Man of the Month Club

by Jackie Clune

  “Oh, spare me,” groaned Amy as Sophie grinned indulgently at Greg’s game.

  “I’m only saying this for your own good. It’s not fair on the kids. ‘What does your daddy do?’ ‘He’s a one-night stand.’ Wouldn’t sound too good on the playground, would it? You can’t just rub men out of the equation because you don’t want to share your duvet with anyone.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried with men—but they’re all so useless! I can’t even get one to commit to a one-night stand, let alone years of sleepless nights and parenthood!” Amy was almost wailing now. This conversation had not gone as she had hoped.

  “Go and look again. You’ll find one. Just go to the right places and they’ll come flocking. Look for the single guys hanging around the swings in the park.”

  “Sounds pretty creepy to me.”

  “Not those ones—the young guys. Not the ones in trench coats.”

  . 13 .

  Men pushing three-wheel buggies, men carrying screaming tod dlers into unisex baby-changing facilities, men wiping the noses of snotty infants, men blowing raspberries at their babies in supermarket trolleys, men carrying tiny newborns in fleece papooses, men wrestling wriggling children into too-tight coats, men asking for hot water to warm the baby’s bottle in Starbucks. Greg was right. Everywhere Amy looked now there were men with children, and not just part-time, divorced, fair-weather dads—these dads had the careworn but devoted look of full-time parents. Now that she looked, they were everywhere. Problem was, they were already coupled up. Presumably. Most of the time, the men she saw with children were alone—no doubt allowing the mom to focus on her career—but she felt sure they were happily ensconced in units of two, and she drew the line at luring a married man to bed just to get pregnant, however obvious his fertility track record. And anyway, she had definitely decided that she was not going to hang around and go through the laborious preliminaries of a relationship before conceiving. So what was the point of trying to find a nice man? Any man would do, so long as he was healthy and not too hideous to look at. The last thing she wanted was some guy hanging around getting involved in her life. No, what she needed was a lucky date with a fit young guy who was either too horny to register her baby-making intentions or too broody himself to care. And much as she had poopooed Greg at the time, since their discussion she had found herself hanging out in all of the places he’d mentioned. She’d been to the local swimming pool for the first time in years; she’d loitered near playgrounds and even went to the kids’ section of McDonald’s to check out the single guys there. It had seemed logical, really—if you were looking for a potential father to your child, go to places full of children. These places were so revolting and chaotic that any single man there of his own choice must be good father potential, if only biologically. With twenty hours to go before her third ovulation window, Amy had come to her favorite London park, hoping to spot a likely candidate. Dumped on the top end of Hackney, nudging the borders of Tower Hamlets, Victoria Park had been a regular haunt of Amy’s in her student days, home as it was to a rolling stock of political demonstrations from the Suffragettes to Gay Pride. The neat flower borders, the gated Old English Garden with its single lemon tree, and the toy boating lakes all looked pleasingly antiquated in the present-day grubby, crime-addled East End. It was dedicated to the great matriarch herself, Queen Victoria, so it felt like a good place to be trawling for a father. Firm once again in her resolve, Amy ordered her favorite park café treat—a hot chocolate with floating marshmallows. She’d not been here since Germaine had died, and it choked her a bit now to think how Germaine had always waited patiently for the piece of froth-coated marshmallow that signaled the end of the rest break. It was almost June, but the London sky refused to smile. Young girls shivered in their summer fashions and ice-cream vendors looked pathetically hopeful. The tulips were drooping and the daffodils were long gone, but still Amy detected the sap rising all around her. Boys whistled at girls in short skirts, builders shouted at women on the street, and middle-aged ladies serving in shops winked at male customers as they handed them their change. It seemed to Amy as though everyone was up for it. Or was that just projection? She felt sure that this month it would all be different. This month it was going to happen.

  “Shall we sit here and feed the duckies, bubba?” said a warm male voice behind her.

  “Da da da da da da!” squealed a little voice.

