by Matt Dunn
Five minutes later, we’re in the TVR, heading off towards Kew retail park which, strangely, has been built next door to the council tip, a planning decision that doesn’t always make for the most pleasant of shopping experiences. Fortunately, the wind’s blowing in the opposite direction this afternoon, as I steer the TVR carefully through the car park, which seems to be full of almost identical four-by-fours, and pull into a space in front of Mothercare marked ‘mother and baby’.
‘It never says “father and baby” does it?’
Tom gets out of the car with what looks like fear in his eyes. ‘You’ll see why.’
As I peer through the window, the place appears to be crammed with crying children and harassed-looking parents, and when Tom and I make our way inside, a wave of noise hits us. For a moment, the screaming and sobbing threatens to get the better of us, and that seems to be just the parents. There’s a café down at the far end, which seems a little more tranquil, and I have to grab onto Tom’s jacket to prevent him making a run for it.
We push through the various aisles, full of expensive-looking baby bits and toddler technology. There’s a bicycle with no pedals which, the box informs me, is actually easier for a child to learn to ride than a bike with pedals, which at twice the price of a normal one, I suppose it should be. And while it occurs to me that you could just buy a normal bicycle and take the pedals off for half the money, it seems out of place to mention it. Confused, I pick up a strange-shaped device, and hold it out to Tom.
‘What’s this?’
Tom smirks. ‘A breast pump.’
‘What on earth is it for?’
Tom rolls his eyes and takes it from me. ‘For when a woman needs to express herself,’ he says matter-of-factly.
I frown. ‘They never seem to have a problem with that, in my experience. I mean, Barbara didn’t shut up when she was pregnant.’
Tom stares at me for a second or two. ‘You have so much to learn, my young apprentice.’
I stand there blankly, not knowing where to turn, before picking up a huge pink bunny rabbit, which I’m shocked to see costs almost sixty pounds and, of course, also comes in blue. As Tom grabs the blue one and pretends to mount mine with it, an assistant materializes from behind the soft-toy display and taps him on the shoulder. She’s about sixty, and wearing a name badge that says ‘Ethel’, and looks like she’d be more at home in Grandmothercare.
‘Can I help you?’
Tom quickly hides the rabbit behind his back. ‘Er…yes. My good friend here is looking for some baby furniture.’
Ethel frowns. ‘Baby furniture? You mean…’
‘You know,’ says Tom, ‘things to kit out a baby’s room. So it feels at home.’
I nod. ‘I’m afraid I’ve never done this before.’
Ethel smiles sympathetically. ‘Your first, is it?’
‘And last,’ interrupts Tom.
Ethel looks at the two of us for a minute, and then grabs me by the hand. ‘Well, I know some people don’t agree with the principle, but I just think it’s wonderful.’
‘What is?’
‘The fact that nowadays it’s okay for you to have a child of your own.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, wondering whether it’s her first day here. On the planet, I mean.
Ethel smiles warmly at Tom. ‘And who’s the father, if I can ask?’
‘He is,’ says Tom, pointing towards me with the blue rabbit. ‘Well, he will be, I mean.’
Ethel looks like she’s intrigued. ‘And if I can ask, how did you decide? Which one of you it was going to be, I mean.’
I’m starting to get a little confused. ‘Well, Tom’s already got two…’
Ethel pats the back of my hand. ‘And the two of you wanted one of your own. That’s lovely.’
Tom and I exchange confused glances, before the penny drops. ‘Not again,’ he says. ‘You and I are obviously spending far too much time together.’
‘No–I’m the one who’s having the baby,’ I say, blushing furiously. ‘Well, not having it myself, you understand. With a woman. This is my friend, Tom, who’s married. To a woman. And I’ve asked him along to give me some of his advice. About baby…stuff.’
Ethel looks as though she’d like to hide behind the display. ‘Oh sorry. I thought…I mean…’
‘Never mind,’ I say, grabbing Tom’s hand. ‘Easy mistake to make.’
