Can't Live Without

by Joanne Phillips

  I do a quick mental recce of all the men I know in case there are any useful skills I can call upon.

  Joshua isn’t the hands-on type so he’s out, although I imagine he’ll be happy to help me clear up afterwards. Paul – best not to ask for any more favours from him right now. Bonnie’s Marcus will be great when I can finally afford a new computer and need it setting up. But not, I think, tiling. Alistair – urghh, don’t even go there!

  Which just leaves my feckless brother, who I’ve avoided seeing despite what Paul said about him wanting to make up with me. He certainly owes me a few favours, but if he has any skills I’m not sure what they are, and to be honest I’d rather ruin the bathroom myself than be beholden to him.

  This is a tricky spot I find myself in, with no easy answers, no way to charm my way out of it, and a strong aversion to getting down and dirty with the dark side of decorating.

  But fate does indeed work in mysterious ways.

  I’m putting on my shoes ready for that trip to the library when there is a knock on the door. I open it to find, standing in front of me, large as life and ten times as handsome, John Dean.

  Lipsy’s father.

  The man who ruined my life.

  Who also happens to be a professional tiler.

  ***

  John Dean swept me off my size sixes when I was just coming to the end of my first year at university. I thought I had the whole world at my feet. I thought I was “it”, as they used to say back then. The university was really only a glorified polytechnic, and I was only studying Business and Marketing so I wasn’t as exposed to the full-on student thing as if I’d been reading Philosophy or something at a proper university. But even though it was no more than twenty miles from Milton Keynes I made the decision to leave home and rent a room in a suitably run-down, three-storey townhouse, with arty posters on the walls, tasselled scarves over lampshades, and piles of unwashed dishes in the sink. Glorious!

  Most evenings, my friends and I would stroll down to the student nights at the studenty bars and hang out with the “real” students. But after a while I saw through them completely and decided they were a bunch of self-important wankers. So when John Dean walked into my life one night, with his posse of slick out-on-the-pull guys and his killer smile, I was a gonner. He seemed so real, so down to earth, so normal.

  Yeah, right.

  My morals had gone out the window with my virginity two years before, so it was no big deal when we fell into bed on our first date: his bed, in his rented one-storey house with a tin roof in Beanhill. The rest is ancient history.

  Or at least, I thought it was history. But here he is now on my doorstep, my still-in-need-of-fixing doorstep, with a face like a fallen angel and that look I know so well.

  I hate myself for admitting this, I really do, but when I open the door and see him standing there I fly back through time and I’m nineteen again, and he’s twenty-two and totally, unforgivingly gorgeous.

  ‘Stella,’ he drawls – no, really, I mean it. He does drawl. He’s one of those guys for whom the word languid was invented.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I reply in a not very ladylike or cool way.

  ‘How are you?’ he says.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I tell him and slam the door in his face.

  This may seem impolite but you don’t know what he did to me and Lipsy. You think you know: the old story of boy meets girl, boy gets girl pregnant, boy ditches girl and leaves her to bring up the baby alone.

  Essentially this is all true, but there was so much more to it than that. John Dean didn’t just break my heart when he deserted, abandoned, dumped me. He left my entire being broken, incapable of trusting another man or forming another relationship for years and years. John Dean used up every cliché in the book. He slept with not just one of my friends but three – and I only had three. He dumped me and came back so many times I felt like I had a revolving door in my room. Lying to me, taking money from me, using my name to get credit then leaving me to pay it all off – you name it, he did it.

  Finally he went for good, three weeks before Lipsy was born, and Lipsy and I didn’t see him until she was ten. Ten! Then he turns up at my parents’ house with a story of regret and a toy more suitable for a five-year-old boy. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose he even knew the sex of his child, even though I’d written letter after letter for the first couple of years to the forwarding address he left with his landlord.

  But I’m not bitter.

