by Matt Dunn
Emma shrugs, and takes a sip of her wine as she sits back down next to me. ‘Most men are big kids, really. You just need to know how to talk to them.’
‘And how do you know that, exactly?’
‘It’s a secret.’ She taps the side of her nose. ‘Fabulous view, by the way.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ I say, not strictly referring to the London skyline.
‘So,’ she says. ‘Tell me a secret about you. Something that you’ve never told anyone else.’
‘Like what?’
She smiles. ‘I don’t know. Anything you like. But it’s got to be a secret.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘But if I told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?’
‘It would be our secret.’
Why do women ask these kinds of things? What am I supposed to say now? Something mysterious about my past that makes me look interesting, or something that I’m ashamed of doing, that shows I’m capable of opening up to her. Where’s Barbara and her role play when I need her?
‘Er…I don’t like mushrooms,’ is the best I can come up with.
Emma peers at me over the top of her wine glass. ‘That’s not much of a secret, is it?’
I shrug. ‘It’s still a secret. What else did you have in mind?’
‘I don’t know. Something like…having a third nipple.’
‘Is that your secret?’
Emma blushes, then turns and looks out of the window. ‘No.’
‘Well, what, then?’
She tears her eyes away from the view and looks at me earnestly. ‘You’re the first person I’ve been on a date with for over a year.’
‘Wow. I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be. It’s only because no one else has asked me out.’
As my ego deflates with an almost audible whistle, Emma breaks into a grin. ‘I’m teasing you, Will. Are you always this easy to get?’
‘I’m beginning to worry that I might be.’
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but what are you doing on Saturday?’
‘Saturday?’ Whatever it is, I think to myself, I’ll cancel. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’
‘I wondered whether you might like to come over. For lunch. I’ll cook something.’
‘Really? You wouldn’t prefer to go out?’
‘No. Come to the house. Besides, I like to cook.’
‘You see! I knew we were compatible.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you like cooking. I like eating…’
‘And how about you, Will. Can you cook?’
‘Oh yes. My cooking is legendary.’
‘Really?’ says Emma. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘No, legendary as in you hear stories about it, but never actually see any evidence of it. I mean, the kitchen, it’s just not our natural habitat.’
‘And it is ours, is it?’
I know better than to answer this with a yes. I haven’t known Barbara for years for nothing. And I’ve got the scars to prove it. So I take the only sensible option, and change the subject.
‘Listen, speaking of food, are you hungry?’
Emma looks at me for a second. ‘I could certainly eat something,’ she says, and although I’m not sure if she’s flirting with me, there’s a distinct possibility that she might be.
And it’s only now that I’m sat here with Emma that the absurdity of what I’m doing is starting to hit home. Because here I am, with someone I like, and who I think likes me, and I can’t think of how on earth I’m going to bring up what it is I’m trying to achieve without sounding like a nutter, or scaring her off, or both.
We ride down in the lift, then stroll along the South Bank towards Tower Bridge, and we’re just heading past the Globe Theatre when Emma spots a restaurant down one of the side streets.
‘Ooh,’ she says. ‘Mediterranean food. Is that okay for you?’
I don’t know, actually. The last time I was anywhere near the Mediterranean was on a holiday to the Costa del Sol when I was eighteen. I can only remember eating either burger and chips or pizza then, and I’m pretty sure that’s not what Emma’s getting so excited about. ‘Love it,’ I say, hoping it’s not an entire cuisine based around mushrooms.
‘Great,’ she says. ‘I hope they do couscous. I love couscous.’
We walk into the restaurant, where we’re met at the door by the manager. ‘Table for two?’ he asks, and when I nod, he leads us to an alcove in the corner.
‘That always makes me laugh,’ whispers Emma. ‘We’re obviously a couple, so what do they think we’re going to say? Two tables for one?’
I smile back at her, but don’t answer. Because I’ve heard her say ‘we’re obviously a couple’, and that’s made my day.
Chapter 21
On the Wednesday I have to go into town to get a replacement wireless card for my laptop–my original one having evidently packed up through overuse these past few weeks, and I’m leaning against the door on the tube when I first notice a woman sitting just along the carriage staring at me over the top of her copy of Metro, the free morning newspaper. At first, I think she’s just accidentally caught my eye whilst gazing off into space, any actual interaction frowned upon under normal tube etiquette, so I smile briefly back at her, but she just looks away, embarrassed, and doesn’t make eye contact again. At Kew Gardens, she stands up and peers at me intently, before hopping off the train.
I shrug, and make a ‘what can you do’ face at the woman standing in front of me who’s witnessed the whole thing, but she too gives me a strange look, and turns back to her paper. When this happens a third time, I begin to get paranoid, and surreptitiously check that my trousers are done up, before examining my reflection in the window in case I’ve got a Frostie stuck on my chin. There’s nothing obvious so, instead, when another seat becomes free, I pick up the discarded copy of Metro that’s been left on it, sit down, and attempt to hide behind the pages. But this proves to be a mistake, because there seems to be a picture of me on the page I’m trying to hide behind.
