From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that if I don’t go on national TV before my story dies a natural death, it’ll die a natural death anyway?’

  ‘Aha,’ says Ellen. ‘But you want it to die the right natural death, surely?’

  ‘Ri-ight.’

  ‘Excellent. So we’ll see you tomorrow? We’ll send a car? Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Don’t you need my address?’

  ‘Already got it, dear boy.’

  Before I can ask any more questions, the phone clicks off. I stare at the receiver for a moment, wondering what on earth I’ve got myself into, then rush out to reception and, in front of a bewildered Jen, switch the large Plasma TV on the wall over from its usual news channel to BBC One. On the screen in front of me, Martin and Trudy seem to be locked in a vigorous debate about which supermarket has the most eco-friendly carrier bags, and it certainly looks innocuous enough–the only time voices get raised are when Martin shushes Trudy too often for her liking.

  As I watch, I start to feel a little more confident. After all, how tough can it be on a peach-coloured sofa, anyway? Perhaps I’ll be able to give the business a plug too. And if I can get Emma to tune in, maybe it’ll be a good chance for her to hear my side of the story. Back in my office, I call Tom to tell him the good news, but his reaction isn’t quite the one I was expecting.

  ‘You bastard!’ he says, loudly enough for me to have to hold the receiver an inch or two away from my ear.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been an actor for nearly ten years, and it’s still just as tough for me to get any kind of exposure. You put yourself on eBay and, five minutes later, you’re all over the bloody media.’

  ‘Thanks to you and your reporter friend, don’t forget.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Sorry. So are you nervous?’

  ‘Not really. How hard can it be?’

  ‘Have you ever seen Today’s the Day?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I saw a bit of it this morning, in fact.’

  ‘And you’re sure you want to go on?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  I hear a commotion behind him, and wait as he gives Barbara a quick update. As Barbara starts to snigger, Tom comes back on the line. ‘It’s just that…I mean, it’s hardly…Never mind. I’m sure you’re doing the right thing, Will.’

  I’m just about to ask Tom what he means, when I hear a struggle at the other end of the line, followed by Tom grunting in pain.

  ‘What time are you going on?’ says Barbara, who’s obviously just wrestled the phone out of Tom’s grasp.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just so I can set the DVD recorder. After all, it’s not often you see someone you know skinned alive on national television, is it?’

  ‘I’m hardly going to be skinned alive. It’s just a cosy little chat on the sofa, after all.’ I swallow uneasily. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Barbara struggles to contain her laughter. ‘Sure, Will. Whatever you say. A cosy little chat. Anyway, I’d better let you go–I’m sure you’ve got a lot of things to sort out for tomorrow.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, what you’re going to wear, for one thing. You’re on national TV, don’t forget. Play it smart and this’ll be a great advert for you. And at least you want to look the part. Just in case there are any eligible women watching…’

  ‘Barbara, the kind of women I’m hoping to meet are hardly going to be watching Today’s the Day.’

  ‘You never know, Will. I watch it sometimes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, and put the phone down in victory.

  I get Jen to reschedule my afternoon appointments, and hurry back to my flat, because Barbara’s right–what do I wear? I’m used to dressing to impress in an out-on-a-date kind of way–I’ve got a whole wardrobe full of trendy shirts and designer jeans, which, it seems to me, the more they cost the scruffier they look. But they’re all my pulling clothes–outfits that lend me an air of style without looking like I’ve tried too hard, although I’m beginning to suspect that most women can see straight through that, particularly the trendily ripped pair I bought on a whim and then wore the once. I tried to take them to a charity shop recently, but they rejected them on the basis that they looked too far gone.

  I’ve never been on television before, unless you count the video that Anita and I made once when we were drunk, and we certainly weren’t bothered about what we were wearing on that occasion. But, as Barbara mentioned, there might be eligible women watching, so what do I wear that says ‘dad-to-be’? Looking at the way Tom dresses, a trip back to the charity shop would be in order, but, realistically, that’s not an option. I need to convey smart without being flash; well dressed and stylish, but not someone who minds spilling baby food on his shirt.