‘No it isn’t,’ says Tom indignantly, shaking me off and stalking away to look at what appear to be some pretty impressive four-wheel-drive buggies.
‘So,’ says Ethel, trying desperately to regain her composure. ‘Do you know what you’re having yet? A boy or a girl, I mean?’
‘No–it’s going to be a surprise.’
‘You’re telling me,’ interrupts Tom, test-pushing a two-seater in front of us that’s the width of the aisle.
‘So, when’s it due?’
‘Er…I’m not sure.’
‘Well,’ says Ethel patiently, ‘when was the baby conceived?’
‘Um…It hasn’t been yet.’
Ethel starts to look even more confused than before. ‘But your wife does know that you’re having a baby?’
‘I, er, don’t have a wife.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Nope.’
By now, Ethel is looking around anxiously, as if she’s about to call security, while I’m starting to wonder whether you need some sort of proof-of-parenthood passport to buy things here, like when you have to prove you’re a shopkeeper to shop in a cash and carry. Fortunately, we’re interrupted by a couple looking to get Ethel’s advice on which kind of nappy-changing mat is the best, and although they all look the same to me, I’m grateful for the chance to escape. Though not as grateful, I suspect, as Ethel.
As Tom and I get back into the car to drive home, I grip the wheel and shake my head. ‘Why do people always assume I’m mad when I tell them what I’m up to?’
‘I think you’ve answered your own question there, mate.’
‘Is it so strange, what I’m trying to do?’
Tom thinks about this for a minute. ‘Not what you’re trying to do. How you’re trying to do it, perhaps?’
‘But what’s my alternative? I’ve tried the traditional route, and it just hasn’t happened.’ I stop abruptly at a zebra crossing and wave a mother with a pushchair across, causing the car behind to beep me furiously. ‘And besides, this is what I tell my clients every day. If you want something in life, focus on the goal, and work backwards from there. The more you put things in place to achieve that goal, the more likely you are to achieve it. And that’s all I’m doing. Getting everything in place.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘But surely there are some things that don’t quite work like that.’
‘You’re wrong, Tom. Everything works like that. I mean, it’s fair to say that on balance women usually have a stronger drive to have kids than men do, right?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And so whenever a woman looks at a man, she’s sizing him up as a potential father to her children?’
‘Well, when you put it like that…’
‘So all I’m doing is taking the same approach. Making sure I’ve got everything ready, everything in place, and then just flipping it around. Women decide they want to have a baby and either go out and find a man to start a family with, or they mould, force, coerce, convince, whatever word you want to use, the bloke they’re with to have one. I should be the easy choice. The no-brainer. Women should look at me and think: great–here’s a ready-made dad. Off the shelf. Off the peg.’
‘Off his head, you mean.’
‘Why?’
‘Will, however you look at it, while it might seem logical to you, what you’re doing doesn’t follow the natural order. The historical way of doing things. I’m not saying it’s the best way, I’m not even saying it’s the right way, but whatever, it’s the way. And maybe you need to think about that.’
‘If that was true, then nothing n
ew would ever get done. If someone had said to Columbus, “Sorry, mate, but you can’t discover America because the world’s flat and you’ll just sail off the end of it,” then he wouldn’t have gone. People need to do new things. In new ways.’
‘Will, you having a baby and Columbus sailing across the Atlantic are different things. Although they seem to be taking about the same time, though.’
And as we park outside my flat, it suddenly occurs to me that this is exactly what I’m doing. A voyage of discovery. And it’s one that I’ve been on for years. And I’ve wasted half of my reproductive life stopping at every island I see, in the hope that maybe this time it might just turn out to be the place I’ve been searching for. I need to actually find America to see whether it’s the promised land or not, and stop this constant island-hopping that’s been so draining.
‘It’s just…I’ve got a nice flat, a decent car, a good job,’ I say, letting us in through my front door, ‘and I don’t have anyone to share it with.’
‘You could share it with me and Barbara, if you like?’
