Hooking Trout - 4. Amanda's Rule

My father owns a third-floor condo in the East Village where I live rent-free, in a prewar Brownstone set back from the tree-lined street, east of Avenue A and a couple of blocks from the F train. It's a simple but comfortable three-bed affair with a floor plan resembling the uppercase letter E. The entrance is through a narrow corridor along the spine, the three bedrooms are to the left at the end, the bathroom in the middle while the living room containing an open kitchen faces south, with three large floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the treetops in the street.

The fact there's a little mystery tied to the property makes it even more endearing. Until my father announced his pursuit of business interests overseas, more than five years ago now, and asked me to move in, nobody even knew the place existed. One minor drawback is that maintenance in the building is somewhat flaky. For the third day in a row the elevator's out of order, so returning home from work I grab my mail and hike the stairs up to my front door. On the way, I decide to phone my best bud.

“Doug, you free?”

“Hey, honey. Just off for a gym tonic.” I can tell Doug's in his SUV from the dull sound of traffic, the hum of the engine and the soulful strains of the late Amy Winehouse adamantly and ill-advisedly refusing to go to rehab. “How's the big romance with Mandy coming along?”

I pass Mrs. Bartholomew from 4C in the stairwell on her way down and who, seeing I'm busy, prods a finger at the ceiling, mouthing the word 'tomorrow', meaning she'll pop by Friday to put some washing in and do my ironing. We both benefit, her by making a bit of extra cash and me by dodging mind-numbing domestics. I simply smile and nod back, thankful to have avoided the inevitable state-of-the-nation sermon and what wonderful job our new and illustrious commander-in-chief is doing.

“That's Amanda, to you,” I say, once Mrs. B’s out of earshot. “Doug, I swear, I'm not cut out for these kinds of long-term friendship things with women.”

Even though the building is old, my front door gleams with a recent coat of white gloss paint. While I push a hand into my pocket and try to locate door keys, I spot today's copy of the Wall Street Journal left to the side of the doormat.

“Relationship. You've been together how long?” asks Doug.

Ever a fan of recycling, Mrs. B reads the paper every morning, and then, instead of trashing, leaves her copy for me to read. I’ve never asked her to, it's just something she does. I know it sounds a little dumb, but I buy my own newspaper on the way to work each morning—not this one—to read on the train. yet still feel obliged to keep hers in a pile inside the door, plainly visible, so as not to hurt her feelings.

“Almost a week.”

“Should I call Guinness?”

I always impress myself how I well I multi-task. With the cell clamped to my left ear and dry-cleaning over one arm, I unlock the front door, slip inside, shoulder it closed, kick off my loafers, and make some free space on the table with my elbow to dump my case, keys and cleaning. Even removing my overcoat is executed with the effortlessness of an escapologist.

“Seriously Doug, it’s killing me. I’m not going to last.”

“Bullcrap, Trout. Hey, why don't you come join me.”

Over in the kitchen, the sink is overflowing with unwashed cups and dishes. As a rule, I put Thursday aside to wash up and change bedclothes. Otherwise Mrs. B. will do it in the morning whether I ask her or not, which is not part of the deal.

“Can’t. I’m meeting her for dinner tonight. She wants to go over strategies, run some ideas by me.”

Something in her commanding tone had my stomach curdling, but then someone has to wear the pants if this is going to work. I throw myself onto the leather sofa and notice the corner of my tablet computer between a couple of empty Miller cans. Am I turning into a gay version of Tommy? I vow to clean up before I head out.

“Where you taking her?”

“Hidden Vine. She wants to lay down a few rules tonight which naturally means learning a few more personal things about me, including places I like to haunt. Neutral places. Which is why we’re going to the Vine.”

“You sure about that?”

“Sure,” I reply, but his tone makes me falter. “Why not?”

“You do know Stephan still works there.”

“Oh shit,” I say. I’d forgotten. Stephan’s the Vine’s solo young waiter, good looking in a rugged Italian way, and someone I once dated and dumped. “Too late to change now. I’m meeting her there. Hopefully, he’s not on tonight.”

“Well then, doll. This should be a good test of your phony relationship.”

“Not helping, Doug.”

“Bye, hon.”

