Best Man

by Matt Dunn

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask through the door.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Charlie replies, weakly. ‘Hold on a minute.’ When she opens the door and pokes her face through the gap, I notice that she’s been crying. ‘Just feeling a little sick,’ she explains. ‘Must have been that fish last night.’

  ‘You see!’ I say, smugly.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ she says, disappearing back into the bathroom. I think about making some joke about morning sickness, but fortunately remember that this is something of a sensitive subject. Instead, I go back to bed to wait for her, and just as I realize that she didn’t in fact have fish last night she comes back into the bedroom, and I see her crying for real. I get up and try to take her in my arms, but she gently pushes me away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I missed my period this week,’ she sobs.

  I’m suddenly wide awake. ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing you can ignore,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with a piece of toilet roll.

  ‘But I thought you said—’

  ‘I did. And now this. I was sick yesterday morning, too, after you left. And the day before. It’s like I’m being cheated by getting all the symptoms but not being able to actually get pregnant.’

  I have to swallow hard before asking my next question, and my voice still comes out several notes higher than it usually sounds. ‘Are you sure you’re not?’

  ‘Don’t you start. I can’t be. Weren’t you listening the other day?’ She’s in danger of starting to cry again.

  ‘But sometimes these things happen. Don’t you think you ought to get checked out? I mean, if you can’t, and this is happening, it might be something serious.’ I regret the words as soon as I say them.

  Charlie looks at me, and I see that she’s very pale. ‘I have bought one of those pregnancy testers, but I’m too frightened to use it,’ she sniffs.

  ‘Where is it? At your flat?’ I ask, hoping that it might be.

  Charlie shakes her head and points at the bathroom cabinet. ‘No, it’s in my make-up case. In there.’

  Ah. I take her by the hand and lead her back into the bathroom. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I wish I had,’ says Charlie, following me through the doorway. I take her make-up case from the bathroom cabinet and remove the small cardboard package. For something that can bring such serious news, it looks very innocuous.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she says.

  Me too!

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, placing the pregnancy testing kit into her hand. ‘I’m here. I won’t leave you until we know if you’re pregnant.’

  ‘So, let me just get that straight. If I am pregnant, you’ll leave me?’ The old Charlie surfaces for a moment, and for the first time this morning she smiles.

  ‘Er, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean I won’t leave you here alone to take the test.’

  She kisses me and I close the bathroom door and wait.

  ‘Outside please, Adam,’ she says.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Of course. I forgot that you have to, you know, pee on it.’

  I walk back into the bedroom and pace around anxiously. When, after two minutes, she hasn’t appeared, I knock again. ‘Everything all right?’

  Charlie opens the door a crack. ‘I can’t go.’

  ‘Try running a tap or something.’

  She pulls the door shut, and I hear the sound of the tap in the sink being turned on. Then the shower. And then (although why I got one installed I still don’t know – possibly something to do with the fact that the girl in the bathroom shop was rather attractive) the bidet.

  ‘Any joy?’ I shout through the door, struggling to make myself heard above the noise of Niagara Falls.

  ‘Yes, just a minute,’ she replies impatiently. The sound of rushing water stops and Charlie emerges from the bathroom, holding the little white stick in her hand as if it’s poisonous. There are two little indicator lines on the end and, even to my untrained eye, they seem to be changing colour.

  ‘What now?’ I ask her.

  ‘We check what colour the lines go.’

  ‘And what colour should they go?’

  ‘Well, that depends on your point of view,’ she says, a curious look on her face.

  I’m glad one of us is finding this funny. ‘If you’re pregnant,’ I say matter-of-factly, ‘what colour will they turn?’

  She studies the end of the stick intently. ‘Blue, I think.’

  ‘Are you positive?’

  Charlie frowns at me patronizingly. ‘Isn’t that what we’re trying to find out?’

  ‘No – are you positive that they should go blue . . . oh, never mind.’

  I take it from her and stare at the rapidly darkening lines as they move through various shades, inching inexorably past turquoise, indigo, navy and settling, of course, on a deep, clear, unmistakable blue. ‘And would you say that this is . . . ?’

