by Matt Dunn
Mark coughs. ‘Mate, technically, if she was transparent, you wouldn’t have been able to see her coming.’
‘Good point,’ I say.
Nick laughs. ‘Well, maybe she’s just . . . a little misunderstood?’
‘Yeah,’ I tell him. ‘Like Hider was a little misunderstood.’
Nick sighs and shakes his head. ‘I thought all this relationship stuff was supposed to get easier the older you were.’
‘That’s a popular misconception,’ I say, somewhat bitterly.
‘Speaking of, er, misconception . . .’ says Mark, turning to face me.
‘Yes. Well. And that’s not the half of it,’ I reply, and tell them both about my ‘welcome’ from Charlie this morning, and my unpleasant surprise at her flat the other evening: the mysterious Rick. I finish the story and slump hopelessly back into my chair, but despite my look of despair Nick seems to have an amused expression on his face.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, a little hurt.
Mark opens his mouth to speak but Nick holds up a hand to silence him. ‘Hold on a sec,’ he says, rooting around in his holdall and producing a book from the inside pocket. ‘Ta-da!’
I take it from him and glance at the cover: French Lessons by Richard Evans. ‘Where did you get this?’
Nick shrugs. ‘Charlie, of course. Well, Charlie’s brother, to be specific. They came into Bar Rosa on Friday night,’ he explains. ‘I’d popped in to look for you, so we could have a chat about the wedding arrangements.’
‘Not knowing that you were already on top of the situation round at his place!’ laughs Mark.
Nick scowls across at him. ‘Anyway,’ he says to me, ‘you might want to take a look inside.’
I shake my head and throw it on to the coffee table. ‘No thanks, mate. My girlfriend—’
‘Pregnant girlfriend,’ interjects Mark. It’s my turn to shoot him a look.
‘. . . has just told me to, and I quote, “get lost”, on top of which she might be having an affair, not to mention, thank you, Mark, that she’s pregnant, and you think that reading a book written by her brother is going to help?’
Nick sighs patiently. ‘Just take a look inside, where he’s signed it. Tell me what it says.’
I pick it back up reluctantly and, turning to the first page, which is indeed signed, read out the inscription in, it has to be said, a somewhat childish voice. Despite the fact that the dedication may have been written for Nick, it certainly clears things up for me too.
‘Hope this helps to explain! Rick.’
Even in my exhausted state it doesn’t take me long to realize. Friday night. Richard Evans. Rick. Charlie’s brother. Her brother!
Mark and Nick are both grinning like idiots. ‘I see the penny has dropped,’ says Mark.
‘Unlike your testicles,’ Nick says to him.
I stand up quickly and go to grab my keys from the mantelpiece, but Nick gets there before me.
‘Hold on,’ he cautions. ‘What are you going to do?’
I take a deep breath. ‘The right thing, hopefully.’
‘Which is?’ asks Mark.
I think about this for a couple of seconds, then sit back down again and look helpless. Nick moves to refill my glass, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
‘Have you any idea what your strategy is going to be?’ he asks. ‘Because by the sound of things, you’ll need one.’
‘Wing it, probably,’ I say, putting my head in my hands. ‘I don’t know. Even assuming she does actually want to see me again, you know what I’m like with children . . .’
Mark puts a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You’re great with India.’
I look up hopefully. ‘Really?’
Mark shifts awkwardly in his seat. ‘Well, not great, exactly, but at least you haven’t dropped her on her head or anything. And remember, us making you her godfather wasn’t just some ruse to get India more birthday presents. There’s a serious side to it too. If Julia and I both die, for example, then she’s your responsibility. And I couldn’t think of someone I’d trust more with my baby, the most precious thing in my life, than you.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I tell him, getting a sudden lump in my throat as Nick mimes sticking two fingers down his, before turning to face me.
‘What was the name of that girl you went out with a few years ago?’
Here we go again. ‘Er, give me a clue . . .’