  I’ve come to terms with it now. I accept that it was partly my fault. I was too young and naive, and far too much in love with him. That kind of love, I’ve decided, is dangerous. The kind that leaves you breathless and helpless, and definitely brainless in my case. He won’t have that effect on me now; there’s not even the slightest possibility that I’d fall for it again. Absolutely not one.

  Still, I’m not taking any chances.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I say again as he pushes open the letter box.

  ‘Stella. Come on sweetheart, don’t be that way. I just want to talk to you. About Lipsy.’

  The fact is that even though he and my daughter have forged some kind of relationship over the last few years, I’ve managed to avoid laying eyes on him. She was old enough to meet up with him herself by the time he really bothered to show any interest, and both of them seemed to prefer it that way, as if they sensed that my feelings for him would poison everything and get in the way. I didn’t even mind her staying over occasionally. I told myself it was good for her to have a father figure, even one like him, and that although he’d treated me badly that didn’t mean I should stand in their way now.

  Of course, that backfired in my face big time, giving my oh-so-clever daughter the opportunity she needed to pull the wool over my eyes and pretend she was visiting her father when all the time she was with that Robert bloke. I must have mug written all over my face.

  He puts his hand inside the letter box, trying to open it further and get a better view. I have an irresistible urge to slam the cover down on his hand – so I do just that, hoping to sever at least one finger.

  ‘Ow! What the hell was that for? Come on, Stella, don’t be like this. We need to talk about our daughter.’

  It is his use of the words “our daughter” that makes me fling open the door and confront him. Except he is still somehow attached to the door and as it flies open he falls off balance and lands on his arse in a pile of rotten, soggy rubbish. What a joyous sight.

  ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, John Dean, coming here to my house and talking about our daughter. God, you’ve only known her for five minutes and already you want to tell me how to bring her up. What a fucking nerve! You’re nothing to this family. Nothing you say is of any interest to me and if you don’t get off my property in ten seconds I’m calling the police. You’re scum and I hate you and I never want to see you again.’

  Boy, have I waited a long time to say that. Oh yes. It feels good.

  For about thirty seconds. And then I realise my ex has extricated himself from the rubbish pile and is regarding me with laughing eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Do I amuse you?’

  ‘No,’ he tells me but his eyes say otherwise. Now I look more closely I see that they actually have crow’s feet spidering out from the corners and that his wide mouth is also quite heavily lined. Looks like he’s still a heavy smoker. Those eyes are, come to mention it, a bit watery. Maybe a heavy drinker still too.

  Sixteen years. Written all over his face. I wonder whether mine has aged as badly but I think (hope?) not. Women have the better deal in that regard. So many potions and lotions out there – and I’ve used most of them. Make-up helps, of course. And in my case, sensible, restrained living. Which wasn’t through choice so much as lack of opportunity but hey, I’m reaping the rewards now.

  My anger drains away suddenly. I leave the door open and retreat down the hallway towards the kitchen. In there I find the kettle and fill it with water, my actions automatic, the polite hos
tess.

  ‘Tea?’ I ask when I feel him in the room behind me.

  I don’t turn around.

  Chapter 11

  Paul considered his options carefully. The young assistant, popping chewing gum all the way, had helpfully guided him to the right section of the store and pointed out which toys might be suitable for an eight-year-old girl. Still, he was stumped. A dazzling display of dolls stretched out into the distance, each more elaborately complicated than the next. This one, for example, had a strangely large head and what looked like an entire social network of friend-dolls. The one opposite had a boyfriend called “Jessie” and sported outrageously improbable proportions. Not good for young girls, surely? Or boys for that matter.

  What if Hannah wasn’t even into dolls? What if she was a tomboy type and preferred chemistry sets or toy guns? He didn’t even know if kids her age actually played with toys anymore; wasn’t it all computer games and virtual reality now?

  The only person he could think of to ask was the one person he couldn’t talk to about Hannah at the moment. Which was very inconvenient. He could understand that Stella wanted to protect him, it was what friends did. But her timing was terrible.

