by Matt Dunn
‘Duh.’ He stands and pulls Barbara up from the sofa. ‘Okay. Have it your way.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Come on,’ says Tom. ‘I’m serious. On the couch.’
As he stands there with his arms folded, I stare at him for a second or two, then walk silently over and lie down. Tom clears his throat, pulls up a chair, and sits next to me.
‘So,’ he says, in a strange accent that I recognize as a poor copy of my own. ‘When did this all start?’
‘Tom, do you mind not doing the voice, please.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And when did what all start?’
‘All this. Your inability to commit?’
‘I’m not scared of commitment.’
‘Bollocks, Will. Up until now, the second any of your girlfriends have mentioned the C word, you’ve broken the sound barrier on your way out of the door.’
‘That’s not true. I…’
As Barbara rolls her eyes, Tom frowns at me. ‘So tell me, then, how many women have you committed to, exactly?’
‘Define committed.’
Tom sighs. ‘All right. Gone out with for longer than a year, then. Continuously,’ he adds, obviously referring to my on–off relationship with Anita.
I hold my hand up. ‘Okay. I get your point,’ I say, mentally running back through my relationship history.
‘And the answer would be?’ asks Tom, when I don’t say anything further.
‘Fine. None. Happy now?’
‘It’s not my happiness we’re trying to work on, is it?’
‘Stop being a smart arse.’
Tom stands up, and starts to pace around the room. ‘Okay. Let’s try a different tack. Tell me about your childhood.’
‘You know all about my childhood. My dad left when I was six months old—’
‘Aha!’ interrupts Tom. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. And how did that make you feel?’
I sigh, and try to stand up. ‘Tom, I was a baby. I didn’t feel anything, apart from a constant need to shit, eat, and cry.’
‘Well, how do you feel about it now?’ says Tom, pushing me back down again.
I shrug. ‘Okay, I guess.’
Tom glares at me. ‘How do you really feel about it?’
‘I told you. Fine. It was a long time ago.’
‘Will,’ says Tom, in what I imagine he thinks is his best soothing voice, ‘it’s okay to be angry.’
‘I’m angry at you for wasting my time with this ridiculous—’
I start to sit up, but Tom leans over and grabs me by the shoulders. ‘For Christ’s sake, Will. I’m trying to help you here. Now will you just think about the question for a minute? Or would you rather just spend the rest of your life sad and alone and walking out on every girl that shows the slightest bit of interest because you haven’t got over the fact that your dad walked out on you?’
And suddenly, although I want to get up and walk out on Tom at this moment in time, this stops me in my tracks. Because Tom’s right. It’s classic. And if I had someone sat on the couch in my office saying exactly the same things to me, it’s precisely the conclusion that I’d come to.
‘So…You’re saying that the simple reason that I’ve never been able to commit to women is because I’m scared that they’ll eventually leave me just like my dad did? And therefore the moment it looks like I might be getting in deep enough to be hurt if this is actually the case, I walk out on them instead?’
Tom shrugs. ‘Could be.’
‘And…And so the reason that I’m desperate to have a child with someone now is because I know I’d never walk out on a baby the way my father did, and therefore it gives me an excuse to commit to someone without actually committing to her, because in fact it’s the child I’m making the commitment to?’
Tom nods. ‘Sounds like a theory.’
‘Plus, I’m desperate to be a great father, because my own father never was?’
‘Precisely,’ says Tom. ‘Whereas, if you think about it, it’s all bollocks, because all your commitment issues are actually based on your own misconception.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Because your dad didn’t leave you, as it turns out. Your mum asked him to go. So you don’t have to be worried about anyone else leaving you.’ Tom smiles. ‘Piece of piss, this psychoanalysis bollocks. How much do you charge again?’
As I look at Tom in disbelief, I realize that he’s pretty much nailed it. And although I’m slightly concerned that I couldn’t see it myself, sometimes it takes a third party to make sense of this kind of stuff. A bit of distance. After all, that’s what my clients all pay me for.