‘The one with the kid?’
I swallow hard. ‘Emma?’
He nods. ‘Emma. That’s right. You were pretty good with her little boy, I seem to recall.’
I give a short, bitter laugh. ‘Obviously not good enough. She left me, remember?’
Nick sighs. ‘She didn’t leave you because you were no good with children. She left you because you were no good for her. She was slipping away from you long before you decided to propose.’
I look at him, miserably. ‘Because she thought I’d be a crap dad.’
‘No, but maybe because she thought you’d be a crap husband. She knew you weren’t ready to get married, and she wasn’t prepared for her son to get close to you and then lose another father figure.’
Mark turns to me. ‘Nick’s right. When women have kids, their priorities change. They have to do what’s best for the child.’
I stare at Nick in amazement. ‘How do you know all this? About Emma, I mean?’
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Because I asked her.’
‘What? When?’
‘After she dump— I mean, after the two of you split up.’
I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m telling you now,’ says Nick. ‘Besides, what good would it have done to have told you then? Your ego was already bruised enough.’
‘And, anyway,’ observes Mark, in between cautious sips of his whisky, ‘the experience didn’t exactly turn you into a celibate monk.’
We sit in silence for a few seconds. Eventually, I just exhale loudly.
‘So, how does any of this help me with Charlie? I’m still hardly a contender for Father of the Year, am I?’
‘You might be surprised,’ says Mark. ‘It’s different once you’ve got one of your own.’
I look at him disdainfully. ‘Mark, that’s easy for you to say. You’re brilliant with kids. Charlie’s seen what I’m like.’
Mark puts his glass down. ‘But where children are concerned, women don’t expect you to be brilliant. They just want to know that you’re committed.’
Nick smiles at me. ‘Adam, there was a time that I thought the chances of you ever settling down and starting a family were about as likely as, well, Mark running away to join the circus. But now you’ve met Charlie? Well, from where I’m sitting, it looks like the most natural thing in the world.’
I look across at Mark, but he just nods.
‘There you go,’ says Nick. ‘And, anyway, whatever you decide, I know you’ll make the right decision.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I ask him.
He adopts a tone that can only be described as sincere.
‘Because, unlike me, you always do.’
Nick checks his watch and decides he ought to go round and make sure that Sandra hasn’t firebombed the flat on her way out. I show him and Mark to the door, and promise that I’ll let them know how it goes with Charlie. As they leave, Nick stops halfway down the stairs and walks back up again.
‘Mate, I just want to say thanks. For Sandra, and everything. I know it must have been tough for you, particularly with all this . . . stuff going on with you and Charlie. God knows how I’d let you know if I thought you were doing the same thing.’
I just shrug. ‘Nick, that’s what friends are for.’
‘What, to try and shag their best mate’s fiancée a week before their wedding?’ calls Mark, from his position halfway down the stairs.
I grin, guiltily. ‘Er . . . yeah.’
I’m moved by this display of affection, so I give him the only appropriate response.
‘Let go, you big poof.’
I watch them leave, then go back into my flat, close the door and make straight for the phone. My hands are shaking, and it takes me two attempts to dial Charlie’s number, but when there’s no reply I decide to head straight over to see her.
I’m just about to walk out of the door when I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror, and decide a shower, shave and change of clothes might be appropriate first, and so it’s late morning by the time I find myself standing outside Charlie’s flat. I wait a few moments for the street to clear, but when I nervously ring the doorbell there’s no answer, so I call her home number again, and then her mobile, but still can’t get hold of her. I sit down on her step in desperation for several minutes before I remember something. I’ve got a key to her flat.
With phrases like now or never running through my mind, I decide to go inside and wait for her. I let myself in, careful to knock loudly before I do so, but the place is empty. I walk round aimlessly for a while, and then collapse on to her bed, trying her mobile again, but it seems to be switched off. I call Mark for advice.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘Charlie’s bed.’
