From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

  ‘Hang on. I’m confused. So if you wanted so much more out of it, why did you dump me?’

  ‘Will, it’s not as simple as that. We women are a lot more practical than you men give us credit for. Which means we reach a point that, well, let’s just say that there’s no going back from. So by the time you’ve finally been shocked into action, from our point of view it’s usually too late.’

  ‘And what about whatshisname? Mark.’ I know it’s childish, but I always get his name wrong on purpose.

  ‘Mike,’ she says, with a little annoyance. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Are you going to have to shock him into action?’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ she says, a dreamy look coming over her face. ‘In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  Anita holds her hand out, palm down, on the table. Her left hand. And for the first time I notice the ring with a rock the size of Gibraltar on her third finger.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. And the head. I need to get outside and get some air, but my legs won’t move. And all the time, my mind racing, my heart thumping, Anita is still talking, and I have to force myself to concentrate on what she’s saying.

  ‘…to be honest, his proposal came as something of a surprise. It was Christmas Eve. We were in Paris, at the top of the Eiffel Tower.’

  ‘With the hundred other couples there doing exactly the same thing?’ I say, finding a focus for my anger.

  Anita ignores me and carries on. ‘And, I mean, we hadn’t been going out for that long, really, but when he went down on one knee…’

  ‘He managed to get up again all right, did he? I mean, I know he’s a little bit older than me.’

  She snatches her hand back and looks at me disdainfully. ‘I won’t let you spoil it for me, Will. It was really romantic, actually.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just…surprised,’ I say, not wanting to say the word ‘jealous’. ‘And you’re sure you’re doing the right thing?’

  Anita picks up from her saucer the little sweet that’s not sure whether it’s a coffee bean or a chocolate, unwraps it, and pops it into her mouth. ‘Not really, no. But I’ll never know unless I give it a go, will I?’

  I can feel the coffee rising in the back of my throat, and have to swallow hard. If she was one of my clients, I’d be helping her work that sentence through to its logical conclusion. ‘And what about kids? Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Well, Mike’s already got a couple of his own, and he says he probably doesn’t want any more.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted a family?’

  ‘I do. Did. But as I said, he’s already got a couple, and while they live with his ex—’

  ‘You’re marrying a divorcee? With all the baggage that goes with that?’

  Anita folds her arms defensively. ‘Mike’s baggage is all neatly packed away, thank you. He’s even let me have a rummage through his cases.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing, and I’m still feeling a little shaky. Maybe it’s the fact that this is my third coffee of the day, or maybe it’s what I’m about to say. I grab her hand–the hand without the ring on it–and I’m relieved when she doesn’t try and snatch it away. At first, anyway.

  ‘Marry me instead.’

  At this, Anita tries to pull her arm back with such force that she nearly knocks her coffee over, but I’ve got a firm grip.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marry me instead. Not Mark.’

  ‘Mike!’

  ‘Mike. Sorry. I mean, we get on great. And I’m desperate to have kids.’

  ‘Will, that’s not fair.’

  Life’s not fair, I want to tell her. Nothing is. It’s not fair that it took her finally dumping me for me to realize what I’d lost, and it’s not fair that it’s taken someone else proposing to her to make me realize how much I want her back. Plus, it’s not fair that us blokes are so useless at telling people how we feel about them that we end up losing them. And it’s not fair that Mark/Mike’s already had one chance at this, and he’s mucked it up, and abandoned his family into the bargain, just like my dad did. And just like I won’t.

  ‘I’m serious, Anita. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the day we split up.’

  Anita tries to pull her hand away again. ‘Will, we didn’t split up,’ she says. ‘I chucked you. Because I was fed up with the fact that we weren’t going anywhere. And besides, I’d fallen out of love with you.’

  This is a slap in the face which, on top of the earlier punch in the stomach and the head, has me reeling. And it takes a lot of quick thinking to try and turn it around. ‘Aha!’

  Anita looks confused. ‘What do you mean, aha?’

  ‘Just that, well, to have fallen out of love with me, you must have been in love with me. Once.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So that means you can be again. If you give it a chance. Give us a chance.’