I swing round on the couch, put my feet on the floor, and put my head in my hands. ‘So assuming that is, in fact, the case, what on earth do I do about it?’
Tom puffs air out of his cheeks. ‘I dunno. You’re the life coach. You work it out.’
Barbara comes and sits next to me, puts her arm around my shoulders, and gives me a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t make it, Will.’
‘Make what?’
‘Paternity. Wasn’t it supposed to be by yesterday?’
I stare out of the window, where Ellie is chasing Jack round the front garden with the sponge. ‘Yes. Well. You can’t rush these things, can you?’
Tom sits down on the other side of me. ‘So, just to recap, you didn’t actually meet anyone suitable? Despite being splashed all over the internet, eBay, the newspapers, and even daytime TV?’
‘And not forgetting our best attempts to set you up,’ says Barbara.
‘Well, there was one person,’ I say quietly.
‘You sly old dog, you,’ says Tom. ‘You didn’t mention anything.’
‘Who?’ says Barbara, suddenly intrigued.
‘Her name’s Emma,’ I explain. ‘She works in that new Starbucks next to my office. But don’t get too excited. I seem to have scared her off with all this baby stuff.’
Barbara does a double take. ‘Emma? So you’ve met Archie, then?’
I look up sharply. ‘Archie? Don’t tell me she’s married? That would explain it.’
‘No–Archie, her son.’
‘Her…son?’
Barbara nods. ‘He’s in Jack and Ellie’s class. Nice little lad. Ellie’s quite sweet on him, actually.’
I stare at her in disbelief for a moment or two, trying to process this piece of information, and suddenly it all becomes clear. The fact that she only works the day shifts. Her lack of evening and weekend availability when I asked her out. And, of course, her not inviting me back to her place for coffee that night.
Tom grins. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’
‘Judging by the look on his face, obviously not,’ laughs Barbara.
‘Yes, well, I wasn’t exactly honest about my motives either,’ I say. ‘But she won’t seem to give me a chance to apologize.’
Barbara smiles. ‘Well, from where I’m sitting, I’d say she owes you an apology too.’
When I ring Emma’s doorbell, there’s no-one in, and for a moment I stare up at the front windows, wondering whether maybe she’s heard the car coming and has decided not to answer her door. I curse silently to myself, thinking that I should have parked the TVR out of earshot, but then I’d have had a very long walk, and I’m just about to give up and go home when I hear a voice from the next-door garden.
‘They’re at the park.’
I peer over the hedge to see an old lady, barely as tall as the rake she’s leaning on for support.
‘Who are?’
‘Emma and Archie. She always takes him to the park on Saturday mornings.’
‘Oh. Of course.’
‘You should catch them there if you hurry,’ says the old lady.
‘Right. Thanks.’ I turn and walk back to the car, but then stop and run back towards her garden. ‘And which park would that be, exactly?’
The old lady gives me directions, and I thank her and sprint back towards the car. A few m
inutes later, I find the park. There’s a football game going on, where a bunch of overweight thirty-somethings, some of whom look like they’re more likely to have a heart attack than touch the ball, are all trying to prove they’ve still got ‘it’, while a bunch of dutiful girlfriends and bored children stand and watch on the touchline. There’s no sign of Emma, and I’m worried I’ve missed them when over in the corner I spot the kids’ play area. There’s a small figure running towards the roundabout, and a woman sitting on one of the benches nearby. From what I can just about make out, she’s wearing a snorkel parka.
It’s a cold day, and cursing the fact that I’m not wearing a coat myself, I hurry across the grass, being careful to avoid the various mounds of dog poo, walk up behind the bench, and clear my throat.
‘Will?’ Emma gets up from where she’s been sitting and turns around. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I thought it was about time you told me the truth.’
Emma looks guiltily over her shoulder to where the small boy is hanging upside-down on the monkey bars. Even to a thirty-one-year-old, it looks like fun.
‘You can talk. Why didn’t you tell me you were so desperate to have a child?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you already had one?’
