Commitment Issues: Commitment Issues, #1

By Bradley Brady

When Evan's blind date with Scott ends with a marriage proposal he can't believe the 'yes' that pops out of his mouth. Is it really possible to avoid all the drama of dating and just fast track a relationship to the commitment stage? There's only one way to find out. And what will their friends and family think of this instant romance: Mel, the happy matchmaker with a marriage gone stale? Frankie, Scott's 'fairy godfather', who suspects Evan's motives? Sally, Evan's younger sister, whose long engagement shows no signs of ending? Will Evan and Scott live happily ever after, or is love at first sight only a fairy tale...

Commitment Issues is a modern romance, exploring how we fall in love, forge relationships and form a lasting bond in the age of dating apps, equal marriage and changing priorities. It reflects real life, with its moments of comedy, flashes of drama and tough decisions to make. If you "love love", then you will fall head over heels for this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bradley Brady
• Release date: May 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386427155

Bradley Brady

Bradley Brady has always been one of life's dabblers. His questionable career choices have included record store proprietor, researcher for a Member of Parliament, communications regulator and a stint at the Equality and Human Rights Commission. Seven  years ago, he relocated from the UK to Los Angeles with his husband, which gave Bradley the opportunity to change careers once again and realise his dreams of becoming an author. Bradley describes his Commitment Issues novel series as "rom-com-dram-edy", allowing him to explore his deep fascination with interpersonal relationships.

Book preview

PART ONE: PROPOSAL

DATE NIGHT

‘Buggering hell.’

Evan skidded through the door of the restaurant, his leather soles losing traction on the slick marble floor. He grabbed at a nearby sturdy yucca and avoided ending up completely horizontal.

‘May I help you?’

The hostess’ slight smile dissolved into a sneer, confirming to Evan that the drowned rat look he was sporting was assuredly not in vogue.

‘Hi, yes. I’m meeting somebody for dinner, but I wonder if I might freshen up a bit first?’

‘Certainly, sir. The toilets are down those stairs.’ The route indicated should allow Evan a chance to repair the worst of the rain damage without being spotted by his date.

The toilet was small and dingy, but at least it had a mirror and a hot air dryer. Evan picked soggy bits of the magazine he had used as a makeshift umbrella out of his hair. So much for making an effort, that was fifty quid literally down the drain. His runway-ready ‘do now looked more like an advert for merkins.

Why had he allowed Mel to set him up with one of the losers from her office? Thanks to her, he was once again stuck in his Friday night dating ritual: running late, wearing his tightest jeans, with an early exit plan on standby.

What was this guy’s name again? Evan pulled out his phone and checked the calendar. Scott, that was it. When he asked Mel to describe him, she had struggled to come up with firm adjectives, but was keen to stress he was not your usual type. Evan could only assume this meant he wasn’t getting lucky tonight.

*****

Scott peered at the menu, giving the impression that he was carefully considering the options. In reality, his brain was frozen. It had been decades since he had last been on a date. How hard could it be? Chat, drink, eat, drink, bill, home. Drink.

Scott had arrived ridiculously early and loitered outside the little Italian restaurant before a surprise rain shower forced him in. It was the tourist version of an authentic trattoria: bulbous bottles of straw-covered Chianti lined wooden shelves and fake bunches of grapes hung from the ceiling. Subdued lighting and Italian popera barely created an atmosphere, but what did you expect in the West End?

Scott had ordered a fortifying glass or two of Pinot Noir to help calm his nerves. He’d moved on to a fruity Chianti. Scott couldn’t say when enjoying a drink tipped over into alcoholism, but was reasonably sure he wasn’t there yet. He could stop if he wanted to. It was just that since Patrick...

He put the menu aside and looked around to see if there was any sign of his date. Mel had warned him that punctuality was not one of Evan’s virtues. Why had he let her talk him into this? He waved the waiter over to order another drink... make that a bottle.

