Dinner for Two

by Mike Gayle

‘What table?’

  ‘The table in McDonald’s—’

  ‘I thought you were getting a sandwich?’

  ‘I was and then she was outside waiting for me.’

  ‘And so you took her to McDonald’s? The first time you meet your estranged daughter and you take her to – and I’m guessing here – the McDonald’s at the top end of Oxford Street?’

  I nod.

  ‘You really know how to treat a girl.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking, was I?’

  ‘You can say that again. So what was she like?’

  ‘Amazing. Really amazing. And so smart, funny and sharp. Listen to me, I’m already sounding like a doting father.’

  Fran smiles. ‘And she looks like you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I thought I saw flashes here and there, but who knows? On the other hand she told me she was obsessed with music. I was, too, when I was her age—’

  ‘A teenage girl obsessed with pop music? Now there’s something she couldn’t have achieved on her own!’

  ‘Okay, sarky, you’ve made your point.’

  Fran looks at me. ‘Why do you want her to be yours, Dave?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Most guys in your position would be looking for a million and one different ways to find out that the kid wasn’t theirs but you seem to be doing the opposite. Why?’

  ‘It just seems right.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘In July Izzy was pregnant.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Fran.

  ‘It didn’t work out. And, well, we decided that maybe kids aren’t for us, at least for the moment, but the thing is—’

  ‘You want to be a dad,’ says Fran.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I tell her. ‘It’s more complicated. It’s hard to explain . . .’

  My hand is on the table and Fran puts hers on top of it. ‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ she says. ‘If you’re happy about Nicola then I’m happy for you, Dave. But as the only person you’ve told about this I think I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t rein you in a bit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, from what you’ve told me you still haven’t met her mum.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, as far as I can see, you’re no closer to being sure Nicola’s yours than you were when you first got the letter. And, well, I think you have to be sure. Not just for Nicola’s sake but for yours too.’

  Fran’s right, of course. Once again I’ve got way ahead of myself. I did need reining in. Maybe that’s what Nicola realised – the essential madness of our situation.

  ‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘Nicola called me today and said that she doesn’t want to see me again. I think . . . I know it’s because she thinks she’s messing up my life but she’s not.’ I take a sip of my Coke. ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘So you haven’t already made up your mind?’

  A smile spreads across my face. ‘Yeah, I have, actually.’

  ‘So what are you asking me for?’ says Fran. ‘You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.’

  kids

  It’s five past three – just before the end of school on a crisp, sunny winter’s day. I’m standing by Nicola’s school gates. As comprehensives go, Wood Green appears to be no better and no worse than the one I’d attended when I was her age. I look around me at some of the mums and dads sitting in cars waiting for their kids. It’s hard to believe that at thirty-two I have anything in common with the type of people who do the ‘school run’, and yet here I am and here they are. I even spot a couple of women who look my age and wonder what their story might be.

  At quarter past three I hear a bell ring and seconds later kids are flooding out of the school’s doors and along the path towards the gates. Soon I’m surrounded but I spot Nicola well before she reaches the gate. I call her name and she looks up but doesn’t see me. I call again, and she notices me, but as she walks over to me I have to ask myself again whether I’m really acting in the child’s best interests.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks quietly. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  ‘No. Of course not. It’s just that I got your message and I wanted to talk to you about what you said.’ She nods. ‘I understand this is all a bit weird for you. I really do. I mean I’m this strange guy who works on a magazine and you’re a schoolgirl. And you think I’m your dad—’

  ‘I know you’re my dad.’

  ‘You do?’

  She nods again.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Because of what Mum told me years ago. Because you’re the guy in the photograph. And because of what Mum told me last night.’

  ‘What did she tell you last night?’

  ‘I asked her about you again – she’s used to that. When I was younger I used to ask about you all the time.’

  ‘So what did she say last night about me?’

  ‘I asked her if she saw you again whether she’d recognise you.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She said yes. She said even though you’d probably changed quite a bit the one thing that would be the same was your eyes. She said you had really beautiful eyes. And, well, you have, haven’t you?’

  I want to laugh. This seems too ridiculous for words but Nicola believes it: my eyes are her evidence.

  ‘So, why don’t you want to see me any more if you know I’m your dad?’

  ‘All I wanted to do was meet you. I’ve done that now and it was nice. You were nice. But I don’t want to cause any trouble. You’ve got your own life and . . .’

  ‘If the reason you don’t want to see me again is because you’re worried about me then don’t worry. I mean it. I really do want to see you if you want to see me.’

  ‘But you’re married . . . you don’t want me messing it up.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I tell her. ‘I do want to see you.’

  ‘What will your wife say when you tell her about me?’

  ‘The same thing your mum will say when she finds out, probably.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she says.

  ‘Absolutely. But, more importantly, are you sure? Like I said, I reckon this must be pretty weird for you.’