I stare at the newspaper in disbelief. ‘Is this the father of your baby?’ screams the headline, followed by a rather unflattering picture of me sitting on the bonnet of my car, which looks very similar to a picture Tom and Barbara have in their photo album at home. And as worrying as the headline is, the picture couldn’t be worse, particularly given that the presence of the TVR means it has ‘penis substitute’ written all over it.
I glance around the carriage in shock. As usual, everyone is reading Metro, which they’ve probably picked up at Richmond station, which was three stops ago. And my photo’s on page fourteen, so, by my calculations, most of them should be turning to it round about now. I read on hurriedly.
‘Thirty-one-year-old Will Jackson is so desperate to be a father that he’s put himself on eBay. The Richmond-based life coach and self-confessed womanizer has signed up with internet dating agencies, been out on blind dates, and even taken to asking out random women in the street in his attempt to meet someone to have a baby with. But now, he’s even listed himself on the online auction site, so come on, girls, help Will out in his “bid” to be a dad…’
Oh. My. God. So much for Tom’s promise to get Victoria to keep it under wraps. I can’t bring myself to read any further, and suddenly feel the need to be anywhere but on the tube, so jump off at Hammersmith and make my way quickly along the platform. As I dive into the anonymity of Tesco’s, my mobile rings. It’s Tom.
‘Hello, mate,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to call and tell you that I might not have remembered to phone Victoria the other day…’
‘Oh really,’ I say, trying to get as much sarcasm into my voice as possible. ‘This wouldn’t be something to do with you having read a copy of this morning’s Metro, would it?’
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a second or two, before Tom comes back on. ‘You’ve, er, seen it, then?’
‘Tom, not only hav
e I seen it, but so have approximately half a million Londoners on the tube this morning. And where the hell did they get the photo from?’
‘Ah,’ says Tom sheepishly. ‘There may be a small chance that I might have had something to do with that.’
‘How small a chance, exactly?’
‘Well, a pretty big one, actually. Still, look on the bright side.’
‘Bright side?’ I’m virtually shouting into the phone by now, causing a couple of pensioners in Tesco’s to give me a wide berth. ‘How can this possibly have a bright side?’
‘Well,’ says Tom, ‘it means you’re sure to get some responses now.’
I give Tom the only appropriate response, and head nervously back down to the station, careful to avoid anyone’s gaze, taking the first Richmond train that comes along. When I get back to my office, I anxiously log on to eBay, and scroll down to my ‘hits’ counter, which is slightly up from yesterday’s total of seven. Three thousand, four hundred and five up, in fact. There’s also a list of one hundred and nine questions, and, somewhat worryingly, there have even been fifty-seven bids. In fact, my current eBay worth seems to be in excess of two thousand one hundred pounds.
I frantically scroll through some of the questions, clicking on several at random. Hidden among the expected rude responses and offers of cheap Viagra, which, quite frankly, I’m going to need if this level of interest keeps up, seem to be a few genuine enquiries, although it’s hard to tell, given what’s happened, whether they’re just journalists after a story.
Without a moment’s thought I remove my listing and, for good measure, cancel my NewFlames subscription too. Damage limitation. That’s what it’s all about now. And I’m just wondering what else I need to do to stop this spreading any further, when I suddenly remember that Emma’s doing a day shift today. Which means she’ll have taken the tube into work.
I run out of my office, along the corridor, past a bemused Jen on reception, take the stairs three at a time, and sprint round the corner to Starbucks. There’s no sign of Emma, but there are certainly a few copies of Metro around the place.
I hurry over to the counter, and attract the barista’s attention.
‘What can I get you?’
‘I don’t suppose Emma’s in?’
He shakes his head. ‘She was earlier. I saw her reading the paper before starting her shift, then suddenly she said she had to go.’
Great. I jog back up to the office, and find Emma’s number. When her mobile rings a couple of times, and then kicks into voicemail, I think about leaving a message, but stop myself. What exactly would I say? I leave it a minute, and then call back, and this time the phone’s answered, although with a pretty unfriendly tone.
‘What do you want, Will?’
Ah. No chance she hasn’t seen the paper, then. ‘Well, er, I’m calling to see if you fancied a drink this evening?’
She lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘What do you think?’
‘Emma, I can explain. It’s not like—’
‘I don’t want to be just a number, Will,’ she interrupts. ‘I can’t afford just to be a notch on someone’s bedpost.’
‘It’s not like that at all. They’ve exaggerated…’ I start to say.
‘What is it like, then, Will? You didn’t tell me about any of this, so why should I believe anything else you say?’
‘Because…’ She’s got me there. ‘Er…’
‘Will, I’ve got to go,’ she says, cutting me off abruptly.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘What about this evening?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, how about Saturday, then? Are we still on for lunch?’
‘I can’t, Will. I’m…busy.’
As I’m pleading with her down the phone, I hear a noise in the background, and the sound of Emma putting her hand over the mouthpiece. And although it’s hard to make out, I think I hear her say the words ‘it’s nothing’ and ‘go back to bed’.
I get a sudden lump in my throat. ‘What’s going on? Is there someone else?’
There’s a pause, and then, ‘Yes, Will. Yes there is.’