‘I’m being serious, Tom. It’s no fun, not having anyone to enjoy it all with. And more importantly, someone to leave it to. At this rate, Battersea Dogs Home is going to do very well out of me when I’m gone.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Tom, picking up his copy of the Guardian from the coffee table and handing it to me. ‘I almost forgot. Before you go any further, take a look at this.’
I stare at the headline on the front page. ‘“Spice Girls To Re-form”. What’s that got to do with me? Unless one of them wants a baby instead?’
Tom snatches the paper back, and points to an article at the bottom of the page. ‘Not that. Below it.’
He hands it back to me, and I read the opening sentence. ‘“The average cost of raising a child nowadays is £180,000, say experts…” So? That’s not all at once, surely?’
‘No, thank goodness,’ says Tom. ‘Up until they’re eighteen, apparently. That’s nursery costs, school fees, food, clothing…I tell you, mate, the list is endless. I had to hide this from Barbara in case she panicked and sent me out to get a proper job.’
I shrug, and throw the paper down onto the coffee table. ‘So? That’s only ten grand a year, and I spend that on the TVR. And anyway, how can you put a price on something as miraculous as having a child? Surely whatever it costs it’s worth it? You just have to prioritize.’
‘Sure you do,’ says Tom. ‘But sometimes those priorities might mean you missing out on something else important to you. And don’t forget, with your little scheme, you’ve not got only two mouths to feed. There’s the mother to take care of too, seeing as she’s not earning anything.’
I sit down, and help myself to a chunk of Tom’s chocolate. ‘Not for that long, surely? I mean, once the kid’s out of nappies, she can go out and get herself a job, can’t she?’
Tom starts to laugh, and sits down next to me. ‘You have so much to learn, my child. Looking after children, whatever their ages, is a full-time job, even when they finally go off to nursery or school. You’ve got to take them there, clean up after them, pick them up, feed them, entertain them, and even in the few hours you don’t have them getting under your feet, you’ve still got to make sure that the house is a safe place for them to be when they come home, and that there’s food on the table. Fortunately, Barbara went back to work because she wanted to, and even then, it’s only three days a week. But most women? The first five years are so knackering that you can see why they need the next thirteen or so to recover.’
I pick up the paper again, and skim through the article. ‘Tom, it’s just as expensive being single as it is having kids, you know. Possibly more so.’
‘How do you work that out?’ asks Tom disbelievingly. ‘What on earth do you spend your money on?’
‘Trying not to be single, for one thing. Everything about me has to suggest attractiveness. I can’t just drive any old car, or wear any old thing like you do.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘No offence, mate, but you hardly dress to impress, do you?’
‘That’s because I don’t have to,’ says Tom, a hurt expression on his face.
‘And that’s precisely my point. I may not have to buy kids’ clothes and toys, but I’ve got to buy my own clothes and toys, just so I can attract a woman who I might be able to have kids with.’
‘But that hardly adds up to ten grand a year?’
‘Aha. But then there’s the dating side itself. When was the last time you and Barbara went out to eat?’
Tom folds his arms smugly. ‘Last Saturday, I think you’ll find.’
‘Taking Barbara and the kids to Burger King doesn’t count, Tom. I mean just you and Barbara. Somewhere nice.’
Tom thinks for a moment. ‘Ah. That would be…her birthday.’
‘Which was this time last year?’
He widens his eyes. ‘Er, might have been. Yes. And thanks for the reminder.’
‘Well, think of it from my point of view. Every time I take a girl out for dinner, it costs me, what, a hundred pounds? And I might have to do that four or five times before I know whether we get on enough to become boyfriend and girlfriend, right?’
Tom gets up and helps himself to another beer from the fridge. ‘I suppose.’
‘So, that costs me at least five hundred quid. And say I do that once every couple of months. That’s about three grand a year. And that doesn’t include any little spontaneous presents, weekends away, and so on.’
‘That’s still not quite what it says in the paper, is it?’
‘I’ve hardly started, Tom. When you and Barbara do go out to dinner, what do you wear? Your one good suit. Which you bought when?’
