by Matt Dunn
I sincerely hope it will be. ‘Oh, yes, hello. It’s Will Jackson. I’m just calling to get my results?’
‘Hello, Mr Jackson. I’ll put you straight through to Dr Scott.’
Put me straight through to the doctor? Straight through? Is something wrong? Why do I need to speak to her? Surely it’s just a case of getting the scores on the doors. Marks out of ten. Or does she want me to come in so she can break the bad news to me in person?
After what seems like an eternity listening to a very bad electronic version of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Happy Birthday’, which I assume they’ve chosen on purpose, Dr Scott comes on the line.
‘Hello, Mr Jackson. And how are we this morning?’
I swallow hard, and hope she doesn’t notice the trembling in my voice. ‘Well, that’s kind of what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’
‘Hold on one second,’ she says. ‘I’ve got your results right in front of me.’
There’s a shuffling of papers, and I almost expect her to announce ‘and the winner is…’
‘Well, your sperm count is in excess of twenty million per millilitre…’ she says matter-of-factly.
Twenty million! I suddenly feel like I’ve won the lottery. Twenty million–and only one has to get through.
‘…with a motility of twenty-nine per cent.’
That suddenly stops me in my tracks. Twenty-nine per cent. That’s less than a third. Little more than a quarter, in fact. But surely even a quarter of twenty million is still good? I’m beginning to wish that I’d asked Tom what I should be expecting.
‘Ah. So is that good or bad?’
‘Well, it’s in the ninetieth percentile for a man of your age.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I clear my throat. ‘So is that good or bad?’
‘It’s good, Mr Jackson. It means you’ve got no problems. Everything else–morphology, speed, concentration–seems fine…’
As Dr Scott reels off a myriad of medical terms, I zone out for a moment or two. I’ve heard the words ‘no problems’, which is all I really wanted to know.
‘So, as I said,’ continues Dr Scott, ‘you should have no difficulty becoming a father. Assuming…’
‘Assuming?’
‘Well, assuming that your partner doesn’t have any problems.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve got to find her first,’ I blurt out, aware that that might prove to be the biggest problem of all.
‘We posted a copy of these results to you last night,’ says Dr Scott. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t arrived yet.’
I’m surprised too. The postman’s already been this morning, and there was certainly nothing…Bollocks.
‘What address did I give you?’
‘Hold on one second, and I’ll just check.’
There’s the sound of someone typing on a keyboard, and then Dr Scott comes back on the line. And the address she reads out isn’t my home address, but my office address. Where Jen opens the post…
Five minutes later, I burst breathlessly into reception to find Jen sitting there, flicking through a magazine. I try and turn my headlong rush into a casual stroll before she notices, but it’s too late.
‘Why are you so out of breath?’ she asks.
‘Lift…’ I pant. ‘Broken.’
As if on cue, the lift doors ping open, and Kate from the end office emerges into reception, causing Jen to peer at me strangely. I ignore her questioning gaze and hastily scan the desk in front of her. Miraculously, she doesn’t seem to have started on today’s post yet–her issue of Cosmo and the large chocolate muffin she’s half concealed underneath it seemingly more urgent. I reach over and scoop up the letters, which I’m relieved to see include what’s obviously the one from the clinic, before heading down the corridor and into my office.
I have quite a busy day again, so don’t really have time to reflect on my good news. By three o’clock, I’ve just about finished with my last client when my phone goes. It’s Tom.
‘What’re you up to?’ he asks.
‘Just finished, actually.’
‘Bloody part-timer,’ says Tom.
‘That’s rich, coming from someone who’s unemployed for most of the year.’
‘I’m not unemployed,’ counters Tom. ‘Actors are never unemployed. I’m “resting”.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Yes. Anyway, I thought you might want to come with me when I pick the twins up this afternoon.’
‘Fine,’ I say, pleased at any opportunity to see Jack and Ellie.
‘Great,’ says Tom. ‘Meet me round the corner from the school in ten minutes. And try not to look shifty.’