‘Blimey – that was quick work, even for you! What are you doing calling me?’
‘No, you moron. She’s not here. I let myself in. What do I do now?’
‘Ah.’ I can hear him thinking it over. ‘So, you’re on your own in her flat?’
‘Yep.’
‘No idea where she is?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, aside from taking advantage of the situation to try on some of her underwear, all you can do is wait.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Mate, you’re a pervert,’ I tell him, adding, ‘And a genius!’ as a thought suddenly occurs to me. Charlie’s underwear drawer. Or, more specifically, her diary!
I click the phone off on a confused Mark, root hurriedly through the drawer – a not too unpleasant task – and locate her diary at the bottom. I remember that she’d said she had to work today, so I flick hurriedly through and find out what she’s up to. Sure enough today’s entry confirms this: she’s filming a commercial for mineral water in Notting Hill. I jot down the address and run back down to the car, careful to replace the contents of the drawer as I found them.
I find the place without any trouble, in a small mews just north of Hyde Park, but when I get to the door I freeze. What if I ring the bell and she refuses to see me? Nick’s right – after my cool reception this morning I do need a strategy. According to Charlie’s diary the shoot’s only just started, so I reckon I’ve got a few hours to come up with a plan, or at least one that’s better than spending the rest of the day waiting outside in ambush for her.
I leave the Impresser parked round the corner and decide to take a stroll through Hyde Park to clear my head, but given my current dilemma my point of entry to the park couldn’t have been worse. As I cross the road and walk through the gates the screaming starts. It’s the children’s playground.
I force myself to walk past, and sit down on a nearby bench, from where I can watch the proceedings without looking like a pervert. As it’s a Sunday, the place is packed, and everywhere I look children are either chasing round in a blur, or clambering along rope bridges, or whooping with delight as they spin faster and faster on the roundabout, their anxious mothers standing nearby in watchful attendance.
And as I sit here, resisting the impulse to stick my fingers in my ears, and feeling like the answer in a Spot the Odd One Out competition, a thought occurs to me. Where are all the dads? I check my watch, but I’m pretty sure the pubs aren’t open yet. Sure, there are a couple, sitting on benches, obliviously reading the Sunday papers while their kids hang dangerously from the monkey bars, but the vast majority of parents here seem to be lone mothers. Try as I might, I can’t help but read something into this.
But then I see him, over by the swings. He’s probably my age, dressed pretty well, and I’m guessing he’s got a good job, a nice car, maybe even a flat like mine. His son can’t be more than four or five, and he’s holding on for dear life as his dad pushes him higher and higher. I can’t take my eyes off them, because, judging by the looks on their faces, they’re both having the time of their lives.
My mobile rings, and it’s Mark, phoning to see how I’m doing. I tell him I’m just on my way to see Charlie.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. Hold on, there’s someone here who wants a word.’
Not now, I think, bracing myself for another of Julia’s lectures. Instead, I hear a muffled fumbling sound, followed by Mark’s voice saying, ‘Other way up, darling.’ There’s a pause, and then India comes on the line.
‘Uncle Adam?’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘I love you, Uncle Adam,’ is all she says, before accidentally pressing the ‘end’ button, but that’s all I need to hear. I call Mark straight back, and when he answers with a guilty ‘Yes?’ I only have one word to say to him, and it’s ‘bastard’, but I’m grinning as I say it and I know he can tell.
I put the phone back in my pocket, walk out of the park and head back towards where Charlie is filming. As I get near the building, the door opens and a couple of trendily dressed forty-something guys – advertising types, I guess, judging by the ponytails – come out and stand in the doorway, hurriedly putting cigarettes in their mouths and lighting them in the same movement.
Realizing that I probably can’t just barge straight in with the two of them standing there, I keep walking, and go over to where the Impresser is parked. Waiting by the car, nervously biting my nails, I suddenly have an idea.
