by Matt Dunn
‘I can see you’re still online. Did you get my message?’
She’s keen, I think. ‘Yes, thanks,’ I type. ‘How are you?’
And as I sit there, we have a conversation of sorts, exchanging emails for the next hour or so. And while it’s not quite the instant connection that Sandra and I seemed to have–in both senses of the word–we get on well, although I find myself struggling to match her speed on the keyboard. Either she’s the world’s quickest typist, or she’s already written these out and is just cut-and-pasting them into her replies, as it seems like I’ve hardly pressed ‘send’ before her reply appears in my inbox.
I’m interrupted at around eight o’clock by the phone ringing. It’s my mother, calling to see how I am, and after a cursory five-minute conversation assuring her that I’m fine, and that no, she’s not a grandmother yet, I hang up, and hurry back to my laptop. When I refresh my inbox, I’m a little surprised to see a further eleven messages. However, instead of excitement, I feel a little lurch of dread. They’re all from Cat Lover. Anxiously, I click them open in turn.
‘Are you still there?’
‘You haven’t replied to my last mail.’
‘Where are you?’
‘HELLO?’
And so on, each with an increasing number of capital letters and exclamation marks.
I look at my watch to check whether I have, in fact, been gone for only a few minutes, rather than having hit my head and been passed out for longer, but it’s still only five past eight. And eleven messages over the course of five minutes works out to one every thirty seconds or so, which occurs to me is rather on the needy side of keen. As I’m wondering how on earth to reply, a final ping makes me jump. It’s Cat Lover again. With mounting apprehension, I click ‘open’.
‘This’ll never work out,’ it says. ‘Don’t contact me again.’
Brilliant. From picked up to dumped within five minutes. A new record, even for me. Out of safety’s sake, I put a block on Cat Lover’s profile, then log off and head for the shower, pausing only to double-lock the front door on the way.
Chapter 9
A strange thing happens at lunchtime today. I’m walking round Richmond, trying to kill some time instead of heading straight back to the office, and, as usual, decide to go in and read the magazines in WH Smiths. I always feel a little guilty about this, even though I know I’m not the only one who does it, as every time I go in there are about twenty blokes stood there reading What Hi-Fi or Nuts, along with a similar number of women on the other side of the aisle desperate to get an update as to whether Pete/Kate are on/off.
Anyway, I’m stood there looking through a copy of GQ, having been attracted by the particularly nice photo of Cameron Diaz on the front, and flicking past the collection of adverts for clothes I’ll never fit into and watches I’ll never be able to afford, when out of the corner of my eye I spot a woman pushing a baby in a buggy stop by the end of the aisle and pick up a copy of For The Bride magazine. I smile to myself, as the words ‘shutting the stable door’ and ‘after the horse has bolted’ join together in my mind, but just as they’re forming a sentence I see that it’s Anita. My Anita.
I refer to her as ‘my’ Anita, because she is. Well, was. Anita is my significant ex. The one that got away. Maybe even the love of my life, if you want to put it in more sentimental terms. Only at the time, I didn’t know it. And I certainly wouldn’t admit it to Tom and Barbara.
Anita and I met six years ago, and went out for the next three, on and off. We talked about moving in together, and at times I even dared to think we might have a future together, but it wasn’t to be. Nerves or some sort of strange male pride stopped me from taking that next step. I couldn’t even tell her that I loved her. Not until after she dumped me, that is. And by then it was, of course, too late. And when we split up for the final time, on a bench on Richmond Green, I sat there and cried.
I tried all sorts of romantic gestures to win her back after that. Declarations of love, promises of commitment, but to no avail. And it taught me a valuable lesson: You snooze, you lose.
Up until a year or so ago, Anita and I would still meet up on a regular basis, even occasionally ending up in bed together, and then regretting it the next morning, although her more than me, I always felt. And when she finally met someone else–Mike, I think his name is–as she was bound to, our meetings and, of course, the sex, stopped. It wouldn’t be fair on him, she told me, when what she probably meant was that it wouldn’t be fair on me to let me think there was still some hope, a tiny chink in their relationship that might let me back in. When there wasn’t.