  ‘It must be weird for you too.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m thirty-two. Weird is pretty much normal when you’re my age.’

  ‘What do you think we can do to make this not weird?’ she asks. ‘Last time we had a McDonald’s but we can’t keep doing that – we’ll get fat.’

  ‘I suppose it would help if we came out in the open and told Izzy and your mum what was going on. At least then it wouldn’t feel like we were doing something wrong. That’s what’s making us feel so strange – the secrecy. I’m really terrible with this kind of thing. And I’m sure it can’t be easy for you either.’

  ‘So you mean you want to tell your wife?’

  ‘And you know you should tell your mum,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but the thing is . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I told Mum, everything would change. It wouldn’t be about me getting to know you, it would be about Mum being angry with me and, well, I haven’t done anything for anybody to be angry at, have I?’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I will tell my mum about you – I want to tell her about you – and I know you’ll have to tell Izzy because it wouldn’t be nice not to . . . but wouldn’t it be nice just to have a bit more time? You know, just to hang out and stuff? All I want to do is get to know you better first.’

  ‘How long do we give ourselves, then? A day? Two days? A week?’

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever you think’s best.’

  ‘Okay. How about this? We leave it open. We’ll know when the right time to tell people is, won’t we?’

  She squints at me and half nods, which I assume is a sign that we’ve reached an agreement. ‘What shall we do now?’ I ask her.

  T
here’s a long silence and then she asks me if I’m hungry. I say I am and she tells me she’s going to buy me a burger. She takes me to Burger King on Wood Green High Road. The restaurant is crowded with post-school parents, prams and kids from Nicola’s school. Nicola insists on paying because she says it’s only fair as I got lunch last time. It’s really very sweet of her, even more touching because I have to help her out with a small loan as she’s fifty pence short. She orders a flame-grilled Whopper for herself and a Chicken Royale for me. I ask her if she’s going to get them to do it without all the salad and stuff in it. She shakes her head and tells me that she likes to take it out herself. When our food is ready we set down in the middle of the restaurant. Nicola unpacks her burger and removes all of the vegetable matter within. I watch her out of the corner of my eye with a big grin on my face.

  We sit there talking for just under an hour, during which I learn more about Nicola’s likes and dislikes (including such highlights as how she likes blue but not orange, isn’t keen on books but loves magazines, has always wanted a horse but is scared of ponies because they were ‘a bit creepy-looking’). She tells me about her mum, how she’d deferred her place at university until the year after Nicola’s birth, then did a degree in music. After graduation she had moved to London with the then four-year-old Nicola and stayed with her aunt while she did a teacher-training course. She is now head of music and drama at Highfields Community School in Hackney.

  I want to ask Nicola if her mum is in a relationship but as she doesn’t mention a step-dad and only talks about her mum or her grandparents in Dublin, I presume she must be single – which depresses me. I can’t imagine it’s all that easy to conduct a regular relationship when you’ve got a kid to raise and a full-time job. In the end Nicola mentions in passing a guy called Francis, a doctor, who had been her mum’s boyfriend until the previous summer. The relationship had lasted two years and then one afternoon her mum had asked how she’d feel if Francis didn’t come round any more. Nicola had replied that she’d miss him. Her mum explained to her that things hadn’t been going well between them and that sometimes ‘two people can be in love but want different things’. I ask Nicola if she still misses Francis and she says, ‘Sometimes.’ I think this is all she’s going to say but then she suddenly seems unsatisfied with her answer and adds: ‘He had a big car and he sometimes used to let me play his Ministry of Sound DJ mix album I’ve got as loud as I wanted.’

  band

  The following evening I have to review a gig at the Astoria – a new US guitar band who are supposedly the next big thing. I get to the venue just as I hear the support act coming on stage and I think about going straight to the stage but then I realise my need of a beer is greater than my need to watch support acts so I head for the bar. As I order a Holsten Pils, I spot a music journalist I know, Karen Gibbons, and I get her a beer too. Karen works for Selector and I’ve known her since the mid-1990s. In all that time we’ve only ever spoken about music. This evening, however, our music-related conversation is reduced to the act we’re reviewing (Me: Have you heard their album? It’s terrible. Her: It’s a real dog, isn’t it?) and then she asks if it’s true that I’m working at Teen Scene as an agony uncle. Within minutes of me confirming the rumour, she’s telling me how she’s been two-timing her boyfriend of four months with the drummer from a semi-famous band.

  This is not a one-off event: so far I’ve dispensed relationship advice to most of the Teen Scene staff as well as a few at Stylissimo. The thing is, I feel as if I’m still the same person I was when I wrote about music but now my words and advice appear to carry weight. Do Karen and all the other people who ask my advice really believe I have some sort of insight into the world of love that they don’t? The longer I’m an agony uncle, the more people seem to trust my judgement. If only they knew.

  quite

  Monday: Jenny over lunch

  It’s one thirty and Jenny and I are sitting in Wagamama in Lexington Street. We’ve been talking about life at Teen Scene for the previous half an hour and just as my vegetable tempura and chicken ramen arrives she drops this bombshell:

  ‘I’m thinking about leaving Trevor,’ she says flatly. ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘You and Trevor are good together,’ I say, ‘you have your ups and downs like the rest of us but, you know . . .’ I scramble around searching for the right thing to say ‘. . . you don’t always get perfect.’