*****

Evan emerged from the men’s room a few minutes later, hairstyle restored for the most part, and returned to the lobby. The hostess cast a rolling eye over Evan, gave a little shrug and asked: ‘Your party’s name, sir?’

‘The table’s under my name, Evan King.’

‘This way please.’ She led him through the packed dining room like a minesweeper with precognition. Evan guessed they must have squeezed in as many small round tables as the London Fire Brigade would allow.

‘Here we are, sir.’ The hostess indicated the empty chair at the table.

Evan’s date was studying the label on a bottle of wine with surprising concentration, as if looking for the instructions. He put the bottle down, then stood. Evan gave him a quick once-over. He was tall: good. Dressed like an accountant: bad. Borderline handsome: slight resemblance to Colin Firth, post-Mr Darcy, but pre-King George. Evan noticed the held-out hand.

‘Hi, I’m Scott.’

Evan took his hand; it was warm and large. Scott was beaming at him, one of those smiles that the recipient has no choice but to return. Evan felt a wave of tension leave his body. What the hell, he was here now. He might at least try and enjoy himself.

*****

Scott’s heart had started to beat ridiculously fast when Evan arrived. He was fairytale handsome. What was Mel thinking? He was way out of Scott’s league. Evan had one of those immaculately symmetrical faces, where all the features matched and were in perfect proportion. His eyes were song lyric blue... almost unnatural. Every golden hair on his head seemed to have been precision-placed. His deep purple jacket and pale blue shirt perfectly coordinated with the dark blue jeans, which fitted like a second skin. The top three buttons of Evan’s shirt were undone, giving a tantalising glimpse at his chest, which looked lightly tanned and hairless. And he smelled like summer and sunshine and sex. Not for the first time in recent years, Scott concluded he was just not gay enough.

‘This looks like a great place. You come here often?’ Scott asked, wincing that he had used the cheesiest of cheesy chat-up lines.

‘No, first time. Mel recommended it.’ Evan either didn’t hear the cliché or had chosen to ignore it. ‘The menu looks OK. Proper Italian food. Calzones, not pizzas. Always a good sign.’

‘I was thinking about the lasagne. I love it, but can’t bear frozen. It always seems too much effort to cook it from fresh when it’s only me. I do love cooking, though.’ This is riveting, Scotty. Let’s talk more about frozen foods and sad little dinners for one.

‘You cook?’ Evan asked. ‘I’m afraid microwave-meals-for-one are more my thing. I’m brilliant at piercing film and pushing buttons.’ Evan mimed his standard meal preparation and seemed pleased to raise a chuckle from Scott.

‘You’ll have to let me cook for you. I do a mean Sunday roast with all the trimmings.’ For pity’s sake, stop talking! Why stop at Sunday lunch? Why don’t I invite you to move in!

‘Sure, that would be nice. Sometime.’ Evan had returned his gaze to the menu.

Scott wondered if Evan could sense his discomfort. Evan must know the effect he had on men. Especially men like Scott. Thankfully, the waiter was approaching, giving Scott a chance to regroup.

*****

As Scott gave his order to the waiter, Evan completed his initial assessment. It appeared that Scott had taken the brave decision to rely on Mother Nature to take care of things. There was not a sign of a hair plug, fake tan, or Botox injection. Not that he looked too old, definitely still pre-daddy era. He was a decent seven. And a half.

It was Evan’s turn to order. He declined Scott’s offer to share an appetiser, he would nibble at a breadstick instead. Evan ordered the second cheapest salad. The waiter took the menus with a tiny bow and departed.

Silence. The worst thing about blind dates.

Evan liked to believe that it was possible to read someone’s mind if you could only unlock that innate psychic ability. He wished he had that skill now, as he had no idea what to say. He gave his date an encouraging smile.

Scott smiled back. ‘Mel tells me you’re in PR. Sounds interesting.’

‘Does it? It has its moments, I suppose.’

‘Ever represented anyone famous?’

