulkily shuffled into my presence they’d prepared their most disconsolate faces as a sort of visual protest for the hard-of-hearing.

Pulavi opened the case for the defense. “We weren’t doing nothin’, sir.”

“No, sir, we weren’t doing nothin’,” added Sonya, backing up her friend.

Emma remained silent, hoping that I wouldn’t notice the furtive manner in which she held her hands behind her back.

“Turn around, please, Emma,” I asked sternly.

She refused.

“Sir, you can’t do anything to us, sir,” moaned Sonya miserably. “We’re not under your jurisdiction outside of school.”