  Anita finally succeeds in removing her hand from mine, but probably only because my palms are sweating so much that I can’t hang on to her any more, and rubs her fingers where I’ve been squeezing so hard.

  ‘Will, it doesn’t work like that. Love isn’t one of those things that you just switch on and off. It builds. Over time.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘Will you stop aha-ing. What now?’

  ‘You said it builds over time. How much time?’

  Anita shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a set rule.’

  ‘A month? A week? Six months?’

  Anita looks at me like I’m a candidate for care in the community. ‘All right then. Ten months, four days, six hours.’

  ‘And you’ve known whatshisname for how long?’

  ‘Very clever, Will. You’re not going to catch me out like that.’ She stands up, and puts one hand on the buggy. ‘Listen. I’ve got to get this little one home. So let’s forget this conversation ever happened, shall we?’

  ‘Which part?’ I say, hoping she means the ‘getting married to Mike’ bit.

  ‘You know which part!’ Anita leans in and kisses me on the top of the head. ‘And I hope you’ll come to the wedding. It’ll mean a lot to me and Mark.’

  ‘Don’t you mean Mike?’ I say, as I watch her wheel Elizabeth away from the table and out through the door.

  I wait five minutes, then pay the bill, and walk out of the restaurant. On my way back to the office, I feel more miserable than ever, and when one of Charity’s colleagues tries to accost me outside Tesco’s, it’s all I can do not to punch him in the face. And later that evening, when I’m back in my flat, I slump down on the sofa and stare at the wall. I’ve never felt more alone. More stupid. And like I’ve lost my one and only chance at real happiness. Why wasn’t I more decisive when Anita and I were together? I’m reminded of that song that says something about not knowing what you’ve got until you’ve lost it. Well, today, I lost it. Big time.

  I need to talk to someone, and it’s unfair of me to keep burdening Tom with my concerns so, instead, I get changed into my running gear and hit the streets again, mulling the problem over in my head. What would I do if I came to me for advice? What would I say? I’d say get over it. I’d say that what in retrospect looks like a mistake quite clearly wasn’t a mistake at the time, so it wasn’t a mistake to make that particular decision there and then. I’d also say that we learn from our mistakes, and the most important thing that can come from it is that I’d recognize if I was ever in a similar situation again, and then I hopefully wouldn’t do the same thing. I’d also say that the only thing I can do is to try and put that mistake right, which I’ve done, and if that doesn’t work, which it didn’t, then I just have to move on. It’s called reframing. Looking at things in a positive light, rather than a negative one. And moving on from there. And the best way to achieve that would be to take someone else to that wedding. But, as things stand, that might prove rather difficult.

  Chapter 10

  I get back home from my run ea
rlier than usual, shower, and fix myself a sandwich, before sitting down at my laptop. And the second I log on to NewFlames, the winking eye appears again. I check cautiously that it’s not Cat Lover, but when I click through, it’s an instant message from Sandra.

  ‘Will, I am sorry I have not been here.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I type.

  ‘I feel bad.’

  Uh-oh. ‘Why?’

  ‘I feel bad because I have not told you everything.’

  Here we go, I think. She’s married. Or she’s met someone else.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ she asks, before I get a chance to reply.

  I look at her photo again. It’s not anger I feel, but lust. ‘How can I be angry with you? I don’t even know you.’

  ‘I hope you will soon know me,’ comes the reply. ‘But…’

  I wait for her to complete the sentence, but after a couple of minutes, it’s clear that she’s not going to. I check my internet connection, just in case, but it’s still working fine.

  ‘But?’ I type.

  ‘BUT I LIED TO YOU ON MY PROFILE. I AM NOT IN THE CITY OF LONDON.’

  I suddenly notice that her English isn’t sounding as good as it might, and more worryingly, she’s got her Caps Lock on. I do the same.

  ‘NOT TO WORRY. WHERE ARE YOU?’

  There’s a pause, and then ‘LAGOS.’

