by Mike Gayle
‘I was just wondering what you fancied doing next time we meet?’
‘I don’t mind, really. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of driving around in the car.’
I laugh. ‘I think I am.’
‘How about a compromise? We could drive around in the car and listen to a CD of your choice. You’re always telling me about those millions of albums you’ve got that I should listen to. Here’s your chance.’
‘I tried that one, don’t you remember? I played you my favourite REM album Automatic for the People and you said it was “totally rubbish and boring”.’
‘But it was totally rubbish and boring,’ Nicola giggles.
‘That’s as may be but it doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a plan. Maybe . . . we could go shopping for your birthday.’
I’ve been thinking about asking her if she wants to do this all week. I don’t like to ask whether she and her mum have enough money but it’s clear that it isn’t overflowing. I want to do something for her – anything, really – and this is all I can think of.
‘We can’t go shopping.’ She sighs. ‘It’s not my birthday until May and, anyway, how would I explain anything I get to Mum?’
‘Two good points you’ve made there and I’ve thought about both already. How about we do this? We don’t go ordinary shopping, we go window-shopping. You choose what you want right now and when it’s your birthday we’ll come back and get them. What do you reckon?’
‘It sounds great. But what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘What about all the presents I should’ve bought you? Birthdays, Christmas and Father’s Day?’
Father’s Day hasn’t been a day to which I’ve ever paid much attention. I’ve always believed it’s been created by the greetings-card industry to boost trade. Mother’s Day is the real thing. The one you don’t dare to forget. Father’s Day is a cheap imitation, an excuse for your dad to do what he does every Sunday – sit in his favourite armchair and watch rubbish TV, but in cartoon socks and a bad-taste tie. But as I listen to Nicola talk I suddenly believe in Father’s Day. I want my bad taste ties and cartoon socks.
‘I don’t need any presents,’ I tell her. ‘I’m fine, honest.’
‘If we’re going to do this,’ she says adamantly, ‘I want to get you something too. And I won’t go unless you let me.’
imagine
Nicola and I meet as arranged and travel into the West End by tube. I’ve told Jenny I’m going to be working from home all day. Nicola has told her mum she’s going to Keisha’s house and she told Keisha to cover for her because she was secretly meeting a boy. Between us we have created a complicated web of necessary lies – which we were becoming exceptionally gifted in delivering.
The afternoon is a revelation to me of the inner workings of the teenage mind. Nicola takes shopping for gifts seriously: she drags me into accessory shops, sportswear shops, mobile-phone shops and even a sandwich shop before attending to her real delight, clothes shops. Her favourite is a large store near Oxford Circus. Here she tries on skirts, most of which look exactly the same to me but which I’m told have different detailing. She tries on tops, hats, shoes and all the time with a look of complete contentment.
As she picks through the rails, and throws them back with a dismissive huff if they’re not quite what she wants, I look around me. There are girls with nose-rings, girls with purple hair, tall girls, short girls, girls with skateboards, hard girls, posh girls, rude girls, and girls whose jeans are so baggy I can’t understand why they don’t fall over – there are girls of every variety and yet they all have one thing in common: they’re wearing clothes that make them look older than their years. With some, it’s only when I look carefully that I can see their baby features and the youth they’re trying to hide. Even Nicola is at it. At one point she tries on a pair of hipster jeans and a crop top and asks my opinion. She could easily have passed for seventeen, and this saddens me because I don’t want her to grow up so fast when I’ve only known her such a short time.
taste
In contrast to the earlier part of the window-shopping expedition my side of things is far more sedate. I take Nicola to the rock and pop section of the Oxford Street HMV Megastore, locate the M section and, within seconds, find what I’m looking for and show it to her.
‘Van Morrison, Astral Weeks,’ she says, reading the cover. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Just a bloke who can sing a bit.’
‘It’s only six pounds ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘Is that all that you want?’
‘The truth is I can’t stand Van Morrison,’ I tell her. ‘It’s nothing personal but I absolutely hate him and detest everything he’s ever recorded.’