Emma starts to say something, but stops herself, as we both know I win this particular argument. Instead, she just sticks her hands in her pockets and shakes her head slowly. ‘Will, you’ve got no idea what it’s like, have you?’
‘What what’s like?’
‘Being a single mum.’
Perhaps more than you think, I want to say, given my upbringing. But I realize that now’s the time to let Emma talk, rather than try and assert my credentials.
‘I know what it’s like to be single.’
‘That’s not the same thing at all.’
‘Well, why on earth didn’t you tell me? About Archie?’
‘When?’
‘Well, when we first met might have been a good time. Or on our first date. Or even the second one. It’s quite a major thing, you know.’
‘I’m sorry. I was planning to. When I invited you round for lunch.’
‘And your “baby sister”? Any other family members I don’t know about?’
Emma blushes. ‘Babysitter, actually. But that was her idea not mine. I just…went along with it.’
‘Why?’
Emma sits back down on the bench, careful to avoid the bird droppings, and as I sit down next to her, I can see her eyes start to mist up. ‘Mention the fact you’ve got a child to most blokes and they run a mile. Amanda knew that too. And I liked you. And didn’t want you to run a mile.’ Emma shakes her head slowly. ‘Then I read that stuff in the paper about you, and I got scared. I’ve already been left once when someone decided that being a father didn’t actually fit in with his great life plan. And I certainly didn’t want that to happen again.’
‘But didn’t you see me? On Today’s the Day? I wanted to explain.’
‘Will, I have a life. And a job. And college. And a five-year-old son who’s been off school for the past couple of days. That doesn’t exactly leave much time for daytime TV. Or anything, come to think of it.’
I nod towards Archie, who’s trying to get himself started on the roundabout. And as I watch him playing on his own, I realize how lucky the twins are to have each other. And Tom. ‘Where’s his dad?’
Emma shrugs. ‘That’s a very good question. I guess he didn’t want to face the responsibility.’
‘But you do know…’
‘Who he is?’ Emma punches me on the shoulder. ‘Of course I do, Will. Who do you take me for? But I don’t know where he is. And I don’t care, actually. He didn’t even have the decency to hang around until Archie was born.’
‘I’m sorry, I…’ I swallow hard. This is all painfully familiar.
We sit there in silence, watching Archie as he climbs onto the swings, before Emma forces a smile. ‘Do you remember those days, Will? When you didn’t have a care in the world? When you could just please yourself? Maybe you’re still there. But I haven’t had that for five years now. Because everything I do is for him now. Every decision I make, I have to think what it will mean for Archie. And as for letting someone else into my life, well, I thought that maybe I could. But…’ Her voice tails off.
‘I do, actually. Which is why I thought maybe you might want to go out to lunch.’
‘Will, haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? I’ve got Archie…’
‘I meant the two of you. And me, obviously.’
Emma looks across at the swings, where Archie is swinging himself higher and higher with a huge grin on his face. ‘I’m not sure, Will. I’ve had boyfriends before, and ultimately…I don’t want him to be let down. Again.’
As Emma stares stonily ahead, I realize that now’s the time to play my trump card. So I tell her all about my childhood, and how I know what a struggle it was for both me and my mum. I fill her in about what I’ve been going through recently, and just why it is that I was so set on having a family of my own. And then I tell her why I’d never let her down. Because I know just how bad it feels when it happens.
And then something unexpected happens: Emma starts crying. And it’s not just small drops-of-water-from-the-corner-of-the-eyes crying, but huge, shoulder-heaving sobs. I sit there like an idiot for a second, trying to ignore the accusing glances from some teenagers on a nearby bench, before putting an arm round her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.
Archie jumps down from the swings and comes running over, looking at me suspiciously before grabbing Emma protectively round the leg. Already he’s half as tall as she is, looking very much the boy in his striped rugby shirt and turned-up jeans. Emma regains her composure, then reaches down to re-fix the Velcro straps on his trainers, before picking him up and resting him on her lap.