  I pause myself. Lagos? It sounds Welsh to me. I look at her photo again and quickly decide that I don’t mind the odd trip down the M4.

  ‘THAT’S NOT A PROBLEM. I HAVE A CAR.’

  ‘IT MIGHT TAKE SOME TIME,’ types Sandra.

  Rubbish. I’ve driven to Wales before. It’s not that far. And I’ve got a TVR now.

  I quickly type ‘Lagos’ into the AA route planner, to see how far it actually is, but, surprisingly, the AA doesn’t recognize it as a destination. Confused, I type it into Google instead, which comes up with twenty-one million answers. And by the looks of things, the majority of them seem to say that Lagos is in Nigeria.

  Nigeria.

  Ri-ight.

  ‘ARE YOU THERE ON HOLIDAY?’ I type tentatively.

  ‘I AM STUCK HERE,’ replies Sandra.

  ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, STUCK?’ I type, picturing her, a poor model, stuck in Nigeria after some photo shoot. Bikini modelling, probably. Hopefully.

  ‘I HAVE LOST MY PASSPORT. THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO GET IT BACK.’

  ‘WHICH IS?’

  ‘I NEED MONEY.’

  Despite thinking that I might regret typing this next question, I can’t help myself. ‘HOW MUCH?’

  ‘FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.’

  Five thousand dollars? I do a quick exchange-rate calculation in my head. ‘THAT’S A LOT OF MONEY. WHAT ABOUT YOUR PARENTS?’

  ‘I CANNOT ASK MY FAMILY.’

  ‘WHY NOT?’

  ‘THEY ARE DEAD.’

  Ah. I don’t quite know how to reply to that. And five thousand dollars! I’m pretty sure I only paid about sixty quid to renew my passport the last time. But then, she is really good-looking, and if she really is in trouble…

  I’m still thinking about how to respond, when Sandra writes again. ‘DEAR WILL, I HAVE TO GO. THE MEN ARE BACK. IF YOU CARE ABOUT ME, MEET ME ON HERE THIS TIME TOMORROW AND I WILL GIVE YOU MY BANK DETAILS FOR TRANSFER. I WILL BE SO GRATEFUL WHEN I MEET YOU IN LONDON CITY AND WE ARE MARRIED.’

  I allow myself a few moments to daydream about exactly what her being grateful might involve, before I reread the last sentence, and spot the word ‘married’. And it’s only then that the first alarm bell starts to ring. We’ve only chatted twice, and already it seems like Sandra sees me as a potential fiancé. Trouble is, I’m worried that she’s spelling it ‘f-i-n-a-n-c-e’. I’m just typing ‘WHAT MEN?’ when I see that she’s logged off, and despite my pressing ‘refresh’ continuously for the next five minutes, Sandra doesn’t reappear.

  I’m somewhat confused about what’s just happened, and log out of NewFlames a little nervously, and I’m just checking my emails before I shut the computer down when a message pops into my inbox. It’s from a D. Smith, with ‘Long Time No See’ in the subject line, and I’m just about to delete it as Spam when I remember that the D might stand for ‘Debbie’. She must have got my message via Friends Reunited. Fan-bloody-tastic!

  Suddenly forgetting all about Sandra, I open the email excitedly and, sure enough, it is Debbie. There’s a bunch of stuff about how great it is to hear from me, what it is she’s doing now, and how pleased she is that I managed to decipher her ‘message’. I’m not sure exactly what she means by that, but when she asks if I want to meet up with her for a drink tomorrow evening, I’m only too happy to agree. She still lives in Shepherd’s Bush, and when she suggests meeting at a pub that we used to drink at all those years ago, I’m all too happy to agree. Maybe it’ll be a trip down memory lane in all senses.

  ‘So,’ says Tom, when I meet him for lunch the following day to update him on my progress. ‘Debbie Smith.’

  I nod. ‘Yup.’

  Tom takes a bite of his bacon sandwich and chews thoughtfully. ‘I seem to remember she was a bit of a goer. Wonder if she’s calmed down any?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  ‘Where are you meeting her?’