  Settling on the easy option of a jigsaw puzzle, Paul paid and left the store, checking his watch for the hundredth time that morning. He’d taken too long – now he’d have to floor it to get to Dunstable by twelve. He also knew he shouldn’t have spent so long deciding what to wear – she was only eight, for pity’s sake – but he wanted to make the right impression. First impressions count, even for kids. Especially for kids.

  The house was a double-fronted Georgian on a sleepy, tree-lined street. Paul hadn’t expected Sharon to live somewhere so grand. He parked haphazardly and grabbed Hannah’s puzzle and the chocolates he’d brought for her mum. (God, how inadequate was that? Sorry I ruined your life but here, have some Quality Street.)

  A man answered the door. Paul hadn’t expected that either.

  ‘You must be Paul,’ the man said. He was in his late forties, shaved head, barrel-chested and squat.

  ‘That’s right.’ Paul forced himself to smile. It wasn’t returned.

  ‘Come in.’

  Paul followed him into the house and down a wide hall into what must have been some kind of family room. Toys – mainly dolls – littered the floor, along with a hundred-weight of computer games and at least three consoles. The decor, Paul noticed with his estate agent’s eye, was expensive and classy. There was clearly money here. Not that it was any of his business. Paul took off his work head and sat down on the edge of a sofa, smoothing his artfully distressed jeans with hot hands.

  The man had disappeared without a word. He returned moments later leading a small, round-faced girl behind him. Not a girl – an angel. Shoulder-length curly blonde hair shone as if freshly brushed. Her skin looked like a porcelain doll’s, punctuated by the biggest, bluest eyes Paul had ever seen. She seemed a little shy – understandably – and stood with one leg twisted behind the other, twirling the edge of her sleeve.

  Over the last few days, Paul had allowed himself to indulge in dreams of what his daughter might look like, and in those dreams she had looked exactly like this. She was almost too perfect, as if someone had reached into his mind and created her from his own thoughts. There was no doubt that this was his child, even if there had been the tiniest shred before – despite what he’d said to Stella. Hannah had his hair, his eyes. And now his heart.

  Paul looked up at the man. ‘Does she know who I am?’

  The man turned to Hannah. ‘This is Paul,’ he said. ‘He’s a friend of your mum’s. Play nicely.’ He gave Paul a fleeting glance. ‘I’ll be back.’

  Like the Terminator, thought Paul. So the child didn’t know who he was yet. He supposed that was OK. Sharon would want to see that he was serious about getting involved in Hannah’s life before she told her. But she looked so timid and scared, being left alone with a stranger, that Paul silently cursed the man he could only assume was Sharon’s partner for not making more of an effort to put the child at ease.

  Kneeling down, Paul picked up the nearest doll, recognising it from his shopping trip earlier.

  ‘Now this one,’ he said, as if to himself, ‘has her own car, I’m sure. I wonder where it is? I think…’ He pretended to look through one of the piles of plastic. ‘I think it was red.’

  ‘Pink,’ came a tiny voice close to his head. A pale hand reached into the mêlée and pulled out a miniature pink Porsche-alike.

  ‘Pink!’ Paul said. ‘Of course, that’s what I thought.’

  Hannah sat splay-legged and thrust the doll into the car. ‘She wants to go to the cinema,’ she said, more clearly this time.

  ‘OK…’

  ‘And so do I.’

  Paul smiled. All the women he’d ever met were good at getting what they wanted, and this little one was no exception.

  ‘Well, next time I visit maybe I could take you to the cinema. What film would you like to see?’

  Hannah hid her face, suddenly shy again. Paul returned to the doll, placing her hands on the steering wheel just so and making her drive erratically around the floor, complete with sound effects. His daughter watched warily out of enormous eyes, opening her mouth a little whenever he looked likely to crash her precious doll into the wall or a piece of furniture.

