From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

  I take one last look at my listing: ‘Male, thirty, good-looking or not–you decide. Solvent, successful, own business, lives west London. Fertile. Would make ideal father. If you’re looking to start a family now or in the near future, and you think we might be compatible, happy bidding. More details available on request.’

  Satisfied, I click on ‘list your item’, and log off. But when I pop round to tell Tom the following afternoon, he evidently doesn’t seem to think it’s quite as good an idea as I do.

  ‘eBay?’

  I nod. ‘eBay.’

  Tom gives me a look that seems to question my sanity. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, it’s just…eBay?’

  I shrug. ‘They seem to sell everything else.’

  ‘Yes, but not–’ Tom shakes his head incredulously–‘eBabies. Tell me you haven’t done it already?’

  I nod. ‘Afraid so. Auction ends next Friday night. At midnight, to be precise.’

  ‘Just when all the drunks get back from the pub,’ laughs Tom. ‘Brilliant timing, Will.’ He walks over to the PC on the desk in the corner and switches it on. ‘Show me, then.’

  I take a seat in front of the screen and log on, click onto my listing, and then swivel the screen round so Tom can see it.

  ‘You idiot,’ he says, staring in disbelief as my picture slowly loads. ‘What on earth made you think this was a good idea?’

  ‘Well, er, you did, actually.’

  ‘Me? How on earth do you work that out?’

  ‘Ages ago. When you were banging on about those old clothes you sold because you’d grown out of them.’

  ‘They’d shrunk. I hadn’t grown out of them,’ says Tom crossly.

  ‘Whatever. “People will buy anything on eBay,” you told me. Well, I’ve decided to put that to the test.’

  ‘Put what to the test?’ asks Barbara, following the twins in through the front door. They run over and grab onto my legs, nearly pulling my jeans down as they try and climb up me.

  ‘Will’s put himself on eBay,’ says Tom.

  Barbara does a double take. ‘What do you mean, put himself on eBay?’

  ‘He’s selling his, er, seed,’ Tom keeps his voice low to prevent the twins from overhearing.

  ‘There’s not a photo, is there?’ says Barbara, aghast.

  ‘Well, actually…’ I lean down and tickle Jack and Ellie, which has the desired effect of getting them to let go of my trousers, then they run off, giggling, into the conservatory.

  Barbara walks over to where we’re standing and elbows Tom out of the way. ‘Do I really want to see this?’

  ‘It’s a photo of me. Not my…you know.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ says Barbara, reading through the listing on the screen. ‘But do you really think people are going to be on here looking for that kind of thing?’

  ‘I don’t care. Apparently, a lot of things that people purchase on here are impulse buys.’

  She looks up from the screen. ‘So you’re hoping that some poor girl is going to be looking on here for a pair of Jimmy Choo’s, but instead she sees your photo, and suddenly thinks to herself, “I know. I’ll put a bid in. He seems like the kind of guy I want to tie myself to for the rest of my life on a whim.”’

  ‘Well, when you put it that way…’

  ‘What other way is there to put it?’ asks Barbara.

  ‘But I don’t really want any money. I just want to see what the interest is, and then I’m going to withdraw before the finish, as it were.’

  Barbara shakes her head. ‘There’s something missing from your listing.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The fact that you’re insane!’

  ‘I prefer the term “enigmatic”.’

  ‘Have you got any bids yet?’ asks Tom.

  I hit ‘refresh’. ‘No. It hasn’t even had that many hits. I mean, it’s only been on the site for—’

  ‘Yes you have,’ interrupts Tom, pointing at the screen. Sure enough, there’s a ‘one’ in the bids column.

  ‘Click on it,’ says Barbara, excitedly. ‘See who she is!’

  ‘No, I don’t want to…’

  ‘Just do it,’ says Tom, grabbing the mouse and clicking through onto the ‘bid history’ section to reveal the bidder’s name. ‘Here. Opening bid–one pound. Bidder–David69.’