  ‘The Anglesea Arms.’

  Tom puts his sandwich down. ‘Not the Anglesea Arms? The place we used to drink after school. It’s a bit spit-and-sawdust, isn’t it?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not any more,’ I say, through a mouthful of cream cheese bagel. ‘It’s a gastro-pub now, apparently.’

  Tom makes a face. ‘It used to be more gastroenteritis. Well, give her my best.’

  I grin back at him. ‘I intend to give her better than that. It’s been a while, after all.’

  ‘Really?’ says Tom. ‘Well, you’d better make the most of it, then. Especially if she turns out to be the one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s different, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The sex. When you’re trying for a baby.’

  I frown. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re more worried about the long-term outcome, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose. But how does that make it different? And different better? Or different worse?’

  ‘Just…different,’ says Tom. ‘It’s a bit like every time you have sex you’re buying a scratch card, and you wait a few weeks to see if you’ve won. You try not to think of it like that but it drives you mad. I mean, if I’d thought every time Barbara and I were doing it that it was for the express purpose of having a baby, I don’t think I’d have been able to do it half of the time, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Er…not really.’

  ‘You don’t just think “bombs away” and then wait a couple of weeks to see if you’ve got lucky.’ Tom gestures towards me with his sandwich. ‘You can’t. Otherwise you’d just get in there and do your job as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Which you did, right?’

  ‘Well, some of the time, admittedly. But it wasn’t like we said “Okay–sex is now for the express purpose of fertilization.” We kept doing it–more often than usual, of course, but we just stopped using any sort of protection. That way we thought we could make it more natural. Less–clinical.’

  ‘Which is ironic, seeing as you ended up having to go to a clinic to get pregnant in the end.’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Tom. ‘But the fact of the matter is, that’s what sex is all about. Procreation. And yet when most of us do it, for the majority of the time we take steps to ensure that we don’t actually procreate. So when you start actually doing it for real…I tell you, Will, it’s best almost not to think about it.’

  I’m not following this at all. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the first time we did it bareback, so to speak, it was weird, as if the outcome really mattered, like those films you see of spacecraft trying to dock precisely with space stations, and if they
don’t deliver their precious cargo it’s all over. Beforehand, we were quite, er, wasteful, if you get my drift, but all of a sudden it becomes this precious substance that you’re afraid to splash around. Who knows if one of your little fellows is going to get through and score? And so you want to ensure you’re giving them all the best chance.’

  I push my bagel away from me, not hungry any more. ‘Please tell me you’ve finished?’

  ‘Which was just what Barbara would say, funnily enough,’ laughs Tom.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you know how you always try to be considerate on the timing front? Making sure that it’s good for her, if you see what I mean? Suddenly, that all goes out of the window. There were times when Barbara would just lie there and say, “Don’t worry about me–you just go ahead and do what you have to.”’

  ‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, actually, it kind of had the opposite effect. Took the fun out of it, as it were. Made it quite mechanical. And even though we ended up going down the IVF route, in a funny way, I’d have hated a baby to have been conceived from one of those less involved sessions.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tom shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It just wouldn’t have felt right. Rather like winning the lottery with a lucky dip, I imagine. The result’s the same, but you’d rather have chosen your own numbers than just let fate decide.’

  And while I don’t necessarily believe in fate, as I think about my date this evening with Debbie, I do wonder whether I’m going to get lucky. In both senses of the word.

  Chapter 11

  When I walk into the Anglesea Arms, although I can’t say the same about the pub, I recognize Debbie instantly. For some reason, I’ve been picturing her in her school uniform–a not altogether unpleasant reminiscence–and while I’m a little disappointed to see her dressed normally, she looks just as good in a pair of jeans and a black, tight-fitting jumper.

  She’s still as flirtatious as ever, greeting me with a kiss on the lips even though we haven’t seen each other for over twelve years, and telling me that I look good. I return the compliment, and as we get a bottle of wine and sit down at one of the stripped-wood tables in the corner, I realize that it’s good to be back visiting one of my old haunts. Well, two of them.