by Matt Dunn
Joanne looks at me like I’m a genius. ‘Well, when you put it like that…Although I do quite like the holidays.’
It’s difficult to tell, given the lack of movement in her facial features, but I’d swear I can see the merest trace of a smile on Joanne’s surgically enhanced lips. And while I know that it’s probably just a temporary mood swing, the sad thing is that the one thing I want to advise her to do, I can’t. Because she can’t. Have kids, that is. And even though there’s very little else to feel sorry for her about, it breaks your heart.
Five minutes later, when I’m writing up my notes, there’s a knock on my door. It’s Jen.
‘What on earth did you say to old Mrs Trout-pout? She positively bounded out of here.’
I shrug. ‘It’s a gift. Besides, I’m afraid I can’t let on, Jen. Client confidentiality, and all that.’
‘I’d watch her, Will, if I were you. You know all about this clients-and-their-therapists lark. I think she’s got a rather soft spot for you.’ Jen shudders. ‘Although having said that, it’d be the only soft spot anywhere on her body.’
‘Now now, Jen. And remember, I’m not a therapist. I’m a life coach.’
Jen makes a face. ‘Whatever.’
Chapter 3
I finish the rest of the day’s appointments by four o’clock, then hurry back home, as I’ve got the first phase of my plan to put into practice before my date this evening. So, following a quick trip to the Toyota garage in Twickenham, I sit down at my kitchen table and switch on my laptop. First task is to log on to Friends Reunited, to find out what most of the girls I knew at school are doing now. I can’t resist checking the male section first, where they all seem to be gaining a family and losing their hair, and it idly occurs to me that maybe the two are linked. I flick through a few of the profiles–including Tom’s, which makes him out to be west London’s answer to Robert De Niro–before turning my attention to the girls. But despite an hour or so of pleasant reminiscence, no potential candidates leap to mind; from what I can remember, the ones that are still single, deserve to be single. The rest of them all seem to be happily married–I suppose my year are too young to be going through divorces just yet–and already have children, or are lesbians, or even (which seems a little unfair to me, given my current lack of a family) lesbians with children. After a fruitless further hour of searching the years above and below me, I’m just about to give up when I spot Debbie Smith’s details.
I don’t remember Debbie all that well, however I seem to recall that she was quite pretty, always wore the shortest skirt and, more importantly, stuck her tongue down my throat one night at the school disco. And although I also seem to remember that she had a bit of a reputation for sticking her tongue down the throat of any boy who so much as looked in her direction, let alone those who’d gone to the trouble of buying her a Coke and a Curly Wurly like I had, she has written something interesting on her profile: ‘I’d love to get together with anyone who remembers me, particularly any guys out there who are tired of being on their own, and feel that three is better than two.’ This is great–she must be feeling broody. Without any hesitation I pay my subscription, write her a quick email saying ‘hi’, and hit ‘send’.
And while a quick snog and a slow dance to Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ was about as far as it went between Debbie and me, it suddenly occurs to me that there must have been other girls who I actually went out with back then, and not necessarily at my school. But when I Google ‘Girlfriends Reunited’, instead of finding a site where I can track down my exes, there’s just a bunch of pornographic lesbian photographs, which I delete. Eventually.
Next, I grab a blank sheet of paper, and make a list of all the women I know. I stare at it for a moment or two, then cross off all those I’ve been out with, which leaves about ten. I then put a line through those people like Barbara or Jen whose situation makes them inappropriate, and then do the same with those people who are unsuitable for other reasons–either they’re too ugly, they’ve already got a boyfriend, or they’re, er, too ugly.
It’s at this stage I realize that I’ve crossed everyone off the list, which kind of confirms a suspicion that I’ve had since yesterday. It’s going to have to be someone new. But Debbie Smith aside, where am I going to find her? And what is it that makes a good mother, exactly? I can hardly phone mine and ask her.