As my eyes flick between her and the buggy, for a moment it doesn’t compute. Anita and I last saw each other, what, a year ago by my calculations? And if I remember it correctly, we ended up having sex. And she’s now pushing a baby around…I mean, I know she’s only known Mike for six months or so, which means either she’s a fast worker, or…No. It can’t be.
I stuff my copy of GQ hurriedly back into the slot on the shelf, but for some reason, can’t get it in. I seem to have lost all co-ordination, and end up just jamming it in half way, crumpling the picture on the cover in the process, and giving Cameron a set of wrinkles that, unless she’s been Photoshopped to within an inch of her life, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have in reality.
I can’t remember if I’ve seen Anita in the last six months or so, or if I have, whether she was looking unusually fat. Surely she’d have told me. And anyway, we were always extremely careful. Besides, she dumped me, as I seem to remember. And surely she wouldn’t have if she was…
Anita heads towards the greeting-card section, so I make my way along the magazine aisle, peering over a copy of Practical Parenting while deciding what my next move should be. As the security guard watches me suspiciously, I try and get close enough to sneak a peak at the baby, before wondering what on earth that’s going to tell me. They all look the same at that age, after all, so it’s hardly like I’m going to be able to tell if I’m the father from the fact it’s got my nose.
I follow her surreptitiously around the store for a few minutes, watching as she finally selects a birthday card, then wheels the buggy towards the checkouts. As she pays for her purchase, adding a Terry’s Chocolate Orange on impulse at the till, and makes her way towards the exit, I follow her out of the store and tail her along Richmond High Street, still unable to get a proper look at the contents of her pram.
By the time we’ve been down as far as the station and back, I decide there’s nothing for it but to confront her. I’m just catching her up, rounding the slow-moving pensioners who always seem to walk along the pavement in pairs, and have to dodge into the road to get past one particularly obstructive couple, causing a bus to beep me. But just as I’m about to stop her, she ducks into Ann Summers.
I stop in the doorway. Ann Summers? With a baby in tow? I hope she’s covering its eyes. And what on earth is she doing going in there? From what I remember, we never needed any assistance between the sheets. But perhaps this is what Tom was telling me about, and maybe she’s after something to spice up her love life post-production.
Now, I don’t know what to do. I can’t go into Ann Summers after her–after all, I don’t want her to think that I’m the kind of person who frequents this type of establishment, and besides, what am I going to find her looking at? More importantly, what might I see? Even though I walk past the place every day, I’ve never been inside, and I’m secretly worried that it’s full of battery-operated things that might make me feel more than a little inadequate. But, equally, I can’t hang around on the pavement outside and try and keep tabs on her movements by peering through the window, because one of my clients might walk past and think I’m a pervert.
I look up and down the pavement in desperation, and then have an idea. There’s a group of chuggers milling around outside Boots–and if one of them were to stop me for a chat, I’d have a legitimate reason to hang around here and wait for her to com
e out of the shop, with the added benefit that when Anita sees me, she’ll think I’m a great bloke for being so charitable. And this would be a fantastic plan, if it weren’t for the fact that unlike their usual modus operandi, which is to virtually rugby-tackle everyone who walks past, right now the chuggers look like they’re taking a break.
I hop around near them for a moment or two, even clearing my throat and getting my wallet out expectantly, but can’t seem to get any interest–they’re too busy chatting to each other, or rolling their own cigarettes with some suspicious-looking tobacco. Eventually, I decide that I’ll just have to go over and interrupt them. I pick the nearest one, a dreadlocked girl with piercings in both ears, both eyebrows, and, by the look of her, several other places that would stop her going through airport security untroubled, and tap her on the shoulder. Her name badge, I notice with a sense of irony, says ‘Charity’.
‘Excuse me.’
