After she told me, I took myself off to the bathroom and sobbed. Proper sobbed, like a baby. If she heard me, she didn’t say anything. She’s good like that. Understands that sometimes you need your privacy, that there are certain things you don’t want to share.
Finally, it’s happened.
I can hardly believe it.
I haven’t known much for sure in my life, but I’ve always wanted to be a dad. Forget my comedy career, this is my destiny. Me and my little son, building the kind of relationship I could only have dreamt of with my old man.
It had always been vague talk, before. Esther knew I’d make a great dad. But when I brought it up she always used to smile at me and say, ‘Yes, one day, definitely,’ or ‘Maybe next year?’ and change the subject. She was traditional, she wanted to get married first.
So we did.
I didn’t put any pressure on her, because I’m not an arsehole. And then there was the issue of her career. Head of PR at the UK’s biggest diabetes charity. That was the problem with a real career. That never-ending ladder to climb. She’d worked her way up from the bottom, starting as an assistant straight out of university. When she got to the next level, she was too scared to step off, in case she couldn’t get back on again.
I got it. I’d been pushed off the career ladder myself when I was right at the top, and starting again from the bottom has been a painful experience.
It was OK though. I had patience – procrastination would be top of the skills listed on my CV, if I had one. I knew she’d come round in time. And lo and behold, when her oldest friend from school, Maddie, announced she was pregnant, a switch flicked in Esther’s wiring. And suddenly, it was everything she wanted too.
That was how we rolled. Whatever happened, however divergent our lives seemed, somehow they always clicked back into the same groove.
The night she told me she was ready to have a baby, we met for dinner at a steakhouse in Soho. I was about to go on as the support act for a friend at a club nearby. Esther said she’d come and meet me first. ‘Save you from the inevitable kebab you’d have otherwise.’ She’s always been sweet like that. It didn’t bother me that it was patronising, or emasculating or whatever the hell other people would think. The other comics on my circuit thought Esther was a control freak but they were idiots, thought that masculinity meant never asking for help.
Our lives back then were hectic, free-flowing and, mostly, fun, and we’d often come back to our flat to find the fridge bare and order a takeaway or head out to a restaurant. There was enough money to burn on things like that, even though we should have been more responsible. London had so much to offer; we didn’t want to miss out.
It was my first gig for a while and I was experiencing that same stupid feeling of hope. The feeling that kept me going; the antidepressant of the job. Perhaps this would be the night: there’d be a booker in the audience who would love me, or maybe a decent manager. Mike had proved himself a waste of space time and time again, but he was all I could get after it all went wrong. I dreamt of telling him he was dumped. Upgrading. Who knew? It only takes one lucky break, one person to spot you, and your whole life can change. Gotta keep on keeping on.
We queued outside the restaurant, our arms entangled as always. I was waffling away about the gig, my way of taking the edge off the nerves. Talking them out. We were led to a shared table, high-level. Uncomfortable stools designed to ensure you ate quickly and moved on. Fast food with a slow price tag. I paused as I hauled myself on to the seat – was that something to work into a routine one day?
The waitress was pregnant. Esther noticed; our eyes met briefly, but I didn’t say anything. She ordered a milkshake and sat there, her lips grinning as they sucked on the striped straw. We were married. We were happy. We had everything, nearly. I stroked her leg under the table. She was wearing tights and a black dress, having come straight from work.
Her work was all-consuming; I missed her. I had a vision of her, heavily pregnant, knocking off at 4pm because she was exhausted. Coming home to me. I loved the idea of us spending more time together. And maternity leave – a whole year off for us to be together as a family.
‘So,’ she said, as she stared down at the steak in front of her. ‘I’ve been thinking about the B-word again . . .’
‘Burgers?’ I said, because it wouldn’t be good to look too keen. I felt like I was walking a tightrope: one false move and we would both tumble off.
My leg was restless under the table. I’d wanted this for so long, but Esther had to be ready for it. It had to be her decision.