  ‘I know that,’ says Jenny. ‘I think I’d even consider “nearly perfect” or even “just okay” but what Trev and I have isn’t just okay, is it? It’s not like what you and Izzy have.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I don’t even think he loves me,’ she adds.

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He likes me, I think I’m not pushing the boat out too far with that one, but I’m not the love of his life, am I?’

  She looks at me and then, without waiting for me to reply, carries on eating her noodles.

  busy

  Tuesday morning: Lee on the telephone

  ‘Hi, Teen Scene, Dave Harding speaking.’

  ‘All right, mate, it’s Lee here.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Bit busy at the moment, I’m only just about managing to squeeze in a tea-break these days.’

  There’s a long pause, mainly because this is the longest telephone conversation I’ve ever had with Lee. He rarely calls me at home (I always call him) and I can count on a single finger the number of occasions he’s called me at work.

  ‘So?’ I say, in the hope of prompting him to speak.

  ‘I was just wondering . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘If Stella had said anything to Izzy about me and her.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like . . . I dunno. Just stuff about me and her. She’s been acting a bit strange with me recently. Just a bit off. You know, starting arguments for no reason and everything.’

  ‘Isn’t that just how Stella is?’

  He laughs but it sounds forced. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. But this is more pointed.’

  ‘Do you think she wants to split up?’

  ‘I know she thinks about it. I can just tell. It’s the age thing . . .’

  ‘It’s not inevitable just because of the age thing.’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ says Lee. ‘Of course it is. We knew right from the start that this was never going to work out.’

  ‘But you’ve lasted this long.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighs.

  There’s a long silence and I can just make out someone talking to him in the background.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘that was my boss. I’d better go and look like I’m doing something.’ He adds, ‘See you at the weekend probably.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘See you at the weekend!’

  ago

  Wednesday evening at home: Stella on the phone

  ‘Hi, Dave, it’s Stella.’

  ‘How are things?’

  ‘Okay, you know. Overworked, underpaid. And how’s the UK’s number-one agony uncle?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ I reply. ‘This agony-uncle lark is a good laugh once you get going. I’ve read some classic letters this week. I’ll have to bring them home and show you them at the weekend or something.’ I pause briefly then add, ‘If it’s Izzy you’re after she’s at the gym, I think. It’s her yoga class tonight. She shouldn’t be too late though. I’ll tell her you called, shall I?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll probably try her a bit later.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Dave?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s okay.’ She pauses again. ‘Has Lee said anything to you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About him and me.’

  ‘Why?’

  She sighs heavily. ‘It’s just that I’ve been a real bitch to him recently and I wondered if he might have mentioned anything to you.’

  �
��But you’re always a real bitch to Lee.’

  Stella laughs. ‘Listen, Harding, I only let you get away with stuff like that because you’re my friend’s husband. The thing is, I have been a real bitch to Lee.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I want us to split up but I’m too much of a coward to do the dirty work.’

  ‘Are things really that bad?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re really that bad. You know as well as I do that Lee and I weren’t meant to last this long. He was supposed to be a fling to help me get over Patrick.’

  An image of Stella’s old boyfriend comes back to me. ‘He was a really nice guy, I remember.’

  ‘I know. We were together two years.’

  ‘What’s he doing? I haven’t seen him since you two split up. It’s weird that the four of us used to go out together all the time, didn’t we?’

  ‘I bumped into him a while ago,’ says Stella. ‘He’s married now. Two kids. They live over in Kentish Town . . . You two got on really well together, didn’t you? He liked all the same music you did . . . I suppose that’s what happens when people split up. You end up losing some good friends along the way.’

  changes

  Thursday: Trevor, in the Coach and Horses, Soho, after work, having clearly drunk too much

  ‘Someone a long time ago once asked me what I thought love was,’ says Trevor. ‘I thought for a long time because it was a deep question and eventually I said, “A face”. And they said, “What?” And I repeated, ’A face, I think love is a face. A face that you see day in day out. You wake up in the morning, there’s that face again staring at you from the pillow opposite. You have breakfast there it is once more hiding behind a packet of cornflakes. You kiss that face goodbye as you go your separate ways to work. Eight hours later you kiss that same face hello. The face tells you about its day at work. You tell the face about your day at work. You cook for the face, and it does the washing up from the previous day. And when you go to bed, you kiss the face once more and hope you’ll see it in your dreams. You see a face that much you have to love it, I told her . . . Love it or loathe it.’