Can't Live Without

by Joanne Phillips

  Rosie’s getting on my nerves. She keeps wanting to go to Café Crème and laugh at my mum in her stupid uniform. I mean, yes, she looks daft but does Rosie have to go on and on about it? At least my mum is trying to get money and stuff, at least she cares. Rosie’s mum doesn’t care about anything except golf. And she’s ugly, whereas my mum, although she’s completely mental, is also fairly hot – according to the guys at school anyway. Maybe I should ask her what her secret is?

  But I can’t think about any of these things right now. I have to go to the bathroom any minute and check again. I’m five days late. Not good. Very, very bad. I told Rob we should have used something. I’m not stupid. But he said he’d pull out beforehand. He said that was safe. And he should know. And we’ve only done it a few times, and the third time he was pretty drunk. You can’t get pregnant that easily, can you? Please God, don’t let me be that unlucky. Please, please, please …

  ***

  Paul let himself into his flat and stood with his back to the door, listening. Silence. That was good. That meant Billy was out and he had the place to himself. Not that he minded having Stella’s brother staying with him – Billy was a good laugh (in small doses) and Paul was glad to be able to help out. But, still. It was nice to have a bit of ‘personal space’ as the guys at work would have called it.

  Paul thought about Stella while he checked the flat to make sure it really was empty. He hoped she wasn’t dwelling on what had happened earlier – he’d gone to great lengths to reassure her that they could easily forget all about it and carry on as before. He pushed the memory of that kiss firmly out of his mind. It would have been so easy, so natural, to have just taken her in his arms and – No! No. She was a friend, a good friend, and he wasn’t about to ruin that. What he’d told her was nothing more than the truth – he just didn’t want to be in a relationship. With anyone. It was as simple as that.

  He grabbed a beer from the fridge and pressed the button on the answerphone. Two messages: one from Nick cancelling their poker night, the other from Andrew bowing out of squash – some excuse about a sprained ankle. Funny how the sprained ankle coincided with Andrew getting a new girlfriend – the nubile Rachel that Paul had had to hear all about last weekend.

  So much for friends, he thought, picking up the day’s post, which was piled in an unruly heap on the worktop. Bills, more bills, a circular for double glazing. A postcard from his mate Dave, holidaying in Spain, lucky bugger. And a hand-written purple envelope with a big fat letter inside.

  Paul looked at this with interest. Turning it over he noted there was no return address and that the envelope was thick and plush – and distinctly feminine. He tore it open carefully, and then tipped the contents out onto the coffee table. Five or six purple sheets opened up like a fan revealing large, looped handwriting in blue biro.

  He dropped onto the sofa and started to read. While his beer went flat, Paul clutched the sheets of paper in shaking hands, reading and re-reading the words until they were etched indelibly into his brain.

  Sharon. The sweet, unchallenging beautician from Bletchley. A woman he’d dated, and unintentionally hurt, more than nine years ago, now back in his life via a purple letter. And with a pretty big surprise up her sleeve.

  He never even knew there had been a baby. A pregnancy, yes. And he’d tried, he really had tried, to be supportive in every way possible. Except for the one way that wasn’t possible, not for him, as he knew he didn’t love her and he knew he couldn’t stay around for ever, to give her what she needed and deserved.

  ‘But I would have supported her,’ he said to the empty room, ‘and the baby, if I’d known that was what she wanted.’ Feelings of guilt, long buried, rose cruelly to the surface, and Paul felt his eyes blur, his legs grow heavy and weak.

  ‘I didn’t even know she wanted to keep it,’ he whispered.

  But keep it she had. Secretly, without his help or his knowledge, she’d decided to go ahead and have the baby, and never to tell its father it even existed. Until now. The letter didn’t explain why; in fact, for such a long letter, it held few of the details that Paul so desperately wanted to know. The only detail he had, and the one he returned to again and again in his mind with a strange combination of elation and panic, was that out there somewhere, he, Paul Smart, confirmed bachelor and lover of all things single, had a beautiful eight-year-old daughter.