‘We’re out for swanky steak and all you want is a bloody burger.’
‘You know what I’m talking about, Bird,’ she said, rolling her eyes at me. She has always called me that. There’s some guy called Robert on my birth certificate. I got rid of him when I first started performing, changed my name officially to Robin. Everyone in my adult life has always called me Bird. ‘I’m ready. Let’s start trying for a baby.’
‘Blimey,’ I said, leaning across to squeeze her hand. ‘I guess I better order something stronger then.’
She laughed. I motioned to the waitress.
‘Cider, please,’ I said, then looked over at my wife.
‘Are you OK with it?’ she said, eyes widening. ‘Seriously?’
‘No, I’m just going to down this cider and do a runner,’ I said, and she rolled her eyes at me.
‘Seriously?’
‘We’ve just got married. Tot, it’s the best news ever. My mum will be over the moon.’
She pulled a face at that, and I realised then that bringing up my parents was a poor move. She didn’t want to be reminded that there would be other people involved with our baby. Her dad. My parents. My perfect brother and his perfect wife, and their perfect twins. In that moment, she wanted it to just be us.
‘Let’s not tell anyone yet though,’ she said, her hazel eyes narrowing a little. ‘I want to keep it secret. You never know, it might not happen quickly anyway. It took Maddie and Tom nearly eight months. I don’t want everyone knowing we’re trying and then going on about it every time we see them.’
I nodded. She’s so sensible, and my heart felt swollen with love for her. Inside, a firework had been lit in my chest. I wanted to run outside and spin with uncontrollable joy, like a Catherine wheel let off by accident.
I tried to imagine my son. What would he look like? Would he have Esther’s greeny-brown eyes, and my gingery hair?
We ate the rest of our steaks in an awestruck silence at the Big Decision we’d made. She kissed me goodbye outside the venue for the gig. I’ve never liked her watching me perform. Stand-up is a headfuck at the best of times, but having to do it in front of those who know you best, who can see through your carefully constructed artifice to the true inspiration for your comedy, is almost impossible.
At least, that’s how I find it.
Maybe I’ve been overthinking it too much. I probably just don’t like her seeing me mess up.
The gig was pretty shit, as it turned out. Que sera. Suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore. I only stayed for one pint after, and my mood didn’t drop as much as usual. At home, I found her asleep in bed, but when I climbed in beside her, she reached for me. We made love and I wondered whether this would be it, whether this one time would be all it would take.
Two years later . . .
Esther is clutching the test in her fist, staring down at the two pink lines.
‘Let me work it out,’ Esther says, as though she’s reading my mind. She often does that. ‘The night it happened.’
She picks up her phone, starts counting on her fingers.
‘Shit!’
‘What?’
‘Remember Duncan’s book launch? Oh, no, you probably don’t,’ she says, as she stares at her phone. ‘You were paralytic . . . how . . .’
She has always put u
p with my drunkenness quite well, considering. It helps that I’m a lovable drunk, of course.
‘Oh,’ I say, remembering exactly why I got so drunk that evening. Duncan was likely the most competitive male in our group of mates – hard to say for sure though, there were a few contenders. Celebrating his success in a creative field was not something I could quite bring myself to do, even if it had taken him eight years to get published and, happily, the book wasn’t great. I read it in one sitting the next day – derivative, uneven in pace. Forgettable. So I drowned it in beer instead. ‘Are you sure it was that night?’
‘Yep,’ she says, curling herself into my lap and putting her arms around me. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Let’s not tell the baby that,’ I say. ‘Don’t think they need to know their dad was pissed the night they were conceived.’
‘No, they don’t! Poor baby,’ she says, smiling.
I pull her towards me for a kiss, but her lips twist and she turns away.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s just . . . you . . . you smell of coffee.’
‘Right,’ I say, blinking at her. ‘Sorry. I’ll go and brush my teeth.’