‘Shifty? What are you talking about? And why can’t I meet you there?’
‘Just in case I’m late. A strange man hanging around on his own by the gates might attract the wrong sort of attention.’
‘I’m not strange.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ says Tom. ‘Oh, and by the way–did you get your results today?’
‘Yup,’ I say. ‘Pass. A-star, actually. So it’s all systems go.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Best two hundred quid I’ve spent in a long time. Now I can—’
‘Two hundred quid?’ interrupts Tom. ‘Bloody hell–they must have seen you coming!’
At that, Tom starts laughing, and he’s still laughing right up until I put the phone down.
Ten minutes later, I meet him as directed, and as we stroll round the corner and towards Jack and Ellie’s school, I see exactly what he was talking about the other day. Because there seem to be an awful lot of women waiting outside the gates. Well-dressed, good-looking women too, their hair expensively cut or scraped back off their tanned faces, and with tight jeans revealing pert backsides. I point out one particularly attractive brunette to Tom.
‘Oh–that’s Eva. She’s an au pair.’
‘And the rest of them? Au pairs too, I guess, by the looks of them.’
‘Nope.’ Tom lowers his voice and leans in close to me, as if he’s letting me in on a big secret. ‘Like I was telling you. They’re the mummies.’
‘But they look…’
‘Yummy?’ Tom grins. ‘I know.’
‘But how come they…’ I’m still a little speechless at the array of talent on offer.
‘Think about it. These are West London Wives. What else do you think they do with themselves while the kids are at school? They certainly don’t spend all day on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors of those mansions they live in. While little Tarquin does his ABCs, and hubby’s working at the investment bank, their lives are one long cycle of going to the gym, playing tennis, having their hair and nails done, and then meeting their similarly well-manicured friends for lunch or coffee. If you spent that amount of time working on yourself, I guarantee you’d look that good too.’
‘I do. Look that good. In a male sort of way, I mean. But anyway–what’s your point?’
Tom smiles hello to a couple of the women. ‘My point, young William, is this. Even though there’s going to be a period of time when this mother-figure you’re looking for might not be quite as slim and sweet-smelling as you might like, there’ll eventually be a period when all the hard work’s done–at least when the kid is packed off to school–and she can start turning herself back into the sort of woman you might want to sleep with again–out of longing, rather than duty, I mean. So bear that in mind when you’re choosing function rather than form.’
As the school gates swing open, a tidal wave of five-to-seven-year-olds comes rushing out, to be swept up and loaded into a succession of expensive-looking four-by-fours. And although one or two of them look more relieved than happy, as if they’ve just been released from prison, it’s lovely to see the expressions on the majority of the little faces as they run happily through the gates, proudly clutching whatever it is they’ve painted or made in class that day, before handing it over to their even prouder parents.
‘Why h
ave you never asked me to come and pick the twins up before?’
Tom looks shiftily at a couple of the mothers. ‘What–and spoil my little treat? Besides, if you’re so interested, why don’t you help yourself to one of them?’
‘Kids? Surely that’s illegal. Not to mention kidnapping.’
‘No’–Tom motions towards a group of the women–‘one of the yummies. Ready-made family, you see.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never want to break up a family unit. Besides, I probably wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Look at them. If they all look that good, I bet the husbands take some beating too.’
Tom laughs. ‘Not at all. You should see them–on the odd occasion they ever actually manage to tear themselves away from their offices in time to make it to parents’ evening. Trust me–for every yummy mummy, there’s a chubby hubby back at home.’
‘A chubby hubby?’
‘Yup,’ says Tom, without a trace of irony despite his own less-than-six-pack physique. ‘Who gets that way because he spends all day sat on his backside at work trying to earn the money that he thinks will be enough to keep her indoors happy, when in actual fact she spends most of her day outdoors, turning herself into the kind of woman you see here.’