  “What noise does the duckie make, Lola? Quack quack! Quack quack!”

  “Da da da da da da!”

  “No, quack quack quack quack! Let’s go and feed the quack-quacks.”

  Amy glanced around to see the doting daddy behind her. He was about thirty, with cropped dark hair and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt and dark blue jeans, and his face was awash with love for his little daughter. She was about one, sitting up in her buggy with huge pink cheeks and a mass of blond curls. Two little podgy hands flailed around in excitement as she watched her daddy getting a plastic bag full of bread crusts from his rucksack.

  “Da da da da da!” she squealed again. So it was true—little girls do love their daddies. Not for the first time, Amy started to doubt her plan. Could she really do this alone? Was it fair? But her child would have good male role models—Brendan, Greg, the guys in the pub . . .

  “Da da da da da!”

  Amy couldn’t peel her eyes away from the twosome so engaged in each other’s company. Suddenly, the man looked up and caught her eye. Amy was rewarded with a dazzling smile.

  “No, not dada—Andy. Can you say Andy, bubba?” He turned and smiled again. Was it just her imagination or was there a hint of flirtation in the pointedness with which he corrected the little girl?

  “Da da da da da!” she squealed again, oblivious to the facts.

  “I don’t think she’s really listening,” the man said to Amy.

  “Doesn’t look like it. I suppose one man is pretty much like any other at that age,” said Amy.

  “Oh, no! Babies can recognize their parents from about four weeks. It’s just a blurry outline at first, but they definitely know who their parents are by this age,” said the man as he idly ripped up slices of stale bread.

  “Da da da da da!” said the baby emphatically, pointing a jammy finger straight at the man.

  “Either she’s very confused or you’re in denial,” said Amy, laughing. He couldn’t possibly be lying in order to pick her up, could he?

  The man’s easy laugh put pay to any such possibility.

  “I think she’s confused. She doesn’t see much of her dad.”

  “So are you Stepdaddy?”

  “No. I’m her nanny,” said the man, smiling in acknowledgment of the unusualness of his position.

  “Blimey,” said Amy. She’d never met a male nanny before.

  “And here was me thinking all nannies looked like Julie Andrews.”

  “I know, it’s a constant battle of altering perceptions. I just don’t look good in the blue starched dress and the stiff white hat,” he said. It was clear he’d had to go through the same routine many times. Amy felt conscious of not wanting to bore him with the same old questions, but at the same time, he fascinated her. Why did he decide to become a nanny? What sort of man would want to look after other people’s children for a living? Was he gay? Did he get much work? Did people trust men to look after children? Was it harder for him? Did he not feel emasculated?

  “And before you ask, I just like children and they’ve always liked me; I’m one hundred percent heterosexual; yes, it’s sometimes hard work persuading potential employers that I’m not a weirdo, but generally I’ve not been out of work in six years.” He smiled.

  Amy blushed at the obviousness of her questions.

  “Oh. Right. Er, thanks. Saved us both a lot of bother there,” she stuttered.

  “No problem. I’m Andy,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Amy. Pleased to meet you. And this is Lola, is it?” />
  “Yes, this is Lola. I’ve been looking after her since she was three months old. Her mum works in the city.”

  “And her dad?”

  “Was a wild night under the stars in Namibia. The gamekeeper in a safari park. A bit of a shock, but she’s managing well now that she’s got me. She was a bit funny about the agency sending me at first, but I think she likes Lola having a man about the place now.”

  “So you’re a father substitute, are you? How does that feel?”

  Andy winced.

  “Hmmm. Not sure yet. It’s OK so far, but it’s getting harder. She keeps calling me Dada. I think she’s picked it up from the other babies at massage. It was funny at first, but now I’m thinking what happens if I leave? Or what if her mum changes her mind and wants a female nanny after all? As far as she’s concerned, I’m her dad. What’s it going to do to her if I’m suddenly not around?”