‘Depends where you set that bar. I’ve managed some corporate events where celebrities have appeared. Don’t get excited; we’re talking daytime TV and reality shows, not Beyoncé.’

‘It must be more fun than my job. I spent the day discussing the future of hearing aids.’

‘I don’t know, at least hearing aids have an off switch, unlike Fearne Cotton.’ Evan stifled a yawn. ‘Mel tells me it’s been a while since your last date.’

Evan saw a flash of panic cross Scott’s face.

‘Yes, you could say that.’

‘You’re lucky. I seem to have cornered the market in terrible dates.’ Evan wondered why Scott looked upset, then realised what he’d said. ‘Present company excluded.’ Evan at least had the decency to blush.

Scott laughed; not the response Evan had expected. ‘The night is young, I’m sure if we try, we could make this a monumentally bad date.’

Evan leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘Do you have any particular suggestions?’

‘I could rank all the UK Eurovision entries since 1957 in ascending order of campness.’

A smile tried to take control of Evan’s mouth. ‘You’ll need to try harder than that. I mean really terrible. Like my mother is my best friend bad.’

‘Challenge accepted.’ Scott stroked his chin. ‘Would you prefer to hear about my brother’s beer mat collection or my Nan’s hip operation?’

The smile broke free. ‘I’m not sure which is worse. At least the hip serves a purpose, I suppose.’

‘If you like that, she’s also on the waiting list for a new knee. I can tell you all you need to know about the brittle bones of the elderly.’

Evan was fully laughing now. ‘Please do. I can never hear enough about osteoporosis.’

Scott raised his hands in surrender. ‘If you insist. I would usually save that level of detail for a second date.’

Evan met Scott’s smiling eyes across the table. Mel was right, damn her: he was different.

GIRLS’ NIGHT

Bored with blindly deleting the week’s amassed emails, Mel put down her phone and surveyed the bar. The Red Lion was heaving as usual, being the closest pub to Parliament. Mel loved its sticky carpet realness. When she’d worked as a Labour Party researcher, she’d spent many a happy night getting legless with the more indiscreet Members of Parliament while they waited for the 10pm votes. The Division Bell would ring, and they would have to quickly down their drinks and rush across the street to the Palace to make it to the voting lobbies before the doors were locked. Democracy at its finest. This was in the days before they introduced family-friendly working hours, which now meant they all had to go home to their wives instead.

Sally was now almost an hour late and it had been at least ten minutes since the last apologetic text promising she was just leaving. Ever since she’d become a special advisor in Number 10, she’d never been on time for anything.

Mel had arrived early to secure one of the coveted tables. She regretted downing her large vodka and coke so quickly, as the table vultures were circling. Being a black woman with a buzz cut meant she was rarely challenged, but she couldn’t hold the table on her own for much longer with an empty glass. Mel would give her five more minutes.

It was not like she was in a great rush to get home. She was sure by now Carl would have left an imprint on the sofa: beer in one hand, PlayStation controller in the other...

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ Sally materialised in front of her, panting. ‘It’s taken me nearly ten minutes to squeeze through this crowd. I picked this up on the way, though.’ She waved a bottle of wine at Mel.

‘You’re forgiven. What was the drama today then?’ Mel took the bottle from Sally and poured out two huge helpings.

‘You know what it’s like, I kept trying to leave and then the PM would have another question about something in her weekend pack. I swear she needs a two-page briefing to tell her which pair of kitten heels to wear.’ Sally paused to take a healthy swig of wine.

‘Don’t worry, Sal, you’re free now. And it’s recess next week, things will quiet down.’ Mel topped her up.

‘I wish. She’s staying at Chequers and wants me to go up for a few days to start work on the Queen’s Speech. Nightmare. All the wonks are going. It will be duller than a Lib Dem manifesto.’

‘You should fit right in.’

‘Ha, bloody ha.’ Sally topped the glasses up once more. ‘Anyway, darling, enough about me. How’s life in the third sector? Saved any orphans lately?’