  As Tom starts to snigger, I wonder whether I’ve read it correctly. ‘David69? That doesn’t sound like a—’

  ‘It’s a bloke!’ says Tom. ‘You haven’t put “women only” on your listing.’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d need to.’

  Barbara puts her arm round my shoulders. ‘Well, don’t you think you’d better? It’s legally binding, this auction, you know, particularly once they’ve paid for your, er, services. And besides, you don’t want anyone leaving you bad feedback.’

  ‘Particularly when you won’t sleep with him on the first date,’ laughs Tom.

  Chapter 14

  Today gets off to the worst possible start. I’m sorting through my post at home, and even though it’s not Valentine’s Day yet, I’m excited to find what appears to be a card amid the usual collection of bills and junk mail. But when I rip open the envelope and peer inside, instead of the lovey-dovey message I’d been expecting, it’s Anita’s wedding invitation.

  For a minute, it occurs me to rip it into tiny pieces and throw it out of the window, but that would be childish–not to mention littering–so instead, I just hold it up to the light and examine it suspiciously. Why on earth has she invited me to see her get married to someone else? Surely I wasn’t so bad to her when we were going out that this is how she wants to get her revenge, by proving to me that she is, in fact, marriage material, and I’m the one at fault for not seeing that when we were together.

  ‘Your Anita?’ says Tom, when I call him for advice.

  ‘Of course my Anita. How many other bloody Anitas do you know? Why on earth would she want to invite me to her wedding?’

  ‘Same reason she’s invited Barbara and me,’ says Tom. ‘Because she wants to have her friends there.’

  I can’t quite understand why Tom doesn’t see this as an issue. ‘But…we went out. As a couple. Together.’

  ‘Well, maybe she thinks you’re over her now, and getting on with your life?’ suggests Tom.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s obvious, given the way you’re reacting.’

  I put the phone down, and stare at the silver-embossed invitation jealously, still unable to believe that Anita’s actually going through with it–with someone else, that is. I know deep down it’s just an ego thing: men never want to think that their exes are having a better time–and especially better sex–with their latest boyfriend. As far as we’re concerned, ever since we split up, their life has been one long episode of longing and regret, unfavourably comparing every man they’ve had the misfortune to sleep with since to how great it used to be with us. So the realization that, actually, they might like this new boyfriend more than they did us, and in fact, like them enough to marry them, is pretty hard to take.

  Even though I don’t know what I’m trying to achieve, I pick the phone up again, and dial Anita’s mobile number. When she answers, I feel a twinge of guilt, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’

  There’s silence for a moment, and then Anita’s voice comes back on the line.

  ‘Will?’

  ‘Who did you think?’

  ‘Sorry, Will. It’s just, well, you’re not “me” any more. If you see what I mean. I’ve got another “me” now. As you well know.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. Mark.’

  ‘Mike!’ says Anita, the irritation plain in her voice.

  ‘Mike. Sorry.’

  There’s a pause, and then, ‘So?’

  ‘So I was phoning to…Well, I got my post this morning, and I was, well…’

  ‘Oh, you got the invitatio
n?’ says Anita. ‘They’re nice, aren’t they?’

  I look again at the silver-embossed card, noting the weight of it in my hand. In truth, I hadn’t even noticed the design.

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely. Very professional.’

  ‘Mike had them done at work,’ says Anita proudly.

  ‘What is he–a printer or something?’

  ‘No,’ says Anita. ‘He’s a merchant banker.’

  ‘A merchant banker?’ Or something like that, I think. ‘That’s…impressive.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ says Anita. ‘So I hope you’re not phoning up to say you can’t make it. Like I said, it’d mean a lot to me, well, Mike and me, if you could come. I’m inviting Tom and Barbara, so at least you won’t be there on your own.’

  There on my own? Bloody cheek. What makes you think I’ll be there on my own? And what exactly would it mean to you, I wonder, if your ex-boyfriend appears at your wedding? Are there going to be any of your other exes there, or is it just me who qualifies for the humiliation due to my length of service? And what about Mike’s ex-wife? Will she be there? Is it going to be some kind of sick parade of the runners-up in your emotional sweepstakes? The ones who fell at the final hurdles? And what the hell would it mean to Mike? Who, unless I’m very much mistaken, I’ve never met?