Still, if my date tonight works out, I might not need to track down Debbie, or indeed anyone else, which is why by seven o’clock I’m sitting in Pizza Express in Chiswick, having dinner with Alice–a rather attractive and somewhat top-heavy girl who caught me checking her out at the checkout in Tesco’s on Saturday. But as is my new resolution, I’m trying to look at her as someone who’s a potential mother of my child, rather than just someone who could work as a body-double for Pamela Anderson. Not that her figure isn’t practical, of course; at least the baby would eat well.
It’s not my usual choice of venue for a first date, but this was Alice’s suggestion–her favourite restaurant, in fact–although I’m not quite sure what this says about her. I’m actually not sure what she says about herself either, mainly because she’s only just moved down to London from Sunderland, and I’m having trouble understanding her heavy north-east accent. But I like pizza, even the ungenerously frisbee-sized ones they serve here, and as I sip my sparkling water I try hard to decipher her small talk. I’ve ordered my favourite, Quattro Formaggi, and after I’ve waved away the bored-looking waiter, who’s been leering down Alice’s top while simultaneously brandishing his large, rather phallic pepper grinder at her, I pick up my knife and fork hungrily. But just as I’m about to tuck in, Alice nods towards her plate.
‘For Jesus.’
‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. Of course,’ I say, putting my knife and fork down guiltily.
I can’t remember the last time I heard anyone say grace, and in fact I’ve never been religious, so I don’t know exactly what to do or say in response. I bow my head and stare at my pizza intently for a few seconds, watching as the mozzarella melts temptingly over the crust, wondering how long I should spend in the ‘grace’ position, before remembering that I should perhaps shut my eyes. Thinking about it, I wonder whether Alice’s evident spirituality is a good thing. Because although it occurs to me that it might substantially reduce my chances of sex this evening, it also has its positive side. A child of mine being brought up religiously, and therefore with sound principles? Why ever not?
I’m already picturing myself as the proud dad at Will junior’s first communion, when Alice coughs loudly next to me. I open my eyes and turn to face her.
‘Amen,’ I mumble.
But instead of joining me in what I believe is the customary response, Alice just stares at me strangely. ‘I didn’t know you was religious, like,’ she says.
Is this a trick? Or was my head-bowed reverence so convincing she thinks that when I’m not hanging round supermarkets I’m actually the Bishop of Brentford?
‘Well, I’m not, really. I mean…It’s not that I don’t believe, or anything, or that I do, but…’ I begin to realize that I might be tying myself up in knots, and decide to change the subject. ‘How’s your pizza? What did you order, again?’
Alice still has the same confused look on her face. ‘Like I said. Four cheeses. Same as you.’
‘Ah. Right.’ I take a large gulp of water and hurriedly try and change the subject. ‘So, how do you like it here in London? You must have been relieved to get away from the north-east? With a name like yours?’
Alice frowns. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘Alice in Sunderland?’ I say, then wonder why she’s looking at me blankly. ‘Like the book? By Lewis, er, Carroll?’
As my voice tails off, and I make a note to myself not to take the mickey out of any prospective partner’s name in the future, Alice shrugs, and cuts a huge slice out of her pizza.
‘It’s okay. Chiswick’s nice,’ she says, emphasizing the ‘w’.
‘It’s, er, Chis-ick.’
Alice pauses mid-bite. ‘What?’
‘The “w” is silent.’
‘Silent?’ says Alice, not sure if I’m being serious. ‘That’s a southern thing, is it?’
Forty-five minutes later, I’m starting to wish that Alice would take after the ‘w’ in Chiswick, as she doesn’t stop talking, even when her mouth is full of pizza. I can’t get a word in edgeways, and even my party trick of shoving a couple of dough balls into my cheeks and doing my best Marlon Brando in the Godfather impression doesn’t shut her up. What makes it worse is that the more red wine she drinks, the thicker her accent becomes, and by the time I eventually drop her off at her flat–as well as off my ever-so-short shortlist–I can’t even tell if her ‘You for coffee?’ is actually her way of wanting to prolong the evening or telling me to get lost.