***

The Hidden Vine is not your average Italian Restaurant. First of all, as the name suggests the place is hidden away down one of the backstreets off the Meat Packing District, about as hidden as any place can be in Lower Manhattan. From the outside the facade smacks of tired, last century Italian—olive green awning, checkered red and white drapes and straw Chianti bottles hanging in the window—but the interior could not be more different. Crisp white tablecloths, sparkling crystal wine glasses and small semi-circular booths of Burgundy leather with high backs ensuring that every table remains secluded puts this establishment on even pegging with any of those on and around Broadway. I have more than a sneaking suspicion that Carlo, the rarely seen owner, stage-managed the contradiction to ensure the place stayed reasonably exclusive. More importantly for me, there’s something comfortable and, let’s face it, gratifying about being in a restaurant where everyone knows you.

As soon as we enter, old Antonio bumbles over to the doorway to greet us. Most of the waiters at the Vine are beyond retirement age, which means service is somewhat unhurried, one of the things I love about the place.

“Ah, Mr. Spencer. How are you this evening? Is it just the two of you?”

“Yes, Antonio.”

“No other gentleman tonight?”

“Just us.”

“Oh, let me guess. This pretty lady must be your sister, yes? We finally get to meet her.”

I had forgotten my usual routine of chatting—probably a little over-enthusiastically and candidly—about my life and my latest male conquests.

“No, Antonio. This is Amanda. My girlfriend.”

“Girlfr—?” he begins to ask, before his gaze swings back to me. Credit where due, he recovers quickly. He tilts his head at me and smiles, discretion being a part of his job description. “My mistake. I am sure you have mentioned Miss Amanda before, but at my age the memory is not so good.”

Once he takes our coats, he leads us to our table. My heart drops when I see Stephan there already, preparing to pour water into our tumblers as we take our seats.

“Stephan,” I say, with a nod.

“Traditore.”

While filling my glass he doesn’t disguise his contempt and splashes in water until the top overflows dampening the tablecloth. Fair enough, too. I’ve learnt the hard way; stand up Italian dates at your peril.

“Oosh,” he says, watching me desperately fold up the napkin to stop water falling into my lap.

“Nice to meet you,” he says to Amanda, not offering me any help. “I pray you have a bulletproof heart.”

After he stomps off, we are left with a basket of bread sticks, water, and a tableful of awkward.

“What did he just call you?” she asks, from behind the menu.

“Traitor.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to eat here?”

“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing softly. “So this was a mistake. You want to go someplace else?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m having a ball. And we haven’t even ordered appetizers yet. Oh, and by the way, you just introduced me as Amanda?”

“And?”

She lowers her menu again, and gives me a look.

“Am I Amanda or Wendy? Make your mind up, Trout.”

I let out a sigh of exasperation.

“Oh hell. I am never going to be able to keep that up.”

“I figured. Which is why I’ve come up with a simple explanation. What’s your given name?”

“You know what it is.”

“Humor me.”

“Peter.”

“And what famous fictional couple do you know whose names are Peter and Wendy?”

“Oh. I know this. Is it Dunphy?”

“No! Not Modern Family! Peter Pan. So explain to people your pet name for me is Wendy, even though you know it’s Amanda. Because you are my Peter and I am your Wendy.”

Okay. So I am a little impressed with Amanda. She’s taken to this little charade like a duck to pancakes. To say she’s excited about the prospect of us fooling a clutch of my family members is an understatement, as though she’s just landed the leading lady role in the romcom movie of my life. Of course, the prospect of being the one to arrange the wedding planners, the venue, the caterers, have her pick of wedding dress designers, organize the wedding gift list—and for her to keep the booty once we’re divorced—has helped somewhat to oil the wheels.

However, there’s a long way to go before we reach the big day, which is why she’s called for this council of war. I get the impression she has been giving the whole pantomime a lot of thought behind the scenes. On the phone, she mentioned having a list of rules we both need to follow, in order to be on the same page. She likened our situation to someone faking a relationship to get a green card, like the movie The Proposal, except our story would be significantly different, both of us already holding American passports. Too right, too, because if anyone’s bumping into a naked Ryan Reynolds, it’s not going to be her.