In the bathroom, I feel strangely off-balance. I tried to kiss my wife, but she turned away from me. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does. A tiny sliver of insight into what’s to come.
Our beautiful life is about to change beyond all recognition.
Esther
I’m working my way through the updated visuals for next year’s campaign, trying to ignore the fact I feel hungover, even though I haven’t drunk anything since the day I found out I was pregnant, when Vivienne texts me.
Hey, just had a shit casting round the corner. Free for lunch? I need wine. X
I look at my clock. Hardly any of the others are in today, but I decided to work in between Christmas and New Year to catch up. I have a pile of things to get through, but I feel rotten and light-headed. Perhaps some fresh air will do me good.
We meet at a wine bar near Ludgate Circus and I laugh when I see Vivienne – she’s pinned her mane of curly red hair back and is wearing a navy blue fitted suit.
‘Wow,’ I say, kissing her on the cheek. ‘What was the audition for?’
‘Insurance advert,’ she says. ‘Don’t ask. There’s no chance they’ll cast my hair anyway. I’m so sick of these bullshit auditions.’
I grin at her and stare down at my menu. Like the other thespians she’s introduced me to, moaning is her speciality. But unlike the others, Viv doesn’t need to audition really. Her father is a successful theatre director, her mother one of the country’s best-loved actresses. Either one of them could get her a job easily. But she refuses their offers of help.
‘Why are you even auditioning for adverts?’ I ask, watching her unpin her hair. It cascades over her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist. Robin says her hair makes her look like an Amish girl. ‘I thought you had a show starting in January?’
‘I do,’ she says. ‘But it’s fringe and the pay is shit. And ads pay loads for bugger all. But I won’t get it anyway.’
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.
‘Sorry, chicken.’
I order some soup and refuse Vivienne’s offer to share a bottle of wine. She doesn’t take much notice of why I might be sticking to water, but that’s why I like her. She’s loud, attention-seeking, and always off in her own world. She’s also generous and fun. She’s been my best friend since the first day we met at Edinburgh University, having been placed in halls next to each other. We were both studying English Literature but she spent her whole time performing with the drama society. I spent the time that I wasn’t in the library watching her in what can only be described as ‘avant-garde’ productions.
‘So how’s Rob?’ she says, forking her salad and meeting me square in the eyes. ‘Still resting?’
For someone who works in the same industry, Viv has remarkably little sympathy for his employment status. The ironic thing is that she introduced us. They had met through a mutual friend. We were introduced at a party I had tagged along to with Viv, and he fell to his knees and thanked God when I said I wasn’t an actress myself. It was totally over the top, and Vivienne pulled a face behind him, but I was hooked.
‘He’s weird,’ she told me later that night. ‘There’s something about him I don’t like.’
She was in the minority. Everyone I introduced him to loved him. He was six foot four and built like a rugby player, but with chin-length curly strawberry-blond hair and the personality of a spiritual leader. His thoughts – often unusual and always interesting – tumbled out so quickly that he left me breathless.
I am five foot five, with shoulder-length brown hair that won’t grow long without thinning. He was out of my league. He was ‘cool’. I decided the only reason Vivienne didn’t like him was because he had never expressed any interest in her, and she wasn’t used to that.
I never thought he’d like me. But apparently he did. We met at the party on a Friday evening, he called me up on the Saturday, we went for a drink that evening, and never left each other’s sides after that.
‘He’s good,’ I say, swirling my spoon around in my soup. ‘He’s really good in fact because . . .’
Vivienne looks up at me, one eyebrow raised in that way only she can do. I stare at her. Porcelain skin, a delicate smattering of freckles creating a butterfly pattern across her nose, blue eyes and that mane of hair. It’s a wonder she isn’t more famous really. I think her determination not to be seen to use her parents’ influence in any way might be the very definition of cutting off your nose to spite your face.
‘You’re pregnant,’ she says, her voice flat. For an actress, she’s never been good at hiding her emotions from me.