  But then it occurs to me that maybe I’m approaching this the wrong way? Just because Tom and, let’s face it, most of the other fathers I know lose the will to dress well the moment the kids arrive, that doesn’t mean that I have to follow suit, so to speak. In fact, I’m going to be one of those trendy dads. One of those fathers who still looks good in a suit, rather than making it look like it’s been made to measure for someone smaller. I’ll be the kind of dad who the other mothers look at appreciatively. And who their husbands see and think: Why did I let that gym membership lapse? Why can’t I look like that Will Jackson over there? My, he’s good-looking for an older man.

  Because you don’t have to let it all go once the kids arrive. And, surely, if I still look good, then the mother of my baby will feel she has to do the same, which in turn should help us stay together? And I want her to want to stay with me too–and not just for the child’s sake. Because there’s no way I’m going to be one of these part-time fathers, playing at being the attentive parent in McDonald’s or Starbucks when they’ve got the kid for their forty-eight hours every other weekend, before taking them back home for one of those border hostage handovers like you see in Cold War spy films. That’d never happen to me. Never be something I’d do. We’d stay together because of the kids, and never let them know even if we were having problems. No–I’ll definitely put on a united front. Unlike my bloody dad.

  I pull my black Hugo Boss suit out of the wardrobe, slip it on, and check my reflection in the mirror, but it’s not quite right–there’s a fine line between the cool one from Reservoir Dogs and looking like you’re on your way to a funeral. And even if I did decide to wear it, I’d still have the tie dilemma. It’s not an interview–well, not really–and I never wear a tie in everyday life (or a suit, for that matter), so would I really want to be sat there under the studio lights with this constricting thing round my neck? And besides, it’s all open necks nowadays, isn’t it? With shirts tucked in. Again. I think. Plus, would I ever wear a suit and tie on a date? Doubtful. And surely not if I want her to think that I’m a fun kind of guy, and not one of those stiffs I see on the tube all the time poring over their BlackBerries like they’re waiting for the lottery results, or having a panic attack whenever they temporarily lose reception on their mobiles.

  I put the suit back on its hanger, and look for something a little less formal. I could wear jeans, I suppose, but then there’s the risk of appearing too scruffy. Or there’s always Chinos, but then I don’t want to look too ‘preppy’. This is turning out to be trickier than I thought, and after another fruitless search through my wardrobe, I come to the only possible conclusion. I need to go shopping. And fast.

  Ten minutes later, I’m heading back into Richmond, and after an hour trawling up and down between the likes of Marks & Spencer’s and Moss Bros, realize that I really must add this to my list of things that are crap when you’re single. When you’re a couple, clothes shopping is a doddle–fun, even–and there’re not many shopping-related activities that you can say that about. When you’re shopping for clothes with your girlfriend, you know you can’t go wrong–there’s no way she’s going to let you be seen dead in anything embarrassing, you’ve always got a willing helper there to pi
ck things out for you, bring you different sizes while you hide in the changing room, and then cast her expert eye over your new ensemble. With a woman’s help, the changing room becomes a refuge from the normal hustle and bustle of the high street. A chrysalis from which you’ll eventually emerge, resplendent in your new, carefully selected outfit. And, occasionally, a venue for a quickie.

  On your own, however, it’s a different story. In desperation, you take a random armful of clothes to the changing room, only to be told off by the bored teenager guarding the entrance who, by the way he casts a scornful eye over what you’ve selected, obviously thinks he’s got a degree in fashion, whereas the only real piece of paper he owns with his name on has the letters ASBO printed firmly underneath.

  I’m on my third circuit of the town centre, walking so quickly that even the chuggers don’t dare to try and stop me for fear of whiplash, and beginning to despair that I’m never going to strike the balance I’m desperate to achieve, when it hits me. Gap. I never normally shop in Gap, not particularly liking their selection of faded T-shirts and baggy combat pants, but as I peer through the window, it strikes me that this is what dads actually wear, particularly the young, trendier ones I see pushing their four-by-four buggies around Richmond Park. Perfect. Dress myself in their version of smart-casual and I can’t go wrong.