Nicola laughs.
‘But Izzy – and this is her only flaw – likes him. At least, the early stuff. She had Astral Weeks on tape when I first met her and she played it all the time. She drove me up the wall with it and then she eventually wore it out or lost it and never got round to replacing it because she doesn’t care much about music, these days, but every now and again I see her mooching about the flat and I think that if she had her Astral Weeks tape she’d be listening to it. I told her to buy another copy but she always forgets and I’ve thought about doing it myself but I never do.’
‘Why?’
‘I know this is going to sound pathetic but it’s difficult to spend money on music I loathe.’
Nicola laughs. ‘Oh, come on, Dave. You can’t even do it for Izzy?’
‘No. One year she asked me to buy Abba’s Greatest Hits for her mum and I couldn’t do that either.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s Abba, isn’t it? I would’ve gladly bought her mum Blondie’s Greatest Hits or a five-CD boxed set of Nick Drake or even Madonna, The Immaculate Collection. But not Abba. I couldn’t stand the thought of my hard-earned cash winging its way to Sweden to keep Benny and Bjorn in the luxury to which they have become accustomed. That’s where you come in. You can buy Astral Weeks for me with your money and I can give it to Izzy, and I won’t feel like I’m contributing to “The keep Van Morrison in even bigger Irish mansions fund”.’
Nicola punches me on the arm. ‘You’re so annoying sometimes.’
It’s an action that if I’d been a regular grumpy father teasing his regular moody teenage daughter, wouldn’t have stood out at all from any of the actions of the hundreds of people in the store. But as I turn towards her I catch a glimpse of someone on the other side of the CD display rack. It’s Izzy. I’m less than a few feet from her but she hasn’t seen me. She’s nearly close enough to touch yet she might as well be a million miles away. For a second I hope she sees me. In a way I wish that, right now, she would stare at Nicola, then at me, and make the connection. Then the deceit could stop. Then everything would be out in the open. I wouldn’t have to find the courage to tell her about Nicola.
Life isn’t that easy, of course. The choice is mine. All I have to do is speak and she’ll recognise my voice and look up and it will all be over. All I have to do is speak. I stand frozen in time trying with all my might to do the right thing. But the right thing won’t come. I duck down to the floor and pull Nicola with me then break into the coldest of cold sweats.
‘What is it?’ asks Nicola.
‘It’s Izzy,’ I whisper. ‘She’s here. You’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, I promise.’
Nicola heads for the exit without looking back once. Watching her walk away is the saddest thing in the world. I feel like I’m letting her down, as if I’m ashamed of her. I feel disloyal, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I wait until I can no longer see her then prepare myself for what I have to do next. I decide there are two options: the first is to walk out of the store without looking back; the second is to make myself known to Izzy. It seems wrong to walk away from her, it seems like the easy way out again and I don’t deserve an easy way out. So I take a deep breath, stand up and, as if nothing has happened, continue browsing
through the CDs. In a matter of seconds she calls to me.
‘Hey, babe,’ I say, looking up. ‘What are you doing here?’
She walks over and greets me with a kiss. ‘I was just looking for a present for Stella. She seems a bit down so I thought I’d get something to cheer her up. What are you doing here?’
‘I fancied a change of scenery and, well, you know me . . . I find it hard to walk past any record shop without having a look. Anyway, never mind me, what were you going to get Stella?’
‘I don’t know, really. Something she can chill out to. She’s a bit stressed at work at the moment. Any recommendations?’
‘Hundreds.’
Izzy nods thoughtfully then glances down at my hand. I realise for the first time that I am still holding the Van Morrison CD. ‘Is that Astral Weeks I see before me?’
‘Yeah, it is.’
‘But you hate that album,’ says Izzy incredulously. “You once called it ’the worst load of pseudo-soul-folk-blues-rock” you’d ever heard and said it was “a shocking waste of a pair of ears to listen to such rubbish”.’