  ***

  By Sunday morning I have recovered my equilibrium enough to put the whole Paul fiasco into perspective. In fact, I am even starting to believe my own lie – that being back at the scene of my recent disaster, and with the prospect of staying here alone for the first time since the fire looming, I had taken leave of my senses and gone a little crazy. It could have been anyone – it happened to be Paul. It certainly didn’t mean anything.

  It didn’t mean anything at all.

  That said, I’m still planning to keep a low profile for a few days, which, as we work together, could prove tricky. I’ll just have to keep my head down, that’s all. Get stuck into work for once. Give Loretta the shock of her life.

  I spend the morning washing down the walls in the lounge and the hallway. With music blaring from the portable stereo I “borrowed” from my mother’s kitchen, and a cheerful breeze blowing through the house via the open front door, sweeping away the last of the horrid musty smell, I find I’m feeling almost happy.

  When my hair gets in my eyes I grab one of the rags from the pile on the floor and tie it around my head, washerwoman style. When I have to kneel for a while to tackle the skirting boards I use more rags to make pads for my knees. And when a favourite song comes on the radio I turn the broom over and pretend it’s a microphone, belting out the words at the top of my voice.

  Unfortunately, this is how Paul finds me when he sticks his head around the front door just before lunchtime. So much for keeping a low profile.

  ‘Stella!’ He manages to suppress a smile but I can see his eyes flickering over my bizarre appearance. He probably thinks his rejection has sent me completely over the edge.

  ‘Paul,’ I reply nonchalantly. Oh, I’ve suffered worse embarrassments than this. The secret is to brazen it out, pretend you’re not bothered. ‘And what can I do for you?’ I flip the broom back over and start to scrub the ceiling, accidentally flicking water all over him.

  He retreats to the kitchen and calls out, ‘Do you think you could leave that for ten minutes? I wanted to have a word with you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I’m due a break anyway, so I join him in the kitchen, pleased to see he hasn’t come empty-handed. As well as sandwiches and a bottle of coke, he’s brought two fold-up chairs that he arranges on either side of the pasting table. Very cosy. We sit and I eat, watching him warily.

  ‘So, what’s this word you want to have with me?’ I ask him coolly. I hope it’s not another sorry; I really would like to forget about the whole bloody thing now. That’s twice I’ve made a fool of myself over Paul Smart, and I’m certainly not going to do it again.

  I needn’t have worried. Paul’s news has nothing to do with me – or us – but it leaves me reeling, all the same.

  ‘You have a daughter?’ I say, too shocked to censure the emphasis out of my voice.

  ‘Is that so hard to believe?’ he snaps. I don’t know why he’s being so touchy – you have to admit it’s a bit of a leap to go from bachelor-Paul to daddy-Paul in the space of twenty-four hours.

  To calm him down I ask more appropriate questions: How old is she? Where do they live? What is this ‘Sharon’ person like? Paul looks up warily at this but I smile and make my eyes wide, as though I’m merely interested.

  Of course I’m suspicious. Or maybe protective is a better word. (Jealous is certainly not a word I’d use.) After all, Paul is a successful man with his own business, a penthouse flat, all the trappings of a great catch. Fair game for an unscrupulous woman with a claim on his affections from years ago.

  ‘So,’ I say as casually as possible
, ‘why is she telling you about this now? After all this time?’

  ‘I’m not sure. In her letter she says that she wanted to go it alone at first, didn’t want me to feel obligated. But she says that lately Hannah has been asking about her daddy. And she didn’t want to lie to her. She says she wants to know if I’m willing to have a relationship with Hannah, before she tells her anything.’

  I nod slowly. ‘That sounds…’ I want to say ‘plausible’ but stop myself just in time. ‘Responsible,’ I say instead.

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Do you want to have a relationship with her? With Hannah?’ I add, carefully. I remember Paul telling me in no uncertain terms only yesterday how happy he was with his life just the way it is, and how he definitely wasn’t ready for a relationship. With anyone. I’m guessing this isn’t the kind he had in mind.