Once they’ve puffed their last and disappeared back inside, I remove what I need from the Impressero boot, stride over to the door and ring the bell. The girl who answers looks enquiringly at me, particularly when she sees the huge toolbox I’m carrying.
‘Hi,’ I say, breezily. ‘Emergency manicure service. I had a call from a Miss Evans?’
The girl hesitates for a second or two, then makes the ‘shoosh’ face, and ushers me inside. The set is a frenzy of camera crews, sound men, lighting technicians and make-up artistes – not the best place for a heart-to-heart, I suppose, but it will have to do. Charlie’s sitting quietly in the middle of it all, perched on a stool in a mock-up of someone’s kitchen (although why on earth they didn’t just film it in someone’s actual kitchen is a question that doesn’t occur to me until much later). She doesn’t see me, as she’s concentrating intently on the bottle of what I recognize to be the latest trendy sparkling mineral water that she’s holding. In one corner of the room a large group of people are gathered round the camera, so I stay where I am and stand inconspicuously by the door, watching the proceedings unfold in front of me while trying to calm my nerves.
After what seem like interminable checks of lights, make-up and camera angles, someone shouts ‘Action’, and the camera zooms in as Charlie pours water from the bottle into a glass. She’s good, not spilling a drop – if there were an Oscar for Best Supporting Hands, she’d be bound to win it. There’s a few seconds of pouring, then the same person shouts ‘Cut’, and someone else rushes in and gives Charlie a new bottle of water and an empty glass. After the fifth take, all of which seem identical to me, somebody shouts ‘Still’, lights and make-up are checked again, Charlie’s bottle is replaced with one containing water of the non-fizzy variety, and the whole process is repeated.
Eventually, after I’ve seen so much water poured that I’m in danger of needing the bathroom, I decide that I can’t wait any longer, and clear my throat nervously.
‘Hi – is there a Miss Evans here?’ I announce, holding up the toolbox as all heads swivel towards me. ‘Someone called for a manicure?’
When she catches sight
of me, Charlie’s first reaction is, not surprisingly, one of surprise. ‘I . . . I’m Miss Evans,’ she whispers.
Marching confidently on to the set, I sit down in front of the shell-shocked Charlie, and take her by the hand, inspecting her nails. People are watching us, so I open the toolbox and remove the first thing that comes to hand. It’s a . . . well, to be honest, I don’t have a clue what it is. Some kind of pliers/wire stripper combination is my best guess.
‘Charlie?’ asks the chap who I guess is the director, but when she shrugs and looks at him blankly he just sighs. ‘Take five, everyone,’ he orders, and thankfully the set clears as everyone, except for Charlie and me, heads off towards the coffee machine.
Charlie just sits there wordlessly. ‘What is that for?’ is all she can eventually manage, indicating the pristine-looking . . . thing I’m holding.
I look at it quizzically. ‘I don’t know. It just came as part of a set.’
Charlie rolls her eyes. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
I can’t think of a smart answer. ‘Looking for you, actually,’ I say, taking her other hand.
‘Well, you’ve found me,’ she says, shaking her head in disbelief, before adding, ‘How did you find me?’
I think about trying to explain, but decide that as I’m probably skating on very thin ice already, and she’s seen how bad my skating is, I’d better not mention the letting myself into her flat/rooting through her underwear drawer/reading her diary story. But before I can construct a less damaging answer a switch goes on in Charlie’s brain, and she suddenly remembers that she’s angry with me. Her face darkens, and she pulls her hand away and folds her arms.
‘What do you want?’
Deep breath. ‘You, of course.’
‘Yes. Well. You’re a little late.’
‘A little late? Or too late?’
She glares. ‘Do I really need to answer that?’
‘Please, Charlie. Just hear me out,’ I say, beginning to realize that this isn’t going to be a walk in the park. But then I’ve just had one of those.
Charlie gives an exasperated sigh and stands up. ‘Adam, I’m working. I don’t have time for this now.’