‘I said that?’
‘You know you did.’
‘Well, a man can change his mind, can’t he? Do you want it? I’m prepared to compromise yet more of my long-held principles just for you.’
‘I’d love it.’
‘Well, I’ll get it for you. And what about Stella’s present?’
‘What do you suggest?’
I take her over to W in the rock-and-pop section and show her the cover of Kathryn Williams’s Little Black Numbers. ‘Get her this.’
‘The girl who does our music page was raving about her ages ago.’
‘It’s the whole girl-with-a-good-voice-acoustic-guitar-and-a-string-of-broken-relationships thing. But it’s done very well. Stella will love it.’
‘Okay,’ says Izzy. ‘I’ll get it.’
I take it over to the till, pay for it with Van Morrison, hand both CDs to her and she kisses me. ‘What time will you be back at the flat?’ she asks.
‘The usual. What about you?’
She looks at her watch. ‘I’ll try not to be too late.’ She kisses me again. ‘I’d better get off.’ She turns to walk away, then stops. ‘Oh . . . I’ve completely forgotten to tell you the good news.’
‘What good news?’
‘You know Adele? As in Adele and Damian?’ They are old university friends of Izzy’s who are pregnant. They aren’t division-one friends – more the kind that Izzy keeps in touch with in bimonthly phone calls which always conclude with the phrase ‘we really should meet up sometime.’
‘Adele had the baby last Saturday,’ she says. ‘A little girl. Madeleine Katriona Mason. Eight pounds six ounces.’
I watch her face for any signs of upset at this news. Neither of us has mentioned the miscarriage in such a long while that it feels like it never happened and yet when she tells me about Adele and Damian’s baby I’m still a little uncomfortable. Izzy however appears to be completely fine.
‘How’s Adele?’ I ask.
‘Exhausted. It was quite a long labour, apparently. Eighteen hours. Her contractions kicked in early in the morning when they were in bed and then her waters broke and it was all systems go . . . Damian cried at the birth.’
‘Well, I suppose you would, wouldn’t you? It’s an emotional thing.’ As the words leave my lips I’m struck by their pertinence. How would I know that?
‘They want us to go round and see them, if we can,’ says Izzy. ‘Tomorrow after work. Do you fancy it?’
‘Do you?’
She nods.
‘Okay, then,’ I reply. ‘We’ll go.’
mini
We’ve just arrived at Damian and Adele’s flat in a converted Victorian three-storey house in Finsbury Park laden with gifts: a huge array of aromatherapy stuff for Adele; a bottle of brandy for Damian; and a baby gym from the Early Learning Centre for Madeleine. I press the buzzer and we wait. Moments later Damian appears. He’s usually impeccably dressed in designer clothes but this evening he’s in an old pair of jeans, a Moschino T-shirt stained with what I suspect is baby sick, and bare feet. A few days’ growth covers his normally clean-shaven chin. He welcomes us in and on the way up to the flat he tells us about how much sleep he’s not been having. ‘She woke eight times last night . . . and the night before she didn’t go to sleep at all . . . and the night before that she slept three hours . . . and then the night before that . . .’ we reach the front door and he opens it ‘. . . I’m not sure what happened. I don’t know what day it is now.’ He scratches his stomach absentmindedly. ‘So how are you guys?’ he asks, and leads us to the living room.
‘We’re fine,’ says Izzy. ‘Work’s good for me.’
‘And work’s fine for me,’ I add.
Damian smiles. ‘Adele was saying you’ve left rock journalism to work in teen mags or something. How’s that going? It sounds like fun.’
‘Yeah, it is. Not as easy as it sounds but it’s a good laugh. Anyway, never mind what’s going on with me and Izzy, we’ve come to see you. How are you, new Dad?’ I shake his hand. ‘Congratulations once again.’
‘I didn’t really do much except get in the way. Here,’ he says, pointing to the sofa, ‘you two take a seat and I’ll make you both a drink. Adele’s just trying to make herself look presentable – her words not mine.’