  Amy noticed his forehead furrowed in genuine concern. It made him even more attractive. What was it about men who were good with children? Some of the men who’d come into her shop over the years had attested to the fact that having a baby in tow was the ultimate babe magnet. Forget flashy cars and full wallets—apparently, what the chicks really like is to see a man’s nurturing side. She’d actually heard of men who’d borrow their friend’s babies for the day in order to attract women. Apparently, it worked every time.

  “Here, Lola—throw some bread for the duckies,” said Andy, handing a fistful of bread to the baby.

  The little fat hands lunged at the bread, then threw it all in one soggy heap into the edge of the water.

  “No, little bits—little bits, Lola.” He laughed gently, handing her some more bread.

  “Care to join us?” he said, offering Amy a slice.

  “Love to.” Amy smiled, letting her hand brush against his fingers for a moment.

  And for the next ten minutes they stood, the three of them quietly throwing scraps of bread to the squabbling ducks, to all onlookers the perfect little family. Amy suddenly felt calm and totally in the moment, absorbed in the simple pleasure of it. So this was the attraction of taking your children to the park. She’d never understood it before, but now it seemed so brilliantly Zen. Just her, him, the baby, and the rippling water. Only one thought niggled away at her. How was she going to get him into bed by tomorrow night? She knew only too well how hard urban nannies work—the long hours, the night duty, the expectation that they are on call twenty-four hours a day. Some of the au pairs she’d encountered at the shop were so exhausted they could hardly speak. Was he a good choice? Would he be a) available, b) interested, and c) energetic enough after caring for Lola? She needed more information. She cut through the contented silence.

  “Do you get a day off at all?” She tried to keep focused on the ducks as her words hung heavily in the air. She might as well have said, “Shall we go into the bushes and have sex right now?” for all the subtlety she’d been able to manage.

  Andy let out a hollow laugh.

  “I do in theory, but I live in, so there’s no knowing what will happen from one moment to the next. My boss is a bit chaotic to say the least. Why do you ask?”

  He was really making her work for this.

  “I just thought it might be nice to have dinner. There’s a new Vietnamese restaurant over the road—great crispy duck.”

  “Shhh! Have you no tact, woman?” hissed Andy, indicating the duck pond.

  “Oops. Not in front of the children.”

  “Well, I’m due an evening off tomorrow . . . but I expect that’s too short notice for you.”

  “No! No, that’s fine,” blurted Amy, instantly aware of how over-keen she now looked. Had she blown it? There was an awkward pause. She fully expected to turn and see Andy sprinting off down the cycle track, pushing the three-wheel buggy as fast as he could in front of him, bread flying left, right, and center.

  He was looking right at her.

  “Great. Shall I meet you there at seven thirty?”

  “Cool. See you then,” said Amy, walking as casually as she could toward the park gates.

  “And I promise not to order the duck!” she threw back as a witty afterthought, before crashing into a café table and sending a coffee cup flying.

  . 14 .

  This felt better. At least it was a proper date, more time to prepare, less chance of anything going wrong. She’d learned her lesson the hard way—it was much wiser to try to net the man before ovulation day. It meant she could relax and concentrate on the seduction rather than the entrapment. It had been a while since she’d been on a proper date, and the novelty added a frisson that kept her awake half the night. What to wear—a dress? Too formal. Jeans and a sweater? Too casual. In the end, she’d settled on her good black trousers and her low-cut Joseph T-shirt. It had never failed. It wouldn’t do to make too much of an effort—she’d obviously frightened Stephen off with her “fertilize me” shoes. Neither should she be too complacent—imagine letting Stu make his own way to her flat! She was asking to be stood up. This time she’d gotten it just right. Nevertheless, her nerves were causing her stomach to clench involuntarily, and she wondered if she’d be able to eat her customary spicy noodle soup. Was chili a good idea for a seduction night anyway? She didn’t want to repeat a nasty accident involving red-hot finger food, unwashed hands, and clumsy foreplay. She’d finally worked out the purpose of bidets on that unhappy occasion.

