by Matt Dunn
‘Is that what you say to all the women you get in here?’ she asks.
‘Well, yes, actually. I find it helps them to…’ I stop, because I see she’s getting her tape recorder out from her bag, and suddenly realize that that could be misconstrued. ‘So, who did you say you write for? And how did you get my details?’
Victoria smiles. ‘Oh I’m freelance, so anyone who’ll pay me, really. And I just happened to see your entry on eBay, and thought there might be a piece in it.’
‘So, are you going to interview me, or what?’
Victoria looks at me over the top of her glasses. ‘I thought I’d just do a little gentle probing first. If that’s okay. Get behind the story. If there is a story, of course…’
‘Fine,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Fire away.’
Half an hour later, my head is buzzing, as Victoria’s gentle probing proves to be like the Spanish Inquisition. All the while, I’m careful not to say anything that can be misinterpreted or might make me look like I’m a pervert, or worse–if there is anything worse, that is. Eventually, Victoria stops writing and looks up at me.
‘So, you do genuinely just want to be a dad? Simple as that?’
I nod. ‘Simple as that. But finding the right person is proving somewhat difficult.’
‘Join the club.’ Victoria sucks the end of her pen for a moment. ‘How about…No, forget it.’
‘What?’
‘No, it’s probably a silly idea.’
‘What?’ By now, I’m actually interested to hear what she’s got in mind. She is, after all, rather attractive, and maybe she’s going to suggest that the two of us go out on a date, and wants me to do some gentle probing of my own. Which I wouldn’t, of course, because I’m seeing Emma this evening. But it’s a nice thought.
‘Well, I was thinking, what if I pitched it as a feature? You know–do a big piece on you. Some papers do a “hunk of the month”, and you—Well, “hunk” might be stretching it’–she smiles as she says this–‘but I’m sure I could drum up some interest, if you like. And it’d probably get you lots of dates. Think about it.’
Ah. ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ I say. ‘No way. I’m not in this just to meet women. I’m looking to start a family. And I don’t quite see how that kind of thing is going to help me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ says Victoria. ‘But it’s a numbers game, don’t forget. And from what I know about your relationship history—’ She stops talking abruptly and stares at her notepad, possibly because she’s just seen the look on my face.
‘My relationship history? How exactly did you get my details again?’
Victoria shifts uneasily on the couch. ‘eBay. Like I said.’
‘But my contact details aren’t on there. And my relationship history certainly isn’t. Who told you?’
Victoria smiles nervously. ‘I couldn’t possibly reveal my sources…’
An hour later, and Tom is buying me lunch by way of an apology.
‘How could you have given my details to a journalist? Of all the stupid—’
‘I just thought you could do with a bit more coverage. Given your lack of success, and all that.’
For a moment, I consider telling him about my date with Emma this evening, but decide not to. After all, it’s only a drink at the moment, and although I’m not at all superstitious, I don’t want to jinx it. Besides, I can just see Tom marching into Starbucks and trying to do me another ‘favour’.
‘And who does she write for, exactly?’
As Tom rattles off a list of mainly tabloid newspapers, I shake my head. ‘Thanks, mate. I’d love one of the readers of the Sunday Sport to be the mother of my child. I can just picture it now, going down to meet her. And her five other kids and their five different dads.’
‘Ah,’ says Tom. ‘Good point. But I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Nobody takes much notice of these things. But leave it to me, anyway. I’ll sort it.’
I meet Emma outside Starbucks at seven, as arranged. It’s the first time I’ve seen her out of her uniform, but immediately find myself hoping it’s not the last. She’s dressed in jeans and a simple white top, and what looks like a snorkel parka, but somehow she manages to make even that seem sexy.
I decide against taking her to Paradise after my experience there the other evening, and instead we stroll over to the White Cross, a pub down next to the Thames. It’s a chilly evening, and not many drinkers have braved the night, so we’re able to grab the table nearest to the fire.