I head back into Richmond and realize that it’s still early, but past Jack and Ellie’s bedtime, so it should be safe to give Tom a call. When I suggest a beer, he sounds a little puzzled.
‘On a school night? Besides, I thought you were supposed to be on a date with that girl from Newcastle?’ says Tom, putting on his best Tyneside accent so the last word comes out like ‘nuke-hassle’.
‘Sunderland. And I was. We went out for pizza. And I’ve ditched her to come and have a beer with you, which should give you some idea of just how well it went.’
‘Pizza? She didn’t fancy trying your meat feast, like?’
‘Very funny, Tom. And by the way, you sound more like someone with learning difficulties than someone from the north-east.’
‘Booger off, mun,’ says Tom, as if he’s suddenly moved to Pakistan. Despite his drama-school background, accents aren’t exactly his strong point. In fact, I’m not sure what his strong point actually is, apart from playing the slightly porky thirty-something dad.
He’s still chuckling when I ring on his doorbell a few minutes later, but when he follows me outside, his face changes abruptly.
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘My new car. Potentially.’
Tom stares in disbelief at the hulking silhouette of the Toyota. ‘That’s not a car. It’s something straight out of Desert Storm. Does the US Military know you’ve pinched one of their vehicles?’
‘It’s a Rav 4.’
‘“Rav” as in “raving mad”, I suppose? What’s wrong with your sporty little babe-magnet? Don’t tell me it’s broken down again?’
‘No. But it’s a baby-magnet I need now. So I’m test-driving this.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘The TVR’s hardly a practical car, is it? Besides, all parents have to drive a four-by-four. It’s practically the law in west London.’
This is true, although while the centre of Richmond is usually forced to a standstill at school-run times by these huge vehicles, the most off-road they ever get is when they pull onto the pavement to drop little Rupert and Rupetta off at the gates.
Tom sighs. ‘May I just remind you that you don’t even have a baby yet. Or a woman to make one with. So why the sudden need to change your transportation?’
‘Because I want everything to be right. The fewer changes I have to make at the time the better. I want the potential mother of my child to look at me and see that everything’s in place. That I’m prepared for all eventualities. So the trappings of my so-called bachelor lifestyle have got to go. And that starts with the car.’
Tom grabs me by the shoulders. ‘Will, listen to me. The rest of us fathers only do those things because we have to. Not voluntarily. Most of us would kill for a car like yours. Believe me, you want to hold on to that stuff until the last possible minute, because it’ll be a long, long time before you’ll see anything like it again. Except driven by other people, that is.’
‘No, Tom, you’re wrong. When I finally meet the woman who’s going to be the perfect mother, I don’t want anything about me to scare her off. Anything. I want her to look at me and say, “There’s someone who knows what he wants, who’s thought about what he needs to do to run this parenthood lark successfully, and who’s prepared to make all sorts of sacrifices to make sure that happens.”’
‘And a trip down to Toyotas R Us is going to achieve that for you, is it?’ Tom opens the door and peers into the back. ‘Besides, how many kids are you thinking of having?’
‘Mate, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, the big car isn’t for the kids. It’s for all the kids’ stuff. Pushchairs. Toys. Changes of clothes. By the time you and Barbara get the Volvo loaded up for anything more than a drive around the block, there’s hardly room for Jack and Ellie in there, let alone the two of you.’
‘Maybe so, but this…’ Tom just shakes his head. ‘Half the reason I hang around with you is so I get to go in your flash car once in a while.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘And you never even let me drive it once,’ says Tom sulkily.
I suppose I am, or rather was, a little bit anal about my car. ‘Tom, there are some things in life that are sacred, and the TVR was mine. Besides, I’ve seen the number of dents you’ve got on the Volvo.’