As we peer towards the gates, Jack and Ellie suddenly appear, giggling with delight when they see me. With a near-simultaneous cry of ‘Uncle Will’, they bound towards me, and I scoop them both up off the ground–something that’s getting somewhat harder the older they get–and take each of them under one arm, like I’m carrying two sacks of potatoes.
We’re just about to begin the stroll home, when Tom is stopped by a rather fierce-looking blonde. She’s wearing the tightest pair of designer jeans I’ve ever seen, and a pair of jewel-encrusted sunglasses so large they make her look like a child who’s pinched her mother’s. Holding onto her hand is a little blonde girl who I recognize as Hermione–one of Ellie’s playmates.
‘Hello, Tim,’ she says, smiling at Tom, although it’s only her mouth that moves. Whether that’s as a result of insincerity or Botox is anyone’s guess.
‘It’s Tom,’ says Tom, blushing slightly. ‘Hello, Alison.’
‘Really? Tom? Are you sure?’ She turns her attention to me and extends a carefully manicured hand. ‘And you must be?’
I’m still carrying the twins, but I manage to twist around awkwardly to shake her hand, unfortunately swinging Jack’s feet into Tom’s groin at the same time.
‘Hello, I’m Will.’
‘Will. Of course. Alison Walters,’ says Alison, looking me up and down from over the top of her sunglasses–no mean feat given the size of the lenses. ‘Listen–I just want to say I think it’s great what you’re doing. I mean, who’d have thought it a few years ago, but nowadays…’
I suddenly wonder whether Tom’s been gossiping at the gates. How on earth does she know? ‘Well, er, thanks very much.’
‘Tell me something,’ says Alison. ‘How do you decide which one is the mother?’
‘Well, that’s, er, kind of what we’re trying to work out,’ I say, glaring at Tom, who, to his credit, looks mystified.
‘It must be hard, you know,’ she continues. ‘From the twins’ point of view, I mean. But I suppose it would be Tim, by the look of you.’
I hoist the twins up manfully. ‘What are you talking about?’
Alison lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘How do you tell them? I mean, what do they think? When they see everyone else with a mummy and daddy, and you two are, well, two daddies.’
As I glance across at Tom, a look of realization spreads across his face. ‘Alison, you’ve got it wrong,’ he splutters, turning even redder than before. ‘You’re thinking of Tim and Bill. Henry’s, er, dads.’ He nods over towards where Eva is walking away with a little blond boy. ‘It’s not us. I mean, my wife’s called Barbara. Will’s not…I mean, Will is…We’re not gay.’ These last three words come out of Tom’s mouth a little too loudly, prompting a few mothers to turn their heads in our direction.
Now would also be a good time for Alison to blush but, if she does, it’s well concealed behind the layers of foundation.
‘Oh,’ she says, open-mouthed, before quickly regaining her composure. ‘Sorry. Easy mistake to make.’
‘No it isn’t!’ says Tom.
We stand there awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say, until Jack breaks the silence. ‘What’s “gay”, Uncle Will?’
I look down at his snot-encrusted face while I try and think of an appropriate answer, and I’m just about to open my mouth when Tom interrupts.
‘Ask your mother,’ he says, pulling a tissue out of his pocket and wiping Jack’s nose, causing him to wriggle in annoyance.
The twins are starting to get heavy at this point, and as I look down at little Hermione, I’m already feeling sorry for her, having to go through life with a name like that, let alone a mother. Suddenly, Ellie squirms out from under my arm and tugs Alison’s sleeve.
‘Mrs Walters?’
‘Yes, Eleanor?’
‘Where’s your other face?’
Alison smiles back down at Ellie, but it’s a smile that instantly reminds me of Jack Nicholson in Batman. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your other face? My mummy says that you’re two-faced.’
As Alison looks at Tom angrily, I try unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. Tom, on the other hand, looks mortified as Alison stomps away, dragging Hermione with her.
I put Jack down on the pavement next to his sister, and nudge Tom. ‘Out of the mouths of babes, eh? Remind me to buy Ellie some sweets as a reward.’
He sighs. ‘Thanks. There goes one less children’s party invitation.’