  She spent the day exfoliating and waxing her body into submission. By seven p.m. there wasn’t an inch that wasn’t hairless, skinless, or both. A twinge in her left side told her that she was indeed ovulating, as did the annoying smudge of discharge in her best skimpy knickers just before she was about to leave. Changing into the next best—less lace, more coverage—she headed out to the car. The young mum from two months ago was crossing the road, her baby now sitting upright in its buggy, grinning at some unspecified baby joke. The girl looked happy, even smiling at Amy, as she waited for them to cross. Amy smiled back.

  “Might be me soon,” she said with a nod to the girl. At that moment, as if part of the girl’s party, a sleek black cat slunk across the road in the wake of the pram. Amy waited for it, too, remembering that along with magpies, black cats could be said to bring good luck.

  Just as it reached the curb, it stopped short and fixed Amy with a serious stare, as if to say, “Yes. Yes, it will be.”

  She got to the restaurant first. She didn’t mind. She’d often gone there alone and Su at reception waved her to her usual table—only this time it would remain set for two. She loved this place. It was a converted Victorian bathhouse that the local Vietnamese community had turned into a drop-in center and restaurant. Above the outside doors you could still see the entrances clearly marked “Women” and “Men.” Paper tablecloths and rickety chairs gave the dining area a makeshift, temporary feel, but the food had been legendary for some years now and it looked as though it was set to stay. It was the perfect place to take a guy like Andy—not flashy, not too loaded, not too expectant.

  Amy ordered a Hue beer and sucked on a prawn cracker, being careful not to smudge her newly purchased skin tone sheer matte lipstick (£23 for a natural finish). It was seven thirty-five. He was five minutes late. She liked that. It showed he wasn’t hung up, that he didn’t set any store by the old-fashioned idea that the man had to be waiting, cloak on ground, for the woman to step from her carriage. Besides, being first meant she could swig a quick nerve-stiffener down and choose the best seat—back to the wall, able to survey the whole room.

  Seven forty-five. He was probably stuck in traffic. Did he have to come far? Of course not—Victoria Park was only half a mile away, and he looked as though they lived nearby. . . . In any case, he was bound to be here in less than five minutes. Twenty minutes late was on time in London. She waved her empty bottle at Su, who nodded her acknowledgment.

  Seven fifty-eight. She’d drained her second beer, and it was only the slight feeling of dizzy wooziness tha
t was cushioning her from the emerging reality of the situation. She’d been stood up. Again. If he wasn’t here by five past eight, then she would leave, inventing some urgent business just in case Su raised an eyebrow. How humiliating. What galled her even more was the fact that they hadn’t exchanged numbers, so she couldn’t even send a jovial “Where the hell are you?” text. Damn. Why hadn’t she got his number? Or given him hers? Perhaps he was lying in a gutter somewhere, having been mugged? Perhaps he’d been unexpectedly called upon to look after Lola on his night off? He did say that his employer was chaotic. . . .

  No. She couldn’t kid herself. If you want something, then you find a way. Look at what she was doing here, after all. Where there’s a will, etc. He could have easily phoned the restaurant if he’d needed to cancel. Amy began to digest the unpalatable fact that he’d obviously backed out, thought better of it, and was either too spineless or too rude to let her know. Great. Now she was left with an empty evening, a bruised ego, and an egg going spare.

  Eight oh seven.

  “Right. That’s it,” said Amy out loud, gathering up her jacket and her bag. She felt more than a bit pissed now. She hadn’t eaten all day, and the beer had gone to her head. The couple at the next table smiled pityingly up at her as she squeezed past them.

  “Sorry, Su—got a call—have to be somewhere else—but I’m sure you can use the table tonight,” she said, throwing a tenner down for the beers.

  “Shit. Sorry, sorry, sorry!” said a voice behind her.

  Turning unsteadily, she came face-to-face with a flushed, sweaty-looking Andy.