‘How did you . . .’ I say, my mouth hanging open. But then I realise, what else could I have possibly meant? Viv knows we’ve been trying for ages and ages.
‘Wow,’ she says. She takes a sip of her water, rearranges her face. ‘Congratulations, darling! That’s amazing.’
I smile.
‘After all this time!’ she says. ‘You must be absolutely thrilled. I’m really happy for you.’
‘Are you?’ I say, my heart pounding. I wish her reaction didn’t matter so much to me.
‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘No IVF! It’s absolutely fantastic. You’ll be a brilliant mother.’
‘I was so convinced . . .’ I say, putting down my spoon. Suddenly, I don’t fancy my lunch. I take a sip of water. It tastes metallic, as though it’s been sitting in the pipes for too long. I run my tongue over my teeth. ‘I thought there was no way, after we’d been trying for so long. I’d even started thinking about adoption, you know, in case IVF didn’t work.’
‘Oh, Esther! You’ve really been through the wringer. Everything happens for a reason . . . I knew you’d get there. Like the doctor said, there was nothing physically wrong. And you’re both perfectly healthy.’
She lets the silence hang. Is Rob healthy? His diet certainly isn’t. He eats well with me, but when he’s working he’ll always have at least three pints and half a packet of cigarettes afterwards. He claims it’s the only way he can ‘come down’ after a gig.
‘Rob’s giving up smoking in the new year,’ I say, stretching a smile across my face.
‘Again?’ she says, arching an eyebrow. ‘Is he going for the world record? How many times is that? Fifteen?’
I swallow, looking down at my lap. Time to change the subject.
‘Sorry,’ she says, putting down her fork. ‘That was out of order. PMT, the audition . . . Sorry. I’m so stoked for you both, I really am.’
I swallow.
‘It’s fine. How’s Sean?’ I say, pushing the soup away. What little appetite I had has disappeared, but I guess that’s to be expected, and I had a big breakfast anyway. ‘How’s living togeth
er going?’
Her eyes light up.
‘He’s so brilliant. Seriously, just such a talent, you know?’ she says. ‘I really think he might be . . . well. We’ll see. He’s just changed agents; the new one is really optimistic she’ll be able to get him seen for films.’
‘That’s great,’ I say, amused that, as always, my huge news – that in nine months’ time I’ll be holding a newborn – has managed to take up approximately thirty seconds of this catch-up, before we’ve moved back to talking about Viv again. Still, at least she apologised for slagging off Rob. Sometimes our friendship feels like an elastic band that’s worn too thin and might snap any minute.
‘I really like him,’ I say.
She looks at me for a few seconds, pulling in her top lip before giving me a smile.
‘Oh God, you’re a much better person than me,’ she says. ‘I’m really happy for you. I’m sorry. I know we’ve never been that close but I also know that Rob’ll be a good dad – he’s fun, and at least he’ll be around a lot, hey? Now, I know you won’t be drinking but . . . I hope you’re still coming to our New Year’s Eve party next week? You can’t miss it – not if it’s the last chance you’ll have to come without shelling out loads of money on a babysitter. It’s our tenth year! It’s going to be epic.’
I smile back at her, breathing out slowly. Rob hates Viv’s New Year’s Eve party, but he’ll come, under duress, if I ask him.
‘Of course we’ll be there,’ I say. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Robin
Big news like that and then it’s back to the routine. Mad, isn’t it? How everything can change and yet nothing changes.
Esther has just left for work. So I do what I always do. I go back to bed just after she leaves and wake up again at about 10am. I know, I’m a lazy arse but I’ve always needed more sleep than most people. We can’t both be workaholics, after all.
Then I get up and eat cereal standing up in the kitchen. With a side of strong black coffee and five minutes checking Sarah’s Instagram. Nothing new today. Her privacy settings are set to the max on Facebook and she doesn’t use Twitter.
The Perfect Father: the most gripping and twisty thriller you'll read in 2020 Page 2