  He looks so sad for a moment that I have to suppress the urge to put my arms around him. Two days ago that’s exactly what I would have done, but now I just can’t. So much for my actions having no effect on our friendship.

  ‘Yes,’ he tells me earnestly. ‘Yes, I want that very much.’

  I’m not surprised. Paul isn’t the kind of man to shy away from his responsibilities. It’s what makes him so special. Nothing like Lipsy’s dad, who wouldn’t know a responsibility if it jumped up and smacked him in the face.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got her phone number, she put it in the letter. I guess I’ll call her and arrange to go and see them.’ There is a look of hope and excitement around his eyes that makes me a little worried.

  ‘Just don’t go building your hopes up, OK.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks. Such an innocent!

  ‘Well,’ I say slowly, ‘it’s been nine years since you’ve seen this woman. You don’t know anything about her circumstances right now. You haven’t heard from her for years and you’ve never even laid eyes on this Hannah. Just be careful, that’s all.’

  ‘Of what, exactly?’ He isn’t looking too happy now. Why do I have to be the one to burst his bubble? How naive can a person be?

  ‘There is a chance,’ I say, carefully, ‘just a chance, that this child might not actually be, well, yours.’

  Paul glares at me, horrified. ‘You think Sharon might be making it up?’

  ‘No, I’m just saying that there’s a chance, that’s all. And that you should keep an open mind.’ I don’t add, ‘And ask for a paternity test’. I stop myself just in time.

  ‘But what reason would she have for lying?’

  ‘I don’t know, Paul.’ His naivety is starting to annoy me now. For someone who doesn’t want any kind of commitment, he certainly seems attached to the idea of having a daughter already.

  Maybe some of my bitterness has seeped out without me noticing. Paul eyes me carefully and then shakes his head.

  ‘This is about yesterday, isn’t it? You’re still pissed off with me and you’re being a killjoy. I thought better of you, Stella. I really did. I thought you’d be happy for me.’

  I protest my innocence but it’s too late. Paul is getting up to leave and I know I’ve gone too far. How did it come to this? How did our rock-solid friendship get so shaky?

  ‘I’m just trying to be a friend, that’s all,’ I call out to his departing back. ‘I’m trying to be realistic.’

  He leaves without answering and I sit for a long time looking at my streaky walls. Realistic was the word I used to justify my warnings. But I know better than anyone there is a fine line between realism and pessimism. A very fine line indeed.

  Chapter 10

  I’m on the phone to Bonnie, trying to hide the fact that it’s a personal call from the rest of the office while simultaneously keeping an eye out for Paul, who is unusually absent for a Monday morning. Bonnie has been quizzing me about Joshua – she feels responsible, she said, after setting me up with him. I tell her that Joshua is almost certainly a lost cause as a boyfriend, but is actually turning out to be a really good neighbour and friend. As well as a filing cabinet, he’s also bought me my own body weight in cleaning materials and enough air freshener to fumigate a pig farm. He almost certainly has obsessive compulsive disorder, but is this necessarily a bad thing in a mate when you have a house that needs serious organising and renovating?

  I decide not to tell her about throwing myself at Paul, or the feelings I’m not-so-secretly harbouring for him. Bonnie doesn’t really understand the complicated machinations which usually make up a love life, especially mine. She keeps hers simple: nice, unchallenging bloke with a constant cash flow providing meals out and cosy nights in; rows restricted to which film to see or whose set of friends to invite over that weekend. That’s not to say I’m criticising her lifestyle – envying it more like. But I know it wouldn’t work for me, any more than mine would work for her. Perhaps that’s why we get on so well: opposites attract and no competition.

  She says goodbye with a promise to come over and wield a paintbrush very soon (that I’d like to see), and I replace the phone just as Loretta comes back from lunch smiling – smiling! – and carrying a box that would, in the hands of a normal person, be filled with cakes.

  ‘What have you got there, Loretta?’ calls Joe from his desk in the far corner.