  And at that instant, I feel something change inside me. Something bristles. If her game is to rub my nose in it, then I’m damn well going to play her at it.

  ‘No–I just wanted to ask if I could, er, bring someone?’

  ‘Bring someone?’ says Anita. ‘I didn’t realize you were seeing anybody.’

  I try and see if I can detect any malice in that, but there isn’t any. And immediately I feel guilty. Of course there isn’t. Why would there be? Anita’s not a malicious person. At least, she wasn’t when we were dating, so unless going out with a merchant banker suddenly turns you…

  ‘It’s just that you haven’t put “plus one” on the invite, and I didn’t want to turn up with someone without…’

  ‘No,’ says Anita. ‘That’s fine. Do I know her?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say enigmatically. And I’m not lying, of course, because I don’t know her either.

  ‘What about Kate?’ says Jen, when I explain my dilemma to her later.

  ‘Kate? Along-the-corridor Kate?’

  She nods. ‘Why don’t you ask her?’

  I look at Jen across the reception desk. ‘And why, exactly, would I want to ask Kate?’

  ‘Because you fancy her?’

  I feel myself start to blush. ‘And why on earth would you think that?’

  Jen shrugs. ‘No reason. Apart from the fact that I’ve seen your occasional attempts to accidentally bump into her by the water cooler. Or how you sometimes coincidentally time when you go home so you can ride down in the lift with her. Or the fact that you’re always wanting to use the photocopier when she does.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I get your point.’

  ‘And what do you ever need to photocopy anyway?’

  ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Er…confidential stuff. Client stuff, actually.’

  ‘So, does she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I’ve not asked her.’

  ‘Want me to?’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘But you admit you’re interested.’

  ‘Well, she seems very…pleasant.’

  Jen shakes her head. ‘Pleasant. Which is why you practically drool whenever she walks past.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s your point?’

  ‘My point, Romeo, is that it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. So if ever there was a time for a grand romantic gesture, it’s now.’

  ‘So what do I do? Just go up to her and say, “Are you doing anything on Valentine’s Day?”’

  Jen rolls her eyes. ‘Nope. Just use your imagination.’

  ‘My imagination. Right.’

  And as I sit in my office, wondering what on earth to do, I begin to question whether I’ve actually got any.

  I get into work early the next morning, determined to put my plan into action. I’ve stolen the idea from one of my clients–Stephen, the trader, in fact–who I remembered told me it was how he finally got his future wife to go out with him. So a couple of hours later, I just happen to be hanging around reception and talking to Jen when a delivery arrives for Kate. Jen buzzes through to her, and as she walks up the corridor, she breaks into a huge smile.

  ‘Roses. How lovely.’

  ‘You lucky thing,’ says Jen, handing them over a little reluctantly. ‘All I got was a card. Are they from your boyfriend?’

  ‘I, er, don’t have a boyfriend,’ says Kate.

  ‘Who are they from, then?’ I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

  ‘I don’t have a clue,’ she says, inhaling the flowers’ scent, which is wafting around the reception area.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve got a secret admirer?’ suggests Jen.

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Kate, turning to walk back towards her office.

  ‘There’s a note,’ I say suddenly, and a little too loudly, causing Kate to look at me strangely. ‘I mean, is there a note?’

  Kate examines the bouquet closely, and finds the tiny envelope, which must have slipped in between the stems. She slits it open and reads the message to herself.

  ‘Come on. What does it say?’ asks Jen.

  Kate hands the note to Jen. ‘“From your secret admirer,”’ she reads. ‘“And if you want to find out who the flowers are from, meet me in Paradise at eight o’clock.”’ She turns the card over in her hands, as if checking for any clues, then hands it back to Kate. ‘How exciting.’

  ‘“Meet me in Paradise”?’ says Kate. ‘That sounds romantic. I wonder what it means?’