The dreadlocked girl jumps and spins around, hiding her roll-up guiltily. ‘But I’m on a break.’
Well, now you know what it feels like to be interrupted in the street, don’t you, I want to say. ‘Oh. Sorry. But I was wondering, I mean, I’d, er, like to make a donation.’
She looks anxiously at her colleagues, who seem as astounded as she is.
‘Oh. Right.’
‘What are you collecting for, anyway?’
She’s so stunned, she seems to have momentarily forgotten, and stares blankly at her clipboard. ‘Er, it’s for…’
I take it from her unresisting grasp and speed-read through the form. It’s Help the bloody Aged again. At this rate, the aged will soon be able to help the rest of us. ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘I love the aged. In fact, I’m going to be one soon. Where do I sign?’
‘Er…here.’
Charity reaches across and flicks straight over to the direct debit form, then hands me a pen. But as I start to fill my details in, I glance over her shoulder and realize there’s a slight flaw in my plan. We’re standing about ten yards away from Ann Summers, and if Anita comes out while I’m concentrating on this, I might miss her and, more importantly, she might not see me.
In desperation, I start quizzing Charity about how the money will be spent, while imperceptibly edging closer to her, invading her personal space as much as possible in an attempt to move her along the pavement. And it seems to do the trick–not surprisingly, Charity starts backing away from me and, ever so slowly, I manage to edge her towards the entrance.
After five minutes, and with Charity glancing anxiously back over at her colleagues like a wildebeest separated from the herd, I’m starting to run out of questions about the aged, and there’s still no sign of Anita. What can she be doing in there? Surely they don’t let you test the products out? I’ve never heard any suspicious noises coming out of the back of the store, so I don’t think that can be the case. By now, I’m looking over Charity’s shoulder so regularly, I’m sure she thinks I’ve got some sort of facial tic. But, thankfully, and after I’ve probably signed up to pay for at least a couple of old folks’ homes, Anita finally comes out of the store, although I’m somewhat dismayed when she doesn’t see me, and heads off in completely the opposite direction.
I break away from a very pleased and not a little relieved-looking Charity to resume my tailing, but after a few yards Anita stops suddenly and, as if she’s just remembered something important, turns and spins the buggy around, heading straight back towards me. So straight, in fact, that she bangs it painfully into my ankle.
‘Why can’t you watch where you’re—Will?’ Her angry expression changes to one of pleasant recognition.
‘Anita?’ I put as much surprise into my voice as I can muster, trying hard to come across as someone who’s just casually bumped into her on the street, rather than someone who’s been stalking her around town for the last fifteen minutes.
‘Long time no see,’ she says, leaning across and kissing me on the cheek. ‘How have you been? Busy?’
Not as busy as you, evidently, I want to say. ‘Yup. Good, thanks. And you?’
‘Oh, fine.’
‘Good.’
‘Great.’
We stand there for a few moments, Anita seemingly oblivious to the thing on the pavement between us. I steal a few furtive glances down, trying to work out if it’s a he or a she, but even though it seems to be dressed in some sort of pink outfit, I really can’t tell. It doesn’t look like me, but it doesn’t not look like me, if you see what I mean, so I’m none the wiser. I decide to give her an opening to confess.
‘So, what’s your news?’
Anita smiles. ‘Oh, not much.’
Come on, for Christ’s sake, I’m thinking. There’s an elephant in the room here, or rather in the buggy. ‘No? Not been up to anything exciting?’
She puts a hand on my arm. ‘Well, actually, I’m glad I bumped into you, Will. I was going to call you. There is something I wanted to tell you. Have you got time for a coffee?’
My legs suddenly feel all wobbly. Finally, I think, although Anita seems to be sounding a bit vague. Maybe she wants me to be sitting down when she tells me? And given the way my heart is thumping, it’s probably not a bad idea. ‘Sure. Of course. Why not?’
‘Starbucks?’ suggests Anita, nodding towards the branch near my office. ‘There’s that new one just around the corner.’