  I push through the large swing doors and follow the signs towards the menswear department at the back of the shop, and I’m staring at the various dummies, all identically decked out in a variety of loose-fitting striped polo shirts, cargo pants–whatever they are–and what I understand from GQ to be a ‘man-bag’, when one of the dummies moves.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m just looking,’ I say.

  The assistant, whose name badge identifies him as ‘Kevin’, looks at me resentfully, as if letting him help me might lend a sense of purpose to his otherwise dull afternoon, before walking off to re-fold a pile of T-shirts that don’t look as if they’ve been disturbed in the first place.

  After five minutes or so, I’ve managed to locate the constituent items that I think might make up the ‘casual dad about town’ look that I’m trying to recreate, and head over towards the changing rooms. Kevin, who’s obviously been watching me surreptitiously as I’ve moved around the shop, fairly sprints across to meet me at the entrance.

  ‘Can I try these on?’ I ask, conscious of the need to say something even though I’m carrying an armful of clothing and standing by the entrance to the changing rooms.

  Kevin does a quick inspection of what I’m carrying, and looks up at me in a so-you-want-my-help-now kind of way. ‘It’s five items max,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve got ten,’ I say.

  ‘It’s five items. Max,’ repeats Kevin, as if I haven’t understood him the first time.

  ‘Yes. But I need to try on ten at once,’ I reply, stopping myself from adding ‘because I don’t have a girlfriend to go and get alternative colours and sizes while I’m in there’.

  Kevin reaches under the small table by the entrance to the changing rooms, and retrieves a plastic tag with the number five stamped on it. ‘But it only goes up to five.’

  I stare at him for a moment, wondering how to get around this impasse. ‘Well, how about you give me two of those little tags. Then we’ll both be happy.’

  Kevin tries to process this piece of information, peering towards the tills, as if he’s considering whether he needs to check this most radical of requests with the manager. ‘Okay,’ he says, as if he’s just agreed to donate one of his kidneys to me. ‘But just this once.’

  I thank him profusely, even though just this once will be fine as I’ll probably never come into Gap again, and carry my prospective-dad outfit into the changing rooms, where I draw back the musty curtain of the first cubicle I see, and walk inside. The floor is covered in ripped-off labels and security tags from when, I’m guessing, previous occupants have nicked the clothes they’ve been trying on, and the hook on the back of the door is missing, so I have to pile all the clothes, including mine, on the shelf-like wooden seat. What’s worse, it’s one of those dual-sex changing rooms, and when I try and shut the curtain behind me, and manage to close the gap at one end, I end up revealing an inch or two at the other, through which I spot a gaggle of skiving teenage schoolgirls disappearing into the cubicles opposite.

  After ten minutes of mixing and matching, I think I’ve managed to assemble a decent-enough outfit, although it’s hard to tell, given the cramped confines of the cubicle and the size and orientation of the mirror. I don’t want to emerge into the middle aisle to use the larger mirror there and run the risk of being laughed at by the teenage girls who, judging by the noise emanating from behind their curtains, seem to be having some kind of party, so, instead, I try and adjust the angle of the two mirrors on the adjacent walls in my cubicle to get a view of how I look from the back, but only succeed in cricking my neck. The main mirror’s only four foot high, and I can’t seem to get far enough away from it to get a full view of myself without leaving the safety of the cubicle, so, in desperation, I try and take a picture of myself on my camera phone by standing with my back to the mirror and taking the shot over my shoulder, but even then, it’s too dark to get a proper photo.