‘Nope, might have created a few. Another bloody week where the deaf refuse to magically regain the gift of hearing, despite all my efforts. Talk about selfish. No more work talk. Can we focus on the wine and the gossip?’

‘Agreed. On that note, I hear you’ve set my darling sibling up on yet another blind date tonight.’

Mel watched as Sally ripped open a bag of crisps and positioned them mid-table. This would undoubtedly be the most nutritious thing they’d eat that evening.

‘Mmm-hmm, that’s right. Against my better judgement I set him up with Scott, our Head of Policy. Have you met him?’ Mel studied the crisps. Surely one or two wouldn’t hurt.

Sally shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. Was he at that god-awful roundtable on tinnitus you forced me to come to?’

‘That was an important seminar for a major campaign.’ Deep down Mel knew it had been a total yawn-fest. ‘Yes, he was there, but you may not have noticed him. He’s a sweetie, but can be a bit of a wallflower.’

‘And yet you still set him up with my brother?’ Sally sprayed tiny bits of crisp as she spoke. ‘Poor chap doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. Mind you, poor Evan. A new man every other week, and not one of them stays.’ Sally looked at her glass in confusion.

Mel easily decoded Sally’s thoughts. ‘Yes, you’re allowed a second glass, dear. Evan seems a bit down lately. He was talking about giving up men completely.’

‘That is worrying, it would be like the Queen giving up corgis.’

‘Indeed. We had a long talk about what it was he was looking for and he said he wanted to find a nice guy, settle down and buy a cat.’ Mel took another swig, determined not to fall behind Sally. For such a petite woman, five-feet-nothing in her heels, Sally could certainly hold her alcohol. ‘We’d better get another bottle.’

‘And some more crisps. Maybe some nuts too? Yes, Evan has been a bit blue lately. You think this whatsisname could be the one?’ Sally upended the wine bottle to drain the last few precious drops into her glass.

‘Scott? He’s not Evan’s usual type. He’s sensible, gentle and a bit, well, dull. No, that’s too harsh, he’s... ordinary.’

‘Evan could use some ordinary in his life. That boy’s been living the life of a soap opera landlady since he was five years old. Amusing as that can be, I’d like to see him settled.’

‘You and me both. To be honest, I’m more worried about Scott. He lost his partner last year. Cancer or something. He told me this was his first date since.’

Sally laughed. ‘Lord help the poor chap. Talk about in at the deep end. I’m sure we’ll hear all the gory details tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get both sides of the story for a change, if Scott isn’t too traumatised. Do you mind if we switch to a nice red?’

‘Oh. Does that mean Tom will be joining us? He still thinks white wine is a girl’s drink then?’

Sally bit her lip. ‘You know what he’s like. Is that ok?’ Without waiting for Mel’s answer, Sally disappeared into the crowd in an effort to reach the bar.

Mel quietly fumed. So much for girls’ night.

MR RIGHT?

‘You’re nothing like I expected.’ Scott could tell from Evan’s arched eyebrow that he had misunderstood. ‘I mean, the way Mel described you, I thought you’d take one look at me and make up some excuse to leave.’ Evan still looked puzzled. ‘I’m not explaining this well, am I? It’s only that Mel said you were damn hot - her words... which is an understatement, I might add. I thought you wouldn’t be that interested in me.’

Evan smiled. ‘Mel said that? Don’t be silly, I’m hardly Brad Pitt.’

‘No, you’re better looking.’ Scott reached across the table and rested his hand on Evan’s. He felt a sudden tingle when their skin touched: a pulse of electricity flooded his body, waking dormant cells.

‘Nice recovery there. I assume Mel covered more than my looks. No doubt she’s told you I’ve been, how should I put this... unlucky in love?’

Scott thought this time before engaging his mouth. ‘She might have mentioned you’d not found Mr Right yet.’