“Lady and gent,” comes a male voice from nearby, which thankfully does not belong to Stephan. “I am Roberto and I am your waiter this evening. Tonight we have some very nice…” he says, backing towards our table and hauling over the large blackboard with the daily specials. He stops when he turns and spots me and, before I can catch his eye, performs an odd little rotation to take in Amanda. Antonio has clearly not warned him. “Mr. Spencer. A pleasure to see you again. And who is this beautiful—?”

“I’m Amanda,” says Amanda. “Trout’s fiancée.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” says Roberto, flustered, resting the blackboard at the end of the bench. “Shall I leave this with you and come back in five minutes?”

“That would lovely,” says Amanda, with a full smile.

Roberto’s smile fades and he retreats, a look of confusion etched on his brow.

“What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in the kitchen right now,” she says, a smirk on her face.

Something else, however, has caught my attention.

“You know you just introduced yourself as my fiancée, don’t you?”

“I know,” she whispers, without looking up from her menu, “Trying it on for size. And I like it, so let’s go for the upgrade. May as well put this ring to good use. Now, let’s sort out food and then we can talk.”

We both opt for the same house specials; tricolore bruschetta appetizers followed by cod fish in the Vine’s special sauce and penne pasta. I also decide the occasion deserves a nice bottle of Prosecco sparkling wine to share. Once Roberto shuffles off the kitchen again, we get down to business.

“So, how are we going to play this?” I whisper, even though nobody sits anywhere near.

“Okay. Let’s start with you. So I’m sure you know that in the eyes of most eligible straight women, you should have been long settled down by now. Or at least have given the whole idea of settling down a try.”

“You know me. That's never been in the cards.”

“Sure, but for ladies of my age, that sets alarm bells ringing.”

I've heard this so many times. Over the years, I've managed to build up an arsenal of excuses for certain family members and work colleagues for not being hitched—people who I’m fairly certain will make a big deal—from 'haven't met the right person yet' to 'don't worry, got someone perfect in my sights' to 'no time to play, still plugging away at my career', none of which hold even a teaspoonful of truth.

I've also learned to deflect those quizzical, judgmental looks from those who discover this thirty-two year old is still single, as questions form in their minds ending with any or all of the words: gay, divorced, separated, sociopath, serial killer, communist, or failed weatherman.

“The dating game's different for over-thirties men these days. One of the guys at work, who's a lot like you—except straight—recently got married and reckons there are five basic rules, all as important as each other, that a single guy over thirty's got to follow in order to prove his potential to a future wife. Of course, you’re not doing this for me, you understand, but for the people we associate with."

“You're kidding me with this?” I can't help but smirk. “The five commandments for straight, long term relationships for the over thirties. That is so Cosmopolitan?”

“You want to hear or not?”

I snap off the top of a breadstick between my teeth.

“Go on.”

“Okay. The first rule is about being the handyman not the designer around the house. In company, drop into the conversation the things you're fixing up around your own place, even if you're not. Let people know you're useful and practical to have about the house. If you have guests over, fix a few simple things: change a light bulb, hang a picture, or take your time when visiting the bathroom, and, in front of my friends, tell me you fixed the leak under the basin. Doesn’t matter if there isn't one. However, where it comes to matters of taste, whether it's fashion, furniture or interior design, let the woman be the ultimate decision maker. Sure, make suggestions but in the end let her decide.”

“Sounds a tad butch. So I get no say in choosing home furnishings?”

“Of course you get a say. Just let your little woman—”

“You—”

“Yes, me. Let me have the final say.”

I nod thoughtfully at the idea, even though something starts to niggle. Most of the stuff in my apartment isn't mine: the sofa belongs to my father, the pictures to my stepmother. I never knowingly had any opinion about this kind of stuff. Apart from the cool Hockney print on my living room wall.

“Rule number two is proving your social suitability and sportsmanship. In the world of women that means not just getting along with, but impressing her female friends—”

“Honey, you can tick that box right now.”

“Trout, that does not include smack talk about other men’s bulges and butts. You’re supposed to be going for straight, remember?”

“Then what?”

“Flirt with them a bit, but most importantly, listen, or ask their opinion. Remember, a woman's friends are her life support; sounding board, judge and jury, and royal advisors. Mess up bad enough and it's off with your head. If they get even a whiff of the fact you’re not entirely straight, then not only are they going to make sure you’re back on the streets, but if their influence is powerful enough, your muddied reputation will spread faster and wider than the cargo of the Exxon Valdez.”