  She takes it back from me and holds it up to the light. ‘Er, yes.’

  I retrieve the packet from where she’s dropped it on the bathroom floor and remove the instructions from inside the box. The helpful little slip of paper is colour coded, and, yes, ‘our’ particular hue matches what it says on the box, which, I now notice, bears the brand name Clear Blue. I pass the leaflet to Charlie wordlessly, she looks at it for a moment and then passes it back to me, along with the tester stick. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a deadly serious game of hot potato.

  ‘I guess this means . . .’

  ‘That we’ve got some talking to do?’ says Charlie, who’s actually beginning to look a lot happier.

  I make us both some tea while Charlie phones and books an appointment to go and see her doctor. When I offer to go with her she tells me that honestly, it’s no problem, she’d rather go on her own, so instead we arrange to meet for lunch at a restaurant I’ve heard of near the surgery, which apparently serves big portions, and I make a lame joke about this being good as she might now be eating for two.

  Later, when I drop her off at her flat, I wish her good luck, although I’m conscious that my idea of what would actually constitute ‘good’ luck would probably not be the same as Charlie’s as far as current developments are concerned. With nothing else to do but wait, I head on into the office and – surprise, surprise – Nick’s not in again, so I just sit quietly at my desk trying to work. But no matter how much porn I surf through, I can’t really concentrate on what I’m doing, particularly when I find a site dedicated to naked pregnant women called Lactating Lovelies, which I delete in a fit of anger.

  Whenever the phone goes, which is more than usual it seems, I jump, but I’m both relieved and concerned each time that it’s not Charlie. It’s lunchtime before she finally calls, and I head out to meet her. I think about taking the Impresser but the King’s Road is jammed with traffic, so instead I set off at a brisk walk.

  The restaurant is down off the end of the Fulham Road, way past all the trendy shops and bars, and I soon find myself strolling down a street where people seem to be pushing their household possessions around in old supermarket trolleys. I can hear reggae beats pumping from open windows as I pass, and the faint whiff of marijuana hangs in the air. I’m wishing I hadn’t brought so much cash in my wallet, and I’m trying to make myself appear tougher by adopting what I think is a ‘hard’ strut, which, when I catch sight of myself reflected in a shop window, actually just makes me look like I’ve wet myself.

  Just when the surroundings are getting so rough that they make parts of Margate look like a conservation area, I find the place – a new Italian-Jamaican fusion restaurant called Rasta Pasta. It’s taken me longer than I thought to get here, and I can see an anxious-looking Charlie through the restaurant window. As I open the door my palms are sweating – I’d like to think this is from the walk, but I’m not so sure. The last time I felt this nervous was the first (and last) time I let my dad have a drive of the Impresser, but then I suppose putting someone normally u
sed to a one litre Ford Fiesta behind the wheel of a 150 m.p.h. rally car – especially at his age – probably wasn’t such a good idea. I greet Charlie with a quick kiss and sit down.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I tell her.

  She gives me a guilty grin. ‘Shouldn’t it be me who’s apologizing for that?’

  We study the menus silently while I think about my opening question. Should it just be ‘Well?’ No – probably too impersonal. What about ‘How did it go?’ Again, not quite the right tone. I’m mulling this over as the dreadlocked waiter arrives carrying, I notice, a large measure of Jack Daniel’s, but when he places it down on the table in front of Charlie I find myself breathing a huge sigh of relief. Surely if she was pregnant she wouldn’t be ordering a drink like this?

  The waiter is hovering, so once I’ve checked it doesn’t contain any cannabis, I choose the joint of lamb, smirking at my own joke, which seems lost on both the waiter and Charlie, who orders the disgusting-sounding house speciality, banana bolognese. I’m puzzled, because I suddenly remember Mark telling me about these funny food cravings that Julia has when she’s pregnant, and when I remark about the whisky Charlie shakes her head slowly, and her next words knock any remnants of doubt straight out of me.

  ‘That’s for you,’ she says, sliding it across the tablecloth. ‘I’m pregnant. Nearly three weeks.’