As per Barbara’s advice, I’ve decided not to mention my baby quest–I don’t want to scare her off, after all–so, instead, I tell her about my job, and my life, and my friends. In return, Emma talks to me about how she never thought she’d find herself working in a coffee shop, but she used to be a professional musician, playing the piano on tour for some groups that I’ve actually heard of, and has decided to go back to college to study to be a music teacher, and so she’s working in Starbucks now to pay her way through the course.
‘Isn’t that a funny choice of job for someone who hates coffee? Surely you’ve got to at least like the thing you’re working with?’
Emma sips her white wine. ‘Will–don’t take this the wrong way, but if you had to serve the same thing a hundred times every day, you’d probably end up hating it.’
‘I suppose,’ I say, deciding not to contradict her, although I seem to remember that Hugh Hefner doesn’t seem to have the same problem in the Playboy mansion.
‘Do you like hearing about all the problems people come to you with?’
I shrug. ‘Not especially. But I like helping them to deal with them.’
‘Is that why you went into it? To help people?’
‘That’s right,’ I say, before admitting guiltily, ‘Well, that, and the hundred pounds an hour they pay me. But it is very rewarding.’
‘You’re telling me,’ laughs Emma.
And we have a nice evening. I don’t get into trouble, or embarrass myself, and Emma seems to genuinely find my jokes funny, even when she tells me she’s only five foot one, and I tell her she’s the smallest pianist I’ve ever seen.
Finally, Emma looks at her watch. ‘Ohmigod,’ she says, standing up quickly.
It’s an automatic reaction, but I stand up with her. ‘What?’
‘The time. It’s gone eleven,’ she says, noticing for the first time the bored bar staff putting stools on top of tables around us.
‘You’re not about to turn into a pumpkin, are you?’
Emma smiles. ‘No. Nothing like that. It’s just…Well, I ought to be getting home, is all.’
I try to hide my sudden feeling of disappointment. ‘I suppose it is a school night, and all that.’
Emma looks at me strangely. ‘You could say that,’ she says, fumbling in her handbag and retrieving her mobile phone from amongst the lipstick, tissues and various other unidentifiable items that women seem to be unable to leave the house without.
‘What are you doing?’
She looks up from the keypad. ‘Just calling a taxi.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. My car’s just around the corner. I’ll give you a lift.’
Emma stops dialling, and looks up at me. There’s a suspicious expression on her face, as if she’s trying to work out whether there’s some hidden meaning in my suggestion.
‘I don’t want you to go out of your way.’
‘It’s no problem at all. Unless you live in Birmingham, or something.’
‘Will, that’s very kind of you. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to invite you in for coffee.’
I’m slightly taken aback by this. I mean, it’s not as if I’d expect to be asked in, and it’s certainly not the reason I’ve offered to drive her home, but to have it flagged up even before we’ve got into the car seems a little, well, harsh.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I don’t really like coffee either.’
Eventually, and as if she’s not sure she’s ma
de the right decision, Emma puts her mobile back in her bag, and we head out of the pub and walk round the corner to where I’ve left the TVR. When I blip the doors open, Emma whistles in admiration.
‘A TVR,’ she says. ‘Nice.’
‘You’re rather up on your cars,’ I say, opening the door for her, and offering my hand as she climbs awkwardly down into the passenger seat. I try not to watch, but I can’t avoid seeing a flash of her cleavage as she swings her legs into the footwell. ‘Most women, I mean, people think it’s an E-type.’
Emma shrugs. ‘You soon learn the difference between a TVR and a Jaguar when you’ve got a, er, interest in these things.’
It’s a five-minute drive to her house, and we don’t talk much on the way, although that’s mostly due to the ridiculous noise the TVR’s engine makes.
‘It’s very…loud, isn’t it?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I said it’s very…’ Emma reaches over and flicks me on the ear when she sees that I’m just pretending not to have heard her. But as I indicate to pull into her street, and before I’ve even stopped, she unclips her seat belt. ‘You can drop me at the end of the road, if you like.’