Tom sighs and climbs into the passenger side of the Toyota, shutting the door with an echoing thud. ‘To the pub,’ he orders. ‘To the pub.’
‘Why did you say it twice?’
He grins. ‘I didn’t.’
Ten minutes later, after I’ve made the pleasant discovery that speed bumps are no longer an exhaust-scraping hazard, while at the same time making Tom bump his head painfully against the roof, we’re sitting in our favourite pub, the City Barge, at a table overlooking the Thames. Even though he’s already had his dinner this evening, Tom’s ordered a plate of nachos, on the strict understanding that I don’t tell Barbara.
As I sip my beer, Tom dips a nacho into the pot of sour cream on the table, pops it into his mouth, and grimaces, before picking up the cream and sniffing it.
‘Do you think this has gone off?’ he says, offering me some to try.
I wave the pot away. ‘Tom, it’s sour cream. How could you tell?’
‘So–your Tyneside lass not quite right for the task in hand?’ he asks, picking up another nacho.
‘Nah. She was nice-looking, but…It’s just reinforced that I can’t base this search on looks alone. They might be nice eye-candy—’
‘Or in her case, why-aye candy,’ interrupts Tom, scooping up some guacamole.
‘Exactly. But I can’t let that be the most important factor. I’ve got to look for someone a little more…’
‘Mumsy?’
I shudder a little. ‘But not too mumsy. I’ve got to think about how the child’s going to look. After all, there’s no guarantee it’s going to take after me.’
‘I know,’ says Tom. ‘It’s funny how Jack and Ellie both look like Barbara.’
‘Fortunately,’ I add, thinking that they’re twins, so it’s highly unlikely that they’re going to look different to each other. ‘But I can’t go too far down that road, as I’ll obviously want to keep sleeping with her after the baby’s born.’
Tom laughs bitterly. ‘Oh I wouldn’t worry about that.’
‘What do you mean?’
He puts his pint glass down. ‘Have you any idea what having a baby does to your sex life?’
‘I’ve got a dreadful feeling you’re not going to say “improves it beyond belief”?’
‘Stops it. Dead. And I mean dead. I tell you, mate, when you’re trying to get pregnant, it’s morning, noon and night. Which initially is great. But then you start to feel like you do at one of those all-you-can-eat restaurants, so much so that you might even start feigning headaches occasionally. And then when she’s pregnant?’ He rolls his eyes. ‘You might think that all the hard work’s been done. Well, you’re wrong, because that’s when the hormones really kick in, and you can’t get her off you. And the irony is, while she’s feeling extra-horny, you fancy her less because she’s getting, you know, fat, plus you’r
e worried about having sex with her because there’s someone else to think about–and you don’t want to poke their little eye out with your—’
I sit back in my chair. ‘Whoa! That’s a little too much information, mate.’
Tom stops speaking momentarily, possibly because of the look of horror on my face, and then breaks into a grin. ‘You need to hear this, Will. Because if you think that’s bad, consider what happens once the baby’s born. What you’ve got then is the prospect of no sex for the first few months because either she’s too sore, or too self-conscious, or you’re too worried because you can’t quite get out of your head the sight of the last thing you saw emerging from her’–he points to his crotch–‘girly bits down there. I’ll tell you, I’ve not taken so many cold showers in my life. Even on the odd occasion when you find that she’s actually in the mood, it’s been so long for you that you reach the old “they think it’s all over…it is now” stage a lot sooner than you’d like.’
‘Tom, please.’
‘And then after the first six months you’d think things would be better, but oh no, because by that time, even if you’re lucky, the two of you are still getting only a few hours’ shut-eye each night, and so the only thing you actually want to do in bed is sleep. And then after a year or so, when you finally get the kids into some sort of regular sleep pattern, you’re so worried about disturbing them that you don’t dare do anything that might make the slightest bit of noise, for fear of waking them up and having them marching into the bedroom and seeing Daddy and Mummy in a position that’s going to give them a complex for the rest of their lives.’