‘Mr Right? I’ve not even found Mr Moderately OK. I guess I’ve always wanted a proper boyfriend. You know, like the ones in chick flicks that are always supportive and understanding, whatever crazy shenanigans the heroine gets up to.’

‘Do men like that exist in real life?’ Scott asked.

‘Apparently not. Only in the imagination of movie scriptwriters, I suppose. Most men I’ve dated are only after one thing.’

‘Don’t tell me, I know this one. Your collection of Royal Wedding tea towels?’

Evan laughed. ‘I do have them going back to Princess Anne. The first marriage to the horsey guy.’

Scott stroked the back of Evan’s hand. ‘Personally, I gave up after Diana. Couldn’t bear the thought of rubbing Fergie’s face on my fine china.’

‘Perish the thought.’ Evan had a fit of the giggles.

The waiter appeared with their food. Scott loved the ritual of an Italian meal being served: the offering of the hilariously phallic pepper grinder, the generous grating of the parmesan. It was all very civilised and added to the anticipation of the meal.

Finally, it was time to take a bite. Scott let out a low moan of pleasure.

‘It’s that good?’ Evan asked.

Scott blushed. ‘Sorry, but yes, it is that good.’

‘It’s been a while since I heard a reaction like that. To food anyway.’ Evan winked at Scott.

Wow, is he actually into me? It dawned on Scott where this might all be leading. It had been so long. Too long. Maybe he should slow things down. ‘How did you and Mel meet?’

‘At university, Southampton. We were on the same course: Communication and Media Studies. Then after graduation we both moved to London and shared a flat. That is until she met Carl.’

‘What’s he like?’ Scott had always wondered about Mel’s home life, but was too intimidated to ask her for details.

‘He’s a nice enough guy, but not what you’d call a great conversationalist. She met him in a club, fell madly in love. Or at least her vagina did.’ Evan paused. ‘Don’t go repeating any of this to Mel; you know what she’s like.’

‘No, of course not. Just between us.’

‘Anyway, five minutes later she moved in with him. Then five minutes after that she announced they were getting married. I tried talking her out of it - they seemed such an odd fit - but you know Mel.’

‘They’ve been together a while, it must work?’ Scott did his best to sound only casually interested.

‘I suppose. Mel does her own thing these days, but they seem happy enough. I was relieved to finally be living on my own. At last a flat with no knickers drying on the bathroom radiator.’

Scott laughed. ‘I’m sure that was a relief.’

‘It was. I missed her, though. I always say Mel’s my sister from another mister.’

‘I always wanted a sister.’

‘I have a biological one too,’ Evan said. ‘Sally. She works at Number 10. A Tory through and through. It was quite the scandal for my poor leftie parents. To this day they wonder if it was something they did.’

‘Perhaps it’s a phase she’s going through. I hear there are conversion therapies available. Prayer can sometimes help too.’

‘I’ll suggest that to Mum and Dad.’

The silence returned, but this time it was comfortable. They ate and smiled, then ate and smiled some more.

‘Tell me about your family. Any siblings?’ Evan asked.

‘An older brother, Mark. He’s great, runs a bar in the West End.’

‘How cool. Do your parents approve of his choice of career?’

Scott took a breath. ‘Our parents died when we were young. Car crash. Our grandparents brought us up. That’s it, family-wise.’ Scott hated revealing this tragedy to people; it always elicited pity. It was so far in the past he felt guilty that he no longer felt the weight of sadness he saw reflected in the faces of those he told.

‘I’m sorry...’

‘It’s fine. It was a long, long time ago. Mark looked out for me. He got me through when Patrick died.’ Scott worried this anecdote had a bigger body count than a Tarantino movie. ‘Sorry, Patrick was my partner. Mel might have mentioned—’

‘Yes.’ Evan patted Scott’s hand. ‘Don’t feel you need to talk about it if you’re not ready.’

‘It was cancer, we had time to... obviously that doesn’t fully prepare you for...’