‘Let’s try somewhere else,’ I say, having seen Emma in there earlier, and worried about getting myself banned if I end up causing another scene in front of her.
We stroll down the high street towards Carluccio’s, and even though Anita’s not confirmed anything yet, I can’t stop glancing proudly at the contents of the buggy. I can’t believe that I might be a father already. I’ll be able to call off the search when it’s hardly begun. Which, given the success I’m having so far, will be no bad thing.
I direct Anita towards one of the tables in the window, sit opposite her, and order two cappuccinos from the waitress. But as we make small talk, she seems a little nervous, like she’s skirting the issue. And if she’s a little nervous, then I’m on the edge of my seat. In an attempt to distract myself, I pick up the menu and scan through it, looking at the array of Italian food on offer, and wondering idly whether if pasta ever meets antipasti there’s some kind of black hole effect. But it doesn’t work, and once the waitress has delivered the coffees, I can’t stop myself from asking.
‘Is that mine?’ I say, my voice shaking slightly.
‘What?’
I put my coffee down on the table. ‘Is that mine?’
‘Is what yours, Will?’ She looks at her cup. ‘The coffee? No–they’re both cappuccinos.’
‘No,’ I say, nodding towards the buggy. ‘That.’
Anita follows my gaze, before a look of surprise crosses her face. ‘What? This?’ She nods down towards the pink-clad blob, then throws her head back and lets out a short laugh. ‘Not unless you’ve been sleeping with my sister.’
‘What?’ I don’t understand. I’ve only met her sister the once, and although it was a long time ago, I’m pretty sure I haven’t.
‘It’s not even mine,’ laughs Anita.
I’m both relieved and disappointed at the same time. ‘What do you mean, not even yours. Have you stolen it?’
Anita puts her cup down, reaches into the pushchair, unbuckles about a million safety straps, and hoists the baby up and onto her lap. ‘Will, meet Elizabeth. Elizabeth is my sister’s baby.’
I hold out my hand as if to shake Elizabeth’s, before I realize what I’m doing and stop myself. ‘Ah. Oh. Right.’
‘You thought…’ Anita shakes her head in disbelief. ‘My, that is funny.’
I feel myself starting to blush, and try to explain. ‘It’s just that, well, it’s been a year since I’ve seen you, and we, you know, one last time, and, well, I thought you’d, you know, and hadn’t told me.’
‘Will, if I didn’t want to have a baby with you, I’m hardly going to want to have our baby
without you, am I?’
I stare at my coffee glumly. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Exactly.’
Anita jiggles Elizabeth on her knee for a while, until the baby proceeds to drool down the front of her romper suit, then straps her back into the buggy. And as I watch her with a child in her care, a strange feeling washes over me, particularly when I replay what she’s just said.
‘Tell me, Anita. Why didn’t you want a baby with me? Didn’t you think I’d be a good father?’
Anita regards me for a moment, before reaching down to wipe Elizabeth’s chin with her serviette. ‘Well, for one thing, you never asked me.’
I pick up my coffee and take a sip, more for something to do than because I’m actually thirsty. ‘Do you ever think about you and me?’
Anita lays a hand on mine, and I have to stop myself from pulling away, as it’s the hand still holding the drool-soaked napkin. ‘Of course I do, Will. We had some great times. You’ll always be special to me.’ She picks up her cappuccino. ‘You know that.’
‘No, I mean, you and me, now. Or rather, in the future. What might have been.’
Anita puts her coffee back down again. She’s got a slight chocolate moustache from the foam, and it’s quite possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, particularly when she sticks her tongue out and licks it off.
‘Will, there never was a might have been.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you never gave me the slightest indication that you wanted any more than the here and now. Until I dumped you, that is.’
‘Well, I might not have said as much, but…’
‘Rubbish,’ snorts Anita. ‘You were quite happy for things to carry on as they were, despite my hints to the contrary.’
‘What hints?’
Anita shakes her head. ‘That’s the trouble with you blokes. You’ve really got no idea.’