“So listen to your friends. And flirt, but not too much. I suppose I can give that a go.”

“Not just flirt, impress.”

I take an emergency gulp of Prosecco, before putting the glass back down and steeling myself.

“Okay, I’m ready. What's number three?”

“Tough one this, but important. We live in a world where us women often value our careers more than our male counterparts value theirs."

“Hear you there, sister.”

“I’m making my way up the ladder of the advertising agency, and they seem to favor the settled types when the promotions are being dished out. So be ready to make a sacrifice in case I need you to accompany me to the occasional dinner or social function. Can you do that?”

“Dinners and cocktail parties.”

“And you’ll need to very careful around most of the men I work with.”

“Why? You worried I can’t manage straight talk. You do know I’m a Giant’s fan?”

“No, Trout. Most of the men I work with are gay.”

“Okay,” I reply, but then what she says sinks in. Typical of gay men, they’ll be trying to find signs of me not being entirely straight. When the time comes, that particular rule is going to be a challenge. “Oh, yes, I see. No gay tells. So I’m going to need to butch things up a notch.”

“Not too much. Unlike your friend Doug, you’re not obvious. But be careful around them.”

“Understood.”

“And Trout, until we’re hitched, keep it in your pants. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Trout!”

“Yes, okay. Yes, I’ll refrain. Abstain. Whatever.”

Shit. I’m beginning to wonder if these are really the rules of the straight guy she works with, or if they’re entirely her own.

“Almost there. Number four. The fourth rule, an old chestnut but still up there with the best, is make sure you know things about my family and, just like with my girlfriends, aim to impress. We’re going to be meeting them for the holidays, so I’ll fill you in nearer the time.”

“Are your parents together?”

“Divorced.”

“Touché. Me too.”

“Holidays are a bitch. If I visit mom first, dad gets pissed. If I visit dad first—”

“Mom gets pissed?”

“Actually, not so much pissed, she’s usually wasted by then. She’s partial to egg nog martinis.”

“In which case she’ll get along fine with my stepmother. They sound like kindred spirits. Before I get to meet them, you’ll give me the download?”

“Of course, But that one works both ways. I’ll need to know about yours, too.”

Ugh. That’s not going to be a whole lot of fun.

“So who are you living with right now?”

“My dad and his new wife. In Brooklyn. Not ideal.”

“Hear you there. Anything else I need to know?”

“Yes. When we visit my mother, be friendly to my brother, Franklin,” she says, before looking up and narrowing her gaze at me. “But not too friendly, Trout. Franklin’s straight. No trying for a conversion under my mom’s roof. When we go there—she lives in Portland, Maine—we’ll need to stay over. It’s a five hour drive.”

“A sleep over?”

“Don’t worry. My mother’s a good catholic woman. You’ll have your own room. Or if worse comes to worst, and she has other guests, you’ll bunk in with Franklin. But no touching.”

“Or we could rent a local B and B?”

“Mom wouldn’t hear of it. But we’ll work something out. So last one, number five,” she says, taking a fortifying drink from her glass. “I need to move in with you.”

“Need to….what?”

“I need to move in.”

“With me?”

“Yep.”

“In my apartment? To live in my apartment? With me?”

“Not in the same bed, Trout. You got two bedrooms, yes?”

“Three. Yes, but it seems so fast. And I thought you said your mother was Catholic? How will she feel about us shacking up?’

Okay, so I’m clutching at straws here.

“She is, but I’m my own person. And look at it this way. We’ll be doing this for you, not me. You need to convince your grandmother and the rest of your family this is a legitimate relationship, which includes throwing your cousin off the scent. Yes or no?”

“Of course.”

“Then what better way than getting me to move in. I’m not expecting us to live in each other’s pockets, Trout, but the more cynical people we meet are going to be far more accepting if we’re cohabiting.”

“I guess.”

“Trout, chill will you?” she says, laying a placating hand on my arm. Across the room, I notice Stephan giving Amanda the evil eye. “I’ll split the rent with you.”

“It’s rent free.”

“Then share the bills. Look, all we’re doing is putting up a smokescreen to keep any Doubting Thomases off our backs. Like you said, once we’re married, we wait the six months and then file for divorce. After that everything goes back to normal. How difficult can it be?”

How difficult indeed.