Evan squeezed Scott’s hand again. ‘I’d love to hear more about him. Sometime.’

Scott took a deep breath, looked at Evan and smiled. ‘Let’s change the subject. How about a game? Likes and dislikes?’

‘OK, then,’ Evan said. ‘Gaga?’

‘Second rate Madonna?’

‘Correct. Graham Norton?’

Scott frowned. ‘He makes me laugh, funny guy. Quite cute too.’

‘Half right. Tony Blair?’

‘I rather liked him. I think he got a rough deal with the whole Iraq thing. I know that’s not the popular view.’

‘Wrong, but points for originality. OK, your turn.’

Scott smiled at Evan’s boyish enthusiasm. He fumbled for a name. ‘Adele?’

‘Goddess, duh. Next!’

‘Stephen Fry?’

‘England’s patron saint. Someone controversial; these are too easy.’

‘Alright,’ Scott racked his brains. ‘Céline Dion?’

‘Ooh, clever. You can tell a lot about someone from their stance on Céline. I happen to think she’s both fabulous and hilarious. I only wished she’d kept that snaggletooth she had at Eurovision. I should warn you that I have a detailed opinion on any given diva, dead or alive.’

‘That’s good to know.’ Scott hadn’t enjoyed himself this much since... He chased the last lump of lasagne around his plate.

When he looked up, he saw Evan biting his lip. Were those tears in his eyes? Dreading the answer, Scott asked, ‘Are you alright?’

Evan appeared to grasp for an explanation. ‘I’m sorry, Scott. You’re a lovely guy, but I don’t think I can do this.’

SEPARATE INTERESTS

‘Mel, you old tart, how lovely to see you.’ Tom squeezed his large frame into the bench seat, squashing Mel into one corner.

‘Tom, always a pleasure, never a chore.’ Mel removed her handbag from under Tom’s flabby arse and put it between her feet. She and Evan had privately nicknamed Sally and Tom Beauty and the Beast, as he was easily twice Sally’s size. Unfortunately, true love’s kiss had so far failed to turn Tom into a handsome prince.

‘How was your day, dearest?’ Sally handed her fiancé a large glass of red. ‘Working on the election battle plans again?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Tom replied, taking a healthy swig of the wine. ‘Nothing I can talk about, you understand. Hush, hush.’ Tom tapped his nose to emphasise the level of secrecy required. ‘Especially in front of the enemy.’ He settled an accusing look on Mel.

Mel dreaded the conversation turning to politics this early on. It would inevitably lead to her and Tom arguing about one or other hot topic, with a guarantee that their positions would be diametrically opposed. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Central Office, Tom. Let’s talk about something else. Sally and I have been speculating about how Evan’s blind date is going. I’ve set him up with a friend from work.’

‘Really? Have you never heard the phrase don’t dip your pen in the work ink?’

‘Yes, I have, but it’s not my pen that’s being dipped, so to speak. Anyway, Scott’s a sweetie. He’s exactly what Evan needs.’

Tom muttered something and started checking messages on his phone.

Mel rolled her eyes, but was secretly pleased her tactic of mentioning Evan’s love life had its usual effect of silencing her nemesis.

‘Come on, you two. Play nicely,’ Sally said.

Mel estimated that her friend had consumed the best part of a bottle of wine by now. ‘I am being nice.’ Mel elbowed Tom in his ample midriff. ‘Aren’t I, Tom, dearest?’

No response.

‘Did you hear Marie’s getting married?’ Sally asked.

‘What, really?’ Mel reluctantly turned her attention away from tormenting Tom.

‘Yes, to some bloke she met skiing. Sylvester, or something like that.’

‘I never thought that mousey little number would land a man. Good for her. I’m assuming it is a man and not a cartoon cat?’

Sally smiled. ‘You are wicked. She showed me a photo. He looks perfectly normal.’

‘Then they should get on famously. Marie has taken being normal to a new level of tedium.’ Mel sensed an opportunity. ‘That must