  ‘Cakes,’ Loretta announces, setting them down on her immaculate desk, ‘and carrot cake for anyone who’s on a diet.’

  I wait for her to look pointedly in my direction but she doesn’t.

  Shaking my head in amazement, I turn my attention back to my growing mound of typing. Working Loretta out is beyond my capabilities, and not top of my list right now. My number one priority is getting my house into a habitable enough state for Lipsy to move back into. For some reason – naivety, blind hope – I had thought she would get fed up with being at my mother’s, in her old bedroom filled with soft toys and kids’ games, and slip back home one day, sulking and moaning but still irrevocably there. I imagined the first I’d know of it would be hearing her awful music pounding down the stairs, or going to the fridge to find it emptied of all food.

  Of course, this would be a lot easier if I actually had a fridge.

  After a few hours of typing – or possibly only minutes but time is dragging today – I notice that Paul is back in his cubbyhole. Picking up the cream cake I saved for him I manoeuvre my way around the filing cabinet arrangement and creep up behind him.

  ‘Surprise,’ I say softly, laying a hand on his shoulder – his muscular, very square, very toned shoulder – and trying not to be offended when he flinches and jumps to his feet.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘it’s you.’

  ‘Well, yes. It is me. And there’s no need to look so pleased about it.’

  ‘Sorry. You just made me jump.’

  I perch on the corner of his desk as he sits back down and rests his fingers on the keyboard.

  ‘Who else would it have been, anyway?’ I ask. ‘Who else would come in and grope their boss in the middle of the day?’

  Thankfully I’m rewarded with a rueful smile. It seems a delicate truce has been restored. I vow not to blow it again.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ he says, and I catch him as his eyes sweep the room in the direction of Loretta. Then I notice the biggest, creamiest cake of all on his desk.

  ‘No!’ I’m actually quite shocked. ‘Not Loretta? Has she got the hots for you, Smart?’ I laugh, going for amused but it comes out slightly hysterical.

  What do I care if old bulldog face has taken a shine to the object of my affection? Until recently I’d have thought it hysterically funny – before I had my epiphany and realised the nature of my true feelings. At least, I think I would.

  I decide I won’t resent Loretta her little infatuation. If wanting to make Paul happy brings on cream cakes and smiles, who am I to complain? And Paul does seem in desperate need of cheering up today. I just hope it�
�s not entirely my fault.

  ‘Paul,’ I say, deciding on the direct approach, ‘are you still mad at me for what I said about Hannah?’

  He jumps again, accidentally hitting a combination of keys that makes his screen go black. ‘Shit!’ he grumbles through gritted teeth, and I find myself apologising, although I’m not sure what for.

  ‘Maybe I should leave you to it?’ I try not to sound too dejected as I slide off his desk and smooth down my skirt.

  ‘Stella, wait.’ Paul catches my hand. His palm is warm and I long to hold it against my cheek. ‘I know you only said what you said because you care. And I understand why you would be suspicious, you’re only looking out for me. But,’ he says, his eyes so innocent and sincere, ‘I have no doubts at all that Sharon is telling the truth and Hannah is mine. And I really don’t want to discuss it with you again. OK?’

  I nod mutely. But it isn’t OK at all.

  ***

  I slip away from work early; with Loretta still in her strange good mood and Paul sulking in his hidey-hole I thought I’d make the most of it. Back at the house, I start work straight away on my bathroom. I actually have one now – our odd-job man installed it this morning. Now all I need to do is put up new tiles, fit a shower and a shower curtain, paint, put up shelves and a cabinet and a mirror, and it’ll be finished.

  So, no problem then.

  Except for one small, teeny-weeny hitch. I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.

  There are women who are good at DIY and there are women who aren’t. Of those who aren’t, there are two distinct types: women like Bonnie who can afford to “get a man in” to do whatever job they need, and the type who can’t afford it and are therefore reduced to visiting the library and pouring over centuries-old books on tiling or wallpapering, and then turning Do-It-Yourself into Destroy-It-Yourself. And, you guessed it, I belong to the second type.