‘No, that’s fine. It’s late. I should see you to your door,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound too much like a stalker.
‘I’m more worried you’ll wake up the neighbours.’
I pull up outside Emma’s house, but leave the engine running, to show that I’m not intending–or expecting–to stay. Unfortunately, this also makes our parting conversation difficult.
‘Well,’ she yells, ‘thanks for a lovely evening.’
‘You too,’ I reply, at a similar volume.
And it’s now that I’m reminded of a further disadvantage of driving a car that Tom refers to as a ‘babe magnet’–the deep, figure-hugging bucket seats that hold you in place when you’re negotiating a sharp bend at somewhere north of the speed limit are no good when you want to lean over and give your passenger a goodbye kiss on the cheek, particularly when you’re further handicapped by a somewhat high centre console that houses both the gear stick and the rather sharp-ended handbrake. As attractive as Emma is, I decide that a visit to the osteopath or even the A&E department isn’t worth the effort. Indeed, it’s all I can do to turn my body slightly sideways, and I don’t want to get out of the car and risk that she’ll feel intimidated.
‘So…’ shouts Emma.
‘So…I’ll call you?’
Emma nods. ‘That would be nice. But not from the car. Or, alternatively, just come in for a coffee. At work, I mean. Tomorrow?’
‘Oh. Of course. Sure.’
‘Well, goodnight, then.’
Emma’s just trying to locate the door handle, and has so far only succeeded in opening the window, when a light comes on from inside her hallway.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask, slightly suspicious after my recent evening escapade. ‘Don’t tell me it’s your husband?’
I watch as her front door opens, keeping one foot on the clutch in case I have to make a quick getaway, but after a second or two, a twenty-something girl emerges from the house and walks down the path towards us. She stares at the car appreciatively, and then sticks her head in through the open window.
‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Nice motor.’
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘And thanks. I’m Will.’
‘Will, this is Amanda,’ says Emma awkwardly. ‘She’s my, er, baby—’
‘Baby sister,’ says Amanda, with a grin. ‘Nice to meet you, Will.’
Ah. So that explains why Emma won’t, or rather, as I’m quick to assume, can’t, invite me in.
‘Everything all right, Amanda?’ asks Emma.
‘Fine,’ says Amanda, the grin not leaving her face. ‘Just wanted to say hello. I’ll leave you two to say your goodbyes.’
As Amanda skips back up the path, Emma smiles at me one last time, then finally locates the door handle and climbs awkwardly out, and even though I try hard not to look again, I’m treated to a view of her pert denim-clad behind.
I wait outside until she closes the front door safely behind her, then put the TVR in gear and execute a three–well, seven, given the narrowness of the street and the lack of visibility over the bonnet–point turn, possibly waking up any of Emma’s neighbours who might still be asleep, and head back home. And as I drive, I do the customary post-mortem of the evening. On balance, it seemed to go well–all apart from the reluctance to invite me in for coffee, or even accept a lift home in the first place, that is. But maybe she’s just a little more independent than I’m used to. Or playing hard to get. Or even just being cautious. But whatever it is, I’m intrigued to find out.
Chapter 19
The rest of the week passes fairly uneventfully. Emma’s busy at the weekend, and because I don’t feel I can quite pry into what she’s doing, I settle for a couple of nice conversations with her when I’m in buying my coffee, which I admit has become a little more frequent since the other night. I’ve still not mentioned our date to Tom and Barbara, and although I feel a little disloyal about this, I want to wait until I’ve actually got some real news to tell them–assuming I ever do, of course. And besides, they’re still giving me more than enough stick on the eBay and NewFlames fronts for me to want to give them any additional ammunition.