  ‘It’s a restaurant. On Paradise Street,’ I say quickly. ‘I believe. Isn’t it, Jen?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Jen. ‘I keep asking Josh to take me there, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s my kind of place.’

  ‘That’s probably because it’s quite expensive,’ I say. ‘Not that you’re not worth…I mean, he probably doesn’t want to spend…’

  As Jen crumples the envelope into a ball and throws it at me, Kate makes to carry the flowers off towards her office, before turning round and walking back towards reception. She fixes me with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Will, can I ask you something?’

  I swallow hard, and try to keep my voice even. ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  ‘These flowers. And the note.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You don’t think they’re a little…creepy?’

  ‘No way,’ I say, after leaving what I hope is a long enough pause to suggest that I’ve given her question the proper consideration.

  ‘I mean, it could be some weirdo. He knows my name, where I work…’ Kate shudders, and regards the flowers with suspicion.

  Ah. In my experience, there’s a fine line between being romantic and stalking, and I’m starting to worry that I may have crossed it. ‘No way. I’d look at it as more of a grand romantic gesture. I mean, that’s not a cheap bunch of flowers. So even if he is a weirdo, he’s a rich weirdo. I mean, not that I think he’s a weirdo. Or that if he was, it’d be okay if he was rich…’

  I look across to Jen for help, conscious that I’m digging myself into a very deep hole. Fortunately, she pulls me out of it.

  ‘No. Romantic is what it is,’ agrees Jen. ‘Absolutely.’

  Kate takes another look at the bouquet, which is quite impressive, even if I say so myself. But then, at fifty pounds, it’d better be. ‘So I should go?’

  ‘Definitely,’ says Jen. ‘If you want to find out who your secret admirer is, of course.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ says Kate, chewing nervously on her lower lip.

  ‘Oh go on,’ says Jen. ‘If someone liked me enough to go to all this trouble, I’d be there like a shot.’<
br />
  Kate thinks about this for a moment or two. ‘Maybe you’re right. It is quite exciting, I suppose.’

  With that, she turns and heads back towards her office, smelling the bouquet as she goes. And as Jen winks at me from behind reception, and I mouth ‘Thank you’ back at her, I start to feel a little excited myself.

  I’m at the restaurant by seven forty-five, and I’ve chosen a table with a view of the window, just so Kate’s arrival doesn’t take me by surprise. The place is pretty full, and as I sip my fizzy water apprehensively, I realize I’m the only single guy in a restaurant full of couples. But as I look at all the loved-up diners around me, none of whom look like they’re on a first date, I start to have serious doubts that Kate’ll turn up. Going on a blind date is bad enough, but a blind date on Valentine’s Day? How desperate do you have to be? And even though–thanks to Jen–I know that Kate doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, she doesn’t look like she’s the desperate type.

  By eight-fifteen, I’m on my third bottle of San Pellegrino, and trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though it’s quite obvious to everyone else in the restaurant that I’m in serious danger of being stood up. I try and tell myself that Kate’s just being ‘fashionably’ late, and remember Barbara’s comments that she’s probably making herself look beautiful, and that I mustn’t resent it when she arrives. Trouble is, my bladder’s starting to resent the amount of water I’ve drunk while I’ve been sat here, and yet I can’t risk getting up to go to the toilet in case Kate turns up, sees the empty table, and leaves without me even knowing she’s been here.

  Finally, when I’m just about to give up hope, I see her peering through the window, and fix her with my best smile, although when I catch sight of my reflection, and probably due to the litre-or-so of water I’ve consumed, it looks a little pained. I’m not that hard to spot–after all, every other table has twice the number of people sitting at it–but as Kate catches sight of me, instead of returning my smile, she appears to duck down out of sight. I sit there, puzzled, for a few seconds, then stand up, before sitting back down again, wondering whether perhaps she might just be fixing her make-up outside before coming in to join me. And if she is just fixing her make-up, then it’ll look pretty bad if I go out to see where she is. I don’t want to appear impatient, after all.