‘Archie, this is Will,’ she says, drying her eyes on her sleeve and taking a deep breath. ‘Will, this is Archie. My son.’
I’m not really sure what to do, as I’ve never been introduced to a five-year-old before. I’ve known both Jack and Ellie since they were born, so I’m not sure what the correct etiquette is. I’m also conscious that Emma might be reading a lot into what I’m like with kids from this. But then again, she’s seen me with Jack and Ellie.
‘Hi, Archie,’ I say, ruffling his hair, having decided not to shake his hand.
Archie just stares at me for a moment or two, smoothes his hair down again, then wriggles off Emma’s lap and heads back towards the slide.
‘Well, that went well,’ sniffs Emma, but with a smile on her face for the first time today.
‘Yes. I’m a natural,’ I say. ‘As you well know.’
She slips her hand into mine, and we sit and watch as Archie climbs back up the slide. He’s an independent kid, obviously used to playing on his own, and although he looks slightly nervous when he gets to the top, he looks across to where we’re sitting and waves.
‘Be careful,’ shouts Emma, but before she can move, Archie launches himself down the slide head-first. We watch in horror as he reaches the bottom and crashes onto the ground.
Like a sprinter out of the blocks, Emma leaps up from the bench and runs towards where Archie’s lying. Although her speed has surprised me, I’m not far behind, but by the time I reach them she’s already crouched down next to him, cradling his limp body in her arms. He’s obviously caught the side of his head on the metal end of the slide, and there’s a worrying amount of blood seeping out of the gash.
Emma looks up at me, an expression of panic on her face. ‘Help me,’ she says, fumbling in her bag for her phone. I take one look at Archie and make a decision. He’s still breathing, but there’s no way we can afford to waste any time.
I hurriedly pull my sweatshirt off over my head, and hand it to her. ‘Here. Press this against the cut. It’ll help to stop the bleeding.’
‘Should we call an ambulance?’
‘No time for that,’ I say. ‘I’ll drive us to the hospital.’
I pick Archie up and run towards where I’ve parked the car, Emma doing her best to keep up behind me. She jumps into the passenger seat, and I lower Archie in and onto her lap. As she holds my sweatshirt over the gash on Archie’s head, I try not to notice the blood dripping down onto the cream-leather seat.
‘Sorry,’ says Emma, as I fire up the engine and slam it into gear, spraying gravel as I wheelspin out of the car park.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, and then utter the words I never thought I’d hear myself say about the TVR. ‘It’s only a car.’
I put my foot flat to the floor, and the TVR rockets forward and onto the A316. We accelerate over the bridge, and are doing seventy by the time I have to jam the brakes on for the speed camera on the other side of the hill. As I weave in and out of the traffic, I’m suddenly grateful for the fact I haven’t traded the car in for the Toyota, and there’s actually a part of me enjoying having a reason for driving like a lunatic.
I screech round the roundabout, occasionally veering onto the other side of the road to overtake other motorists, and ignoring the fingers they flick at me as I pass. Fortunately, Emma’s too absorbed in Archie to notice my driving.
‘How’s he doing?’ I say, glancing across. Archie’s face is incredibly pale, and Emma’s isn’t far off the same colour.
‘I don’t know, Will. Hurry, will you?’
Under other circumstances this would be funny, given the speed I’m going at and the way I’ve been driving, but instead I just turn my attention to the road in front of me and aim for the hospital. After what seems like forever, but in reality is little more than three minutes, we pull into the ambulance bay, and I’ve hardly screeched to a stop when Emma leaps out of the car and sprints for the entrance.
‘You take him in and I’ll just go and…’ I say, to her rapidly disappearing figure, ‘park the car.’
I drive round the corner to where the parking signs are, and squeeze the TVR into the first space I see, which turns out to be a good four hundred yards from the hospital entrance. As I leap out of the car and sprint back towards the A&E department, I suddenly remember I’ve got no shirt on, and there’s blood on my chest, which is probably why the security guards are looking at me rather strangely as I burst in through the door, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.