  ‘Where is your mummy?’ Paul asked after a while. He could tell Hannah was starting to relax around him. The more he looked at her the more he could see the resemblance to Sharon too, and he wondered if she would have changed much since their last meeting almost nine years ago. And whether she had forgiven him.

  ‘I’m here,’ came a voice from the doorway.

  ‘Sharon!’ Paul struggled to his feet and then hesitated, not sure whether to hold out his hand or his arms for a hug. What was appropriate for a meeting of parents after nine years apart?

  ‘Hello, Paul.’ Sharon smiled and resolved the problem by holding out her own hand, shaking his calmly and then crouching on the floor to embrace Hannah. ‘Have you been a good girl?’ she said to her daughter, laughing when Hannah nodded solemnly.

  ‘We’ve been playing with her car,’ Paul said, searching his mind for something more adequate to say. The situation felt unreal. He had no idea what to do next.

  ‘You boys!’ Sharon laughed. ‘In a room full of girl’s toys you’ll always find the car to play with.’

  Paul laughed too, some of the tension leaving him. He couldn’t believe how little Sharon had changed, and he told her so.

  ‘Oh, come off it,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘I look eons older.’ But she seemed pleased with the compliment all the same.

  Hannah was clamouring for her mum’s attention and they made their way to the kitchen where Sharon started to make lunch. There was no sign of the man Paul had met earlier.

  Once Hannah was engrossed in her meal of turkey sandwiches and cherry tomatoes, Sharon turned to Paul. ‘Would you like to go out into the garden so we can talk properly? I’ll ask Sam to keep an eye on Hannah.’ Paul nodded mutely and waited while Sharon disappeared into the house to find the mysterious Sam.

  They sat on a painted white bench in the shade of a willow tree, at the end of an enormous garden.

  ‘You have an amazing house,’ Paul said, looking out across the manicured lawn and topiary hedges. ‘And a beautiful garden.’

  ‘Sam loves gardening,’ Sharon replied, sipping from a glass of water and then setting it down by her feet. She turned to face him. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t come and say hello straight away. I thought you might like to spend a little time with Hannah first. In case you found it awkward, seeing me again.’

  Paul thought back to their last meeting, their last argument. He could understand why she might think that, but he set her mind at rest immediately.

  ‘It’s all in the past now. And it’s all pretty fuzzy, to be honest. What matters is here and now – and what matters most of all is Hannah.’


  Sharon smiled. ‘She is a treasure, isn’t she? Were you surprised by how much she looks like you?’

  Paul nodded. ‘A little. She looks like you, too. She’s just perfect.’

  ‘Some men,’ Sharon said softly, ‘would have been suspicious. Some might have doubted just my word after all this time.’

  Paul shook his head firmly. ‘I know Hannah’s mine. And why would you lie, anyway? It’s obvious you don’t need money.’ He waved his hand at the huge house and garden. ‘There’s nothing I could offer her that she doesn’t already have.’

  ‘Except a father.’ Sharon said. ‘And that counts for a lot.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It does.’

  ‘But if you wanted a paternity test I’d understand. I wouldn’t hold it against you.’

  ‘No!’ Paul said sharply, making Sharon jump. He thought about how he’d lain in bed last night and wondered whether Stella was right to be dubious, whether he should be more suspicious himself and ask for proof. Now all that seemed ridiculous and disloyal.

  ‘I have her birth certificate here,’ Sharon said, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket and handing it to Paul. ‘The dates match up, Paul. We were away together for two weeks when she was conceived. Do you remember that? There’s no way she could be anyone else’s.’ She pushed the paper into his hands, sweeping away his refusal.

  Paul looked at the date of birth with only half his attention. The other half was reliving the memory of that fortnight’s holiday in Scotland. It was one of the reasons they’d ultimately split: two weeks of relentlessly facing the fact that they had nothing in common. Except for the sex. There had been a lot of sex, and the thought of it now – and the idea that Hannah had been conceived in such a passionate and energetic way – made him smile. Sharon noticed and smiled too.