I start to protest, but then realize I’m talking to a dead tone.
Chapter 22
I hit ‘do not disturb’ on my phone, switch off my mobile, and for the next half an hour, sit at my desk with my head in my hands, wondering just how more surreal the day can possibly get. As it turns out, quite a bit, because when I eventually emerge from the sanctuary of my office and walk past reception to get a drink from the water cooler, Jen stops me.
‘There’s an Ellen Waters on the phone for you, Will. She’s called five times already this morning.’
I look at my watch. It’s still only eleven-fifteen. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’
Jen shakes her head. ‘Nope. But she did say she was from the BBC.’
I do a double take. ‘The BBC? As in…the BBC?’
Jen nods. ‘One and the same.’
And in my addled state, I forget to put two and two together. Perhaps this is it–the silver lining that every cloud has, or so I tell my clients. Maybe the Beeb are looking to do another one of these makeover or life-changing programmes, and having seen my picture in the paper, they want me to be the resident life-coaching expert. I feel my heart start to race a little. This could be my big break.
‘Well, you’d better put her through, then.’
I sprint back down the corridor, through my office door and run over towards my desk, where the phone is already ringing. ‘The BBC for you,’ says Jen, in a rather clipped tone. I hear a click, and then announce myself.
‘Will Jackson.’
‘Will,’ says an over-friendly voice on the other end of the line. ‘Ellen Waters here. From the BBC.’
‘Er…Yes?’
‘You are the same Will Jackson I’ve been reading about in all the papers?’
All the papers? I thought it was just Metro. I stand up and pace around the room, peering nervously through the window in case there are any paparazzi lurking outside.
‘Well, I…yes, I suppose so.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ says Ellen. ‘Well, let me get straight to the point. We were wondering if you’d like to come on Today’s the Day.’
‘Today’s the Day?’
‘It’s our morning programme. Surely you’ve seen it?’
I don’t like to tell her that I haven’t, because I have a life. ‘Of course. But…what for?’
‘What do you think?’ Ellen chuckles down the phone. ‘We love the idea that you’ve gone to such desperate measures to have a baby. Quite frankly, we think our viewers would love to hear more about you. And how you’re getting on.’
Ah. Scratch my plan to become TV’s Mr Life Coach. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘Deadly, Will. As long as you are about this baby nonsense, that is.’
Baby nonsense? By now, one or two alarm bells are ringing, and I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s a wind-up. ‘Did Tom put you up to this?’
‘It’s no wind-up, Will. I can give you a number to call me back on, if you don’t believe me.’
‘Fine.’
I jot down the number she reels off, then ring her back. ‘Hello, BBC,’ says a bored voice at the end of the phone.
‘Ah. This is the BBC? The television people?’
There’s a sigh at the other end of the line. ‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘Er, and does someone called Ellen Waters work there, please?’
I hear the noise of someone typing on a keyboard. ‘Yes,’ says the voice.
When they don’t elaborate, I have to speak again. ‘Well, could you put me through to her, please?’
There’s another sigh, a click, a few seconds of ‘Greensleeves’, and then Ellen comes back on the phone.
‘You see, Will–I can call you Will, can’t I?–we’re legit. So how about it?’
‘And why, exactly, should I come on Today’s the Day?’
‘So you can p
ut your side of the story, of course. I’ve read the papers–some of them haven’t been that complimentary, have they?’
I swallow hard. ‘Haven’t they?’
‘Well, the Daily Mail has got you on page five. But the Express has got your photo on the front page. With the caption “Have you slept with this man?”’
I feel my mouth go all dry, and I suddenly need to sit down. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘I bet you wish I was, don’t you?’
‘But I just want this to go away. And surely coming on national television will only keep it alive for longer.’
‘Not at all, Will. It gives you the chance to put the matter to bed. Once and for all. Tell people you’re not a crank. Or a pervert.’
While Ellen tries her best to convince me, I start to realize that she’s got a point. And as much as the prospect of appearing on a live television chat show scares me, I’m more worried that the newspaper coverage has left me with a reputation that I’m going to have trouble shaking.
‘Well, what would be involved?’
Ellen’s voice perks up, like an angler who’s just got a bite. ‘Oh, not much to worry about. You come in, sit on the sofa for ten minutes, and just have a chat with Martin and Trudy. Nothing to it.’
Martin and Trudy! Television’s A-list couple. ‘I presume I’ll get to see the questions I’ll be asked beforehand?’
‘Oh, it’s normally not a scripted show,’ says Ellen dismissively. ‘But you’ll be fine. They won’t ask you anything you’ll be uncomfortable with. We’ll turn it into a feature, if you like. Kind of a “what men are looking for in a woman nowadays” piece. Topical stuff. Always goes down well with the audience.’
‘Let me think about it, will you?’ I say hesitantly. ‘When were you thinking of having me on?’
But Ellen doesn’t hesitate at all. ‘How about tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow. As in…the day after today? You’re joking?’
‘Not at all. It needs to be current. Topical. Today’s news is yesterday’s news tomorrow, if you see what I mean. Except for where your reputation is concerned, of course. So strike while the iron’s hot.’