As we stroll back, with the kids now walking either side of me and holding onto my hands, Tom clears his throat.
‘So, what did we learn from that, then?’
‘What–apart from the fact that Hermione’s mother is a complete B-I-T-C-H?’ I reply, spelling the word so the twins don’t understand. ‘Oh, and that you’re trying to turn me into a home-wrecker.’
‘I’m serious. You could do worse than hook up with a few of them,’ suggests Tom. ‘Well, not a few, exactly, but there are at least two who are divorced and—’
‘Let me stop you there. They already have kids. And I don’t want any complications.’
‘But they’ll have a house. And an income. And possibly even an au pair.’
‘And an ex-husband. And I certainly don’t want to be giving my child to someone else every other weekend.’
Tom shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. But at least you now know what you’re missing out on.’
I stop walking and turn to face him. ‘So, hang on. You taking me there was more so I could bag myself a rich divorcee, rather than just to see that all women don’t suddenly get hit with the ugly stick the minute they give birth.’
‘Bit of both, really.’
‘But I know that second bit already.’
Tom frowns. ‘How so?’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Barbara?’
‘Oh. Right. Of course.’ Just then, Tom’s mobile goes, and coincidentally, by the sound of his ‘yes, dears’, it’s Barbara. Eventually, he snaps it shut. ‘Bollocks!’
As Jack and Ellie look at each other and make Os with their mouths, I frown at Tom. ‘Language, please.’
‘Sorry. Sorry, kids.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Barbara’s going to be late. Optician’s appointment.’
‘I’ve been telling her she needs to get her eyes tested for years,’ I say, patting Tom on the cheeks.
‘Which means that I’ve got to cook dinner. Which also means that I have to buy the ingredients for dinner.’
‘Can’t you just get a takeaway?’
‘Sure. Barbara comes home from a hard day at the office and I present her with a party bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. That’ll be me packed off to the job centre first thi
ng Monday morning.’
This is one of Barbara’s conditions–that Tom is allowed to pursue his acting ‘career’ on the understanding that, for the three days a week she works, he does all the household duties.
‘So go shopping, then.’
Tom looks down at the twins, who are currently trying to chase each other around and in between my legs, and I have to raise myself on tiptoe to avoid being head-butted in what would undoubtedly be a painful area. ‘You’ve obviously never tried the supermarket at school-chucking-out time with two hyperactive kids in tow.’
I shrug. ‘I’ll come with you, if you want. Or, if you’d prefer…’
Tom eyes me suspiciously. ‘What?’
‘I’ll look after them while you’re there.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely.’
A look of relief washes over Tom’s face. ‘Great. Take them to the park or something. They like the park. You can wear them out on the swings and stuff. And get them something to drink while you’re there,’ he says, rummaging in his pocket and handing me a crumpled five-pound note. ‘But don’t give them anything to eat.’
‘Got you.’ I look down at the twins, who have stopped running around like mad dwarves, and are now fascinated by a dead bird in the gutter, which Jack is poking with a stick, much to Ellie’s disgust.
‘You’re sure you’ll be okay?’
I nod. ‘How many men get a chance to take twins out for a drink?’
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ says Tom. ‘So, I’ll see you back at home? I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. Three-quarters, tops.’
‘No problem.’
As Tom hurries off towards the supermarket, I grab the twins’ hands again, but as we walk back through Richmond it occurs to me that I don’t know where the park is–at least not one with, to use Tom’s description, swings and stuff. We head by Richmond Green, just in case they’ve miraculously built some in the hour since I left my office, but no such luck. As we’re walking past my office, however, the twins’ faces suddenly light up.
‘Starbucks!’ shouts Ellie.
‘Starbucks! Starbucks! Starbucks!’ Jack joins in.
‘Starbucks?’ I say, somewhat less enthusiastically, staring at the now refurbished café next to my office, which has evidently sold out and taken the corporate dollar, judging by the gleaming new sign above the door. ‘You want to go in here?’