The following Monday evening finds me sat round at Tom and Barbara’s with the twins perched on my lap. Two months ago, Tom filmed a supermarket commercial, and I’m round here because tonight is, to use his word, the ‘premiere’. I’m trying to sip champagne from the glass that Tom’s just handed me, which is proving somewhat difficult given the fact that Jack and Ellie are trying to tickle each other, while on the TV in front of us The Bill is just about to end. Tom’s got the sound on mute, while looking anxiously at the time every five seconds, and suddenly, as the credits begin to appear on the screen, Tom shushes us all loudly.
‘Attention please, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ he says, causing the twins to start giggling.
Tom aims the remote control at the DVD player, presses ‘record’, then un-mutes the sound. With a blast of the familiar theme tune, the final credits roll, and suddenly we’re all on the edge of our seats.
As the well-known music starts, followed by various shots of people picking groceries off the shelves with the same amount of pleasure as if they’ve won the lottery with each can of beans, Barbara nudges me. ‘Doesn’t look like any supermarket I’ve ever been in,’ she mutters, looking at the spotless aisles, well-dressed, smiling clientele, and the fully stocked shelves.
‘Shh!’ says Tom, leaning in so close to the TV that he’s in danger of falling onto the carpet.
We stare silently at the screen for a further thirty seconds, with Tom becoming increasingly anxious. The commercial’s ending soon, and I’m about to ask Tom whether his part’s been cut, when he shushes us again, even though no one’s actually talking, and announces that this is his bit. Sure enough, we see the briefest sight of Tom pushing a heavily laden trolley through the checkout, screen wife and children in tow. There’s a half-second close-up of his smiling face, as if the supermarket’s his absolute favourite place to be in the world, followed by an even briefer shot of him patting himself on his back pocket.
The advert finishes, and Tom hits ‘stop’, and leans back in his chair with a smug expression on his face. Barbara puts her champagne glass down and starts to clap, ironically, I’m sure, and then nudges me to join in.
Tom grins. ‘What did you think?’
I make eye contact with Barbara, and then look back at Tom, who’s already re-winding the recording so he can watch it again.
‘I, er, you were, er…’ says Barbara.
‘…very good, I thought,’ I say. ‘Don’t you think so, kids?’
Jack and Ellie don’t say a word, but, instead, and showing a wisdom beyond their years, run off to play in the conservatory.
‘Oh well,’ I continue. ‘Never mind. Kids can be the harshest critics.
’
‘That’s first-class acting,’ says Tom, nodding at the screen. ‘Even though I say so myself.’
‘I’ll give you that,’ says Barbara. ‘You hate going to the supermarket.’
I nod appreciatively. ‘Show us the action again, mate.’
Tom puts his glass down on the carpet, stands up, takes a deep breath, does a couple of stretching exercises, clears his throat, and then finally pats his backside, which invokes a further round of applause from Barbara and me, although I’m trying to keep a straight face.
‘Don’t take the piss,’ says Tom. ‘The auditions were particularly tough.’
‘Had to beat off lots of other blokes, did you?’ I say, as Barbara struggles to stop herself from laughing.
‘Don’t be disgusting,’ says Tom.
‘So, basically, they got a load of guys in a room together, and got them to pat their collective arses?’
‘Yup,’ he says proudly.
I nod back towards the screen, where Tom has freeze-framed it on his face.
‘And what did they pay you for that?’
He grins. ‘About five grand.’
I whistle as he tops up our glasses again. ‘Beats working for a living.’
‘Look who’s talking,’ says Barbara archly.
But as we settle down to watch the advert again, I can’t help feeling a little depressed. We’re the same age, Tom and I. We’re probably quite similar in the attractiveness stakes, albeit there is more of him than me, although, of course, that’s not necessarily an advantage. And yet here he is, with his perfect nuclear family–and even another one on screen–whereas I’ll be going home after dinner to my empty flat, and waking up alone in my bed tomorrow morning. Where’s the supermarket ad that shows what real life is for a lot of us, featuring the single guy in the ‘nine items or less’ queue, buying his microwave-ready meal and his box of tissues, or maybe slipping a packet of condoms into his basket at the last minute, just in case he gets lucky on the way home?