  Eventually, I decide that the only way I can get a decent look at the trousers is by standing on the seat, thus bringing them level with the bottom of the mirror, so I move the rest of the clothes into a pile on the floor and climb up onto the bench. My phone is still in the hand I’m hanging on to the top of the cubicle wall with, and I’m trying to tuck my shirt into the front of my trousers with the other, and as I crane my neck around to try and get a proper view, I hear a shout from one of the teenage girls opposite. As I look automatically across, I suddenly realize that because I’m standing on the seat, my head and shoulders are poking over the top of my cubicle, giving me a clear view across the aisle and into where the girls are changing.

  As I duck out of sight and jump down off the bench, the curtain is suddenly swept aside to reveal Kevin, surrounded by the girls from across the aisle. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, one hand down the front of my trousers, the other clutching my camera phone, and realize that this might not perhaps look too good.

  ‘That’s him,’ spits one of the teenagers. ‘Pervert.’

  ‘Get a good view, did you?’ shouts her friend.

  Kevin stands there mutely, not knowing quite how to react.

  ‘Actually, no,’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s just that these mirrors are too small. And I was trying to look at—’

  ‘Us changing,’ interrupts the first girl.

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I…’

  And this is why I need a girlfriend. And fast. Because if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have been manhandled to a room at the back of the shop by the security guards. And if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have had to explain to the police what I’d been doing standing on the bench in the changing rooms with my camera phone. And I wouldn’t have had to prove my case by showing a policeman some grainy photographs of my own backside. And if I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t have been in bloody Gap in the first place trying to buy something to wear so I could go on television to discuss my single status, which, quite frankly, is looking more and more like a permanent state.

  Chapter 23

  Today’s the day, as it were. The car comes at nine exactly–a large, silver Mercedes that’s possibly not the best use of licence-payers’ money, but looks extremely comfortable, a fact I am happy to confirm as I jump into the back seat for the short drive to Shepherd’s Bush. I’m wearing my Hugo Boss suit jacket–the shops having been shut by the time I eventually got out of the police station the previous evening–with a white shirt open at the neck, and my best pair of jeans, which I’m hoping will give me the right mix of respectability and come-and-get-me sexuality that every prospective father appearing on national television wants to achieve.

  I’ve texted Em
ma to tell her to tune in if she gets the chance, but she’s not replied to my message, or indeed to any of the other ten or so voicemails I’ve left her, so I’m assuming that she’s given up on me. And as depressing as that is, I’ve got no choice but to try and put it to the back of my mind and get on with the task at hand.

  By nine-thirty we’re pulling into the BBC car park, and I’m led into reception, where I sit down nervously on the squeaky leather sofa and scan the assorted faces, trying to spot anyone famous. But just when I think I might have recognized someone who used to be a weathergirl before some incriminating photographs of her caused a bit of a storm of their own, a short, fat, blonde woman comes out from one of the security doors and bustles over in my direction.

  ‘Will?’ she says, a couple of seconds before her perfume cloud almost asphyxiates me. ‘Ellen Waters.’

  I shake her hand, wondering whether I should be giving her one of those media-type double kisses, but Ellen doesn’t hang about long enough for me to get the chance. Instead, she ushers me through the security with a wave of her badge on the scanner, barking instructions as we go.

  ‘Slight change of plan,’ she says, leading me through into make-up. ‘We thought we’d do a bit of a phone-in.’

  ‘What kind of phone-in?’

  Ellen pushes me into a chair, resting a hand on my shoulder as the make-up girl stuffs tissue paper into the neck of my shirt. ‘Nothing to worry about. One where we ask people to call in to the show if they like the look of you. If you get on, then we thought they could perhaps win a date or something.’

  Win a date? With me? ‘So, sort of a phone-in competition?’

  ‘That’s right,’ smiles Ellen, patting my arm in a patronizing I-don’t-expect-you-to-understand-the-intricacies-of-live-television kind of way. ‘A competition. So how about it?’ she asks, in an as-if-you’ve-got-a-choice voice.

  I’m smiling as I consider the idea, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, it’s more of a grimace. What could possibly be worse? I’ve come on here to try and rescue my reputation after being made a laughing stock, and now I’m going to be offered up as some kind of prize.