He disappears and leaves Izzy and me to look around us. I can’t remember the last time I was in their flat but I’m sure they’ve done a lot of decorating in here. The room is pale green when before it was yellow, the old gas fire has been ripped out and replaced with an open hearth, and piled up in a corner are several half-unwrapped presents. I can make out a few soft toys and a large box with the Fisher Price logo. Lying across the back of a small armchair is a pair of lime-green dungarees. I recognise them immediately as the ones from babyGap. I walk over to them and pick them up, holding them up to the light like I’d done that day in the shop.
‘They’re cute,’ says Izzy. ‘But aren’t they a little big for a newborn?’
‘You’re right,’ says Damian, coming back into the room. ‘My brother Gareth bought them. He’s only nineteen and it didn’t occur to him to read the size label, which says “twenty-four to thirty-six months”. Still, she’ll grow into them.’
We all look at the dungarees. But only one of us has to leave the room because of them. I announce that I need to use the loo, and when I return I’m back to normal, composed, the moment of shakiness gone.
me
‘So, how does it feel to be a dad, then?’
‘Great,’ says Damian. ‘Just as good as I thought it would. It’s so weird now she’s here. You know, it was like this huge build-up and then she was kicking and screaming in the real world. I still can’t believe it, really.’
‘That’s it now, Damian,’ says Izzy cheerfully. ‘You’re a dad for life. You’ve got it all to look forward to, especially with a girl. Before you know it she’ll be a teenager, sulking in her room, fancying spotty teenage boys and playing music really loud.’
‘I don’t mind the loud music, it’s the boys I worry about. I’ve already told Adele that Maddy won’t be having anything to do with boys until she’s well into her twenties . . . or, even better, her thirties.’
‘As the only person in the room who used to be a teenage girl,’ says Izzy, ‘let me tell you for a fact, dear Damian, that there’s not a dad in the world who can stop a teenage girl when it comes to boys so you might as well get used to the idea now. I’m not even sure that my dad was too keen on Dave to begin with but he warmed to him eventually.’
‘Your dad thought I was really cool until you told him we were moving in together,’ I say, laughing.
‘It’s true,’ says Izzy. ‘He even warned me that by shacking up with Dave I’d ruin my chances of him ever making an honest woman of me. He said, “Why would he buy the cow when he can get the milk for free?” ’
Adele enters the
room holding the baby. She looks even more shattered than Damian and she’s wearing a T-shirt, a towelling dressing-gown, tracksuit bottoms, and Simpsons socks. This casual look, like her husband’s, is something of a new departure given that the last time I saw her – over a year ago when the four of us had gone out for dinner – she was wearing a very sexy black sleeveless Prada dress and spent the whole evening worrying about her hair.
Damian takes the baby from her, and Izzy and I give her a hug. Maddy snuffies in Damian’s arms.
‘Do you want to hold her?’ he asks.
Izzy nods and takes her carefully from Damian’s outstretched arms. I have to leave the room once more under the pretext of getting a glass of water.
date
It’s eight thirty p.m. and Izzy and I are on the Northern Line travelling home. We are in the end carriage which is virtually empty. Izzy has been quiet for most of the journey, content to stare out into the darkness or read the small adverts above the windows; only occasionally do we speak and when we do our voices are hidden from the world at large underneath the rhythm of the train on the track.
‘Do you know what March the nineteenth was?’
‘No?’ I reply.
‘It was the day our baby would’ve been born if it had gone full term,’ she says, matter-of-factly. There is no sadness at all in her voice. ‘I worked it out months ago.’
‘You shouldn’t think like that.’
‘I know.’ She looks at me, her eyes searching. ‘Do you think about it, though?’
I hold her gaze. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I didn’t think you did.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t talk about it any more. I know I didn’t like talking about it either. But at least when it happened I could tell you wanted to talk. But now . . . nothing. It’s like it never happened.’
‘Would you like me to talk about it more?’