  I suddenly feel like I need to sit down, and then realize that I am sitting down. As Charlie reaches across the table and grabs my hand, I do a quick calculation in my head, arriving nicely back at our trip to Brighton. I stare helplessly across the table at her, not knowing what to do. Despite being thirty-one and having slept with, well, so many women, this is one position that, perhaps surprisingly, I’ve never found myself in.

  For once in my life, I decide to follow one of Nick’s maxims – when you don’t know what to say, say nothing. Unfortunately, Charlie uncovers the flaw in this plan almost immediately.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  Like what? I think. Congratulations? I take a large gulp of my drink. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just come as a bit of a . . .’

  Charlie looks across at me sympathetically and grins. ‘Surprise? But I thought you liked surprises?’

  ‘I do like surprises. I’m just not so keen on, well, shocks.’ I say, which wipes the smile from her face. ‘Is it . . .’ I struggle to find the right words.

  Charlie lets go of my hand, and I see her eyes start to mist up, not for the first time today. ‘Yours? How can you ask such a thing!’ she says, rather too loudly for my liking given the size of the restaurant, and then bursts into tears. A couple sitting at a nearby table look at me with contempt, and the waiter scowls as he brings our food and, rather unceremoniously, plonks mine down in front of me.

  ‘No, please let me finish,’ I whisper, making a mental note not to leave such inappropriate gaps in my sentences in the future. ‘I was going to say, is it going to be okay? Given your complications and all that?’

  ‘Oh.’ Charlie blows her nose loudly on her napkin. ‘Sorry’ she sniffs, picking up her fork and attacking her lunch. ‘Well, early days, but it seems like it should be. Though you can pat yourself on the back if you like. Apparently it’s a million to one chance that . . .’

  Between mouthfuls, Charlie explains some gynaecological stuff that I would try and repeat, but seeing as men know as little about the inner biological workings of women as they do about what goes on inside their minds, it would be lost in translation. Suffice to say that she tells me I must be producing the Christopher Columbus of the sperm world to have been able to navigate such perilous waters.

  ‘Actually’ continues Charlie, ‘it turns out that it was always the actual conception they thought was going to be impossible, not the pregnancy itself.’

  Now they tell you, I think.

  I’m not feeling particularly hungry, so I try and catch the waiter’s attention to order another drink. He pretends not to see me.

  ‘Oh, Adam,’ continues Charlie, her expression softening, ‘this must be such a shock for you. I mean, we’ve only known each other for a few weeks, and now we’re going to get married and be a family . . .’

  At the word ‘married’ I’ve obviously choked or gone white, because she leans back in her chair and laughs, loudly enough, I hope, for the couple at the next table, who are still looking daggers at me, to hear.

  ‘Ha! Got you! You should have seen your face!’ she sniggers.

  ‘You mean you’re not . . . ?’

  ‘Serious? No. But pregnant? Yes. And I want this baby, Adam. I really want it.’ Charlie takes a sip out of my glass, grimacing slightly as she swallows, before continuing. ‘Imagine if you’ve dreamt of something for as long as you can remember, but then you’re told you can never, ever have it. It’s such a disappointment to you but eventually, after you’ve finally resigned yourself to the fact, you suddenly hear that you can and, in fact, are.’ She looks across at me, imploringly. ‘What would you do?’

  She’s so animated now that I fear a sentence containing the word ‘abortion’ wouldn’t be the most appropriate response. I stare down at my plate and push my untouched dinner round with my fork. ‘I’d probably have it,’ I mumble, like a scolded child.

  Charlie gives me a concerned look and puts her hand back on top of mine, which I notice is shaking slightly. ‘Adam. It’s okay. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.’

  It occurs to me that I’m probably not presenting the most positive front, so I try and lighten the mood a little. I look round, and notice for the first time the mural on the far wall, which shows the Jamaican and Italian flags intertwined. The colours clash almost as badly as the styles of cuisine.

  ‘Be here? But I like this place.’

  ‘No. Be here with me, idiot, and pretend to be interested. I know how alien this must all be to you. But I have been doing a bit of thinking about what it means, what to do, and about us.’