‘Er, for my wedding.’
‘Precisely. I’ve got to look good every time, which means I have to dress well, which isn’t cheap. And then there’re the miscellaneous things like the insurance for my car, which probably costs more a year than you spent on actually buying yours. And the aftershave. And the gym membership. It all adds up to a little more than the odd trip to Hamleys, I can tell you.’ I get up to grab a Diet Coke from the fridge, then collapse back down next to Tom. ‘Dating’s bloody expensive. I’ll be glad when I finally get this baby sorted. It’ll be a chance to save a bit of cash, as far as I can see.’
Tom shrugs, grabs the remote control, and switches the television on. ‘Speaking of which,’ he says, taking a mouthful of beer. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere this afternoon?’
‘Shit,’ I say, looking at my watch and jumping up from the sofa.
Ten minutes later, I’m hurrying breathlessly towards Starbucks, just about in time for my blind date with Julie. I’ve already had to phone Tom twice on the way down–once to remind myself what her name was, and then again to get a better description of her, although his ‘about Barbara’s height but with bigger tits, apparently’ isn’t perhaps the detailed depiction I was hoping for. She’s seen my photo, apparently, so should be able to recognize me, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to spot her in the crowd, but when I get there, and anxiously scan the occupants of the café, I can’t seem to find her.
I check my watch, and I’m only a few minutes late, so it’s doubtful she’ll have left already. I find a corner table with a good view of the door, and sit down. Every time the door opens, I try not to look up expectantly, but I can’t help myself, and as I wait, I wonder why I’ve never met this colleague of hers before. Is it because Barbara’s always thought I’d be a bit unsuitable for her, and has kept us apart? Or maybe she’s only just got over being dumped–sorry, splitting up with her boyfriend–and therefore it’s never been appropriate?
A few minutes later, when there’s still no sign of her, I walk over to the rack next to the door and help myself to a newspaper, using this as the perfect cover to take another look around just in case I’ve missed her come in. There is one single woman, who’s sitting reading a book a few yards away from me, and who was here when
I came in, but it can’t be her. She must be at least forty, and while she’s quite attractive and matches most of Barbara’s description, she looks a little taller, although it’s hard to tell because she’s sitting down. Plus she’s more attractive than I was expecting, even based on Barbara’s glowing portrayal, which I think was probably exaggerated a little anyway to get me to turn up, and as I watch her surreptitiously over the top of my paper, I wonder whether it is Julie. She’s not drinking anything, which could suggest she’s waiting for someone.
After a further couple of minutes, and with still no sign of anyone else, I think perhaps that it might be her. After all, Barbara’s a little older than Tom, and it’s not totally beyond the question that she might have older workmates. I look at the woman again, and while I wouldn’t say she was prime child-bearing age, she’s certainly not unattractive. She looks as if she works out, there’s a not-unimpressive cleavage on display, and although there are a few lines round her eyes, she’s still young enough to be described as pretty.
By now, she’s aware of my occasional gaze. And the next time I glance over, she looks up from her novel and smiles back at me. It’s not the friendliest of smiles, but it doesn’t exactly say ‘piss off’ either. I take it as a signal, put my newspaper down, and walk over to her table.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’m Will.’
The woman lowers her book and looks up at me. ‘Hello.’
I stand there awkwardly, leaning on the back of the vacant chair next to her. Should I sit down? Or wait until I’m asked? ‘I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.’
‘What? Said “hi” to a woman in Starbucks?’
‘Its just, well, I don’t quite know the etiquette.’
She leans back in her chair and folds her arms. ‘Well, you could start by buying me a coffee.’
‘Oh. Sure. Yes. Of course,’ I say, and start to move off towards the counter, but when I look at the board behind the till, I notice that there are rather a lot of different types of coffee. I head back over to the table sheepishly.
‘Er…What kind would you like?’
She smiles at my obvious embarrassment, which I’m hoping is endearing. ‘Surprise me.’