  The way Charlie’s voice quivers on the word ‘us’ sets the automatic commitment conversation alarm sounding deep in my brain. I look up sharply, but Charlie suddenly finds something fascinating on her plate and avoids my gaze.

  ‘So . . . I’ve decided that I’m not going to impose this on you,’ she continues. ‘I’ve got some money saved, and I can still work up until he’s born.’ She looks back up at me and smiles bravely. ‘The advantages of being a hand model, you see.’

  He? I’m thinking. Can you tell already? ‘Maybe if you’d stuck to hand jobs . . .’

  Charlie scowls. ‘Yes, well. As I was saying. You’ve been great . . . so far, and I couldn’t ask for a nicer person to face this with, but you’ve already told me what you want out of life. I know that this wasn’t in your immediate plans, so I’m giving you the freedom of choice. I won’t ask you for anything, so if you decide you want to be involved, well, that’s fine. If you don’t, well . . .’ Charlie turns her face away from me and leaves what under other circumstances I’d describe as a pregnant pause, before continuing. ‘If you want to walk away, that’s . . .’ and I see her swallow hard before continuing ‘. . . fine too. All I’m asking for is a simple yes or no.’

  A simple yes or no. I can’t think of a less simple yes or no. What is clear to me, however, is that Charlie is so happy about being pregnant that whether I said I wanted to stick around or not probably wouldn’t make much difference to her at this precise moment in time.

  Don’t get me wrong – I know what the ‘right’ thing to say now is; the words that would have the crowd welling up if this scene were being played out on the silver screen. I’d take Charlie in my arms, tell her that everything will be okay, ask her to marry me, she’d tearfully accept, the music would start playing, and we’d live happily ever after. But the problem I have is that this isn’t the movies. It’s real life. And right now, a little bit too real.

  This is one of those questions where my answer could probably change the direction of my life for ever, and not just mine
, but one, no, two other lives as well. Lives that I’ve already played the most important part in changing. I haven’t the heart to say no. But I haven’t the guts to say yes.

  I lean across the table and kiss her, but we’re both conscious that it’s on her forehead and not on her lips. ‘We need to talk about this more,’ I say. ‘Once we’ve both had a chance to absorb what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ve already absorbed it,’ says Charlie, quietly.

  ‘Well I haven’t,’ I say, perhaps a little too abruptly, and I immediately regret it as Charlie looks a little hurt. ‘I’m sorry, I mean . . . it’s such a big thing. A . . .’ I force the word out ‘. . . baby? I just don’t know if I’m ready for it . . .’

  Charlie stops me. ‘Tomorrow night? Come round to mine. I’ll cook us dinner and we’ll have a proper chat.’ She indicates my untouched plate. ‘Hopefully you’ll have your appetite back by then.’

  I pay the bill and walk Charlie out into the street, where I flag her down a cab. Just before she gets in, she stops and turns to face me.

  ‘Adam,’ she says, forcing a smile, ‘we do need to talk about this. You can’t let it drag on like . . .’

  I finish the sentence for her. ‘Like Nick and Sandra?’

  Charlie nods. ‘So I’ll make it easy for you. Tomorrow – if you turn up, then I’ll know we’ve got something to talk about. If you don’t . . .’ Her voice tails off.

  ‘That’s very, er, fair of you,’ I say.

  ‘Well, they don’t call us the fairer sex for nothing,’ replies Charlie, but she’s not smiling any more.

  I watch her taxi until it disappears round the corner, and then walk back towards the King’s Road. I think about going back to the office, but feel a bit lightheaded after my liquid lunch, so instead I change direction and head down towards the river. I’m sure it must be the effect of the whisky on an empty stomach, but my route seems to be barred by screaming toddlers in bulky pushchairs pushed by harassed-looking mothers. I imagine businessmen, their expensive suits stained by baby sick, forced to drive their Porsches and Ferraris at twenty miles per hour due to the child seats in the back, nagged by fat women in the passenger seats who have never quite lost the weight they gained during pregnancy.