by Matt Dunn
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Praise for Matt Dunn:
‘Funny and witty, a great read that gives us a look into the workings of the male mind’ Sun
‘A well-crafted tale of when love goes wrong and love goes right–witty, astute but tender too’ Freya North
‘Full of great one-liners, this book is a terrifying eye-opener into what men really think’ Company
‘Frighteningly funny and sometimes just plain frightening…the most realistic perspective on the average man’s world view most women will get without hanging around in a locker room’ Chris Manby
‘Delightfully shallow and self-obsessed–that’s the male psyche for you’ Elle
‘A warm, open and damn funny book’ Lads Mag
‘Both hilarious and touching’ Best
‘Most amusing’ Closer
By the same author
Best Man
The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook
About the author
Matt Dunn is the author of two previous bestselling novels; The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook, which was short-listed for both the Romantic Novel of the Year Award and the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance, and Best Man. He’s also written about life, love and relationships for various publications including The Times, Guardian, Cosmopolitan, Company and the Sun.
Matt was born in Margate, but eventually escaped to Spain to write his first novel, in-between working as a newspaper columnist and playing a lot of tennis. He now lives in London. Previously he has been a professional lifeguard, fitness-equipment salesman and an IT headhunter, but he prefers writing for a living, so please keep buying his books.
Visit the author at www.mattdunn.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books, 2007
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Matt Dunn, 2007
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster
The right of Matt Dunn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN-10: 1-84739-479-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-84739-479-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Clare and Ewan.
From your kid brother.
Contents
About the author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Some months later…
Acknowledgements
This is a true story, although some of the
names have been changed.
And most of the facts…
Chapter 1
As I understand it, there are ways to celebrate the news of the arrival of your first child. Handing out cigars, for example, or the traditional glass of something alcoholic. Seeing as neither Tom nor I smoke, I’ve decided on the second option, which is why I’ve just opened a rather nice–as in on the plus side of a fiver–bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. But while I don’t pretend to be an expert in all things birth-related yet, I’m pretty sure it’s the baby’s head you’re supposed to be wetting, and not the father’s.
‘Sorry, Will,’ says Tom, handing me a tea towel so I can mop up the mouthful of wine he’s just spat over me in surprise. ‘But…you’re going to be a father?’
I dab at the red stain on my now not-so-white shirt, and grin back at him, at the same time trying to ignore the crashing of plates I’ve just heard from the kitchen where Barbara, Tom’s wife, is preparing the Sunday roast. And although I’m not sure I like the emphasis Tom’s put on the word ‘you’re’, I react like one of those nodding dogs you used to see in the back of brown Austin Allegros.
‘Yup.’
Tom shakes his head, making one of those long-suffering faces that I’ve come to know from my best friend over the years. Barbara, on the other hand, slams shut the oven door and comes rushing in from the kitchen. For once, she doesn’t say anything, but instead gives me a look that leaves no doubt she can’t quite believe what she’s just heard.
You? her look continues. Will Jackson, the most irresponsible man I know? A father?
I keep nodding, much to Barbara’s obvious bewilderment. She and Tom have been married for nearly ten years, and by now she’s usually quite accepting of my various escapades. But apparently not this one, because when she finally manages to form a sentence, it’s not quite the one I was hoping for.
‘You’re joking, surely?’
‘I’m deadly serious,’ I say, my idiotic grin suggesting otherwise.
‘Tom?’ implores Barbara, sitting down next to me at the table and putting her head in her hands. She’s wearing a pair of crocodile-puppet oven gloves, which make her look like she’s being attacked at a Punch and Judy show. ‘Say something, will you?’
‘Er, congratulations?’ He holds a hand out towards me, which I shake enthusiastically. ‘But I thought you and…What was the name of your last one?’
I have to think for a second. ‘Cecilia.’
‘Ah, yes. The lovely Cecilia. I thought you and she had split up?’
‘We did.’ I take a sip of my wine. ‘Last week.’
‘Oh.’ His expression changes to one of confusion. ‘But—’
‘Typical!’ interrupts Barbara. ‘And I bet you binned her because you got her pregnant, didn’t you? Poor girl. Well, I don’t know what you’re looking so happy about. There are far too many single-parent families nowadays without you adding to that number.’
I inch imperceptibly away from Barbara, all too aware of her potential to show her disapproval in more physical ways. ‘No–you don’t understand. I “binned” her, to use your sympathetic description, because she’s not the one I’m having the baby with.’
‘This gets worse,’ says Barbara. ‘You’ve been cheating on her and you’ve got someone else pregnant.’
‘No. Nothing like that.’ I make a hurt face. ‘What do you think I am?’
Fortunately, Tom holds up
his hand before Barbara can begin to tell me. ‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Are you, or are you not, having a baby?’
‘I will be, yes.’
‘So,’ sighs Barbara, removing the oven gloves and placing them on the table, ‘who’s the–and I use the word advisedly–“lucky” girl? Anyone we know?’
I shrug. ‘It’s not even anyone I know.’
She frowns. ‘So you haven’t actually got anyone pregnant?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘But you are going to be a dad?’ says Tom.
‘Yup.’
Tom and Barbara exchange puzzled glances. ‘So what are we celebrating, exactly?’ asks Tom. ‘The fact that you’ve become a sperm donor?’
‘No. The fact that I’ve made a decision to do something life-changing. I, Will Jackson, am going to be a father.’
As I sit back smugly in my chair, enjoying the sound those particular words have made, and Tom and Barbara look at each other in disbelief, there’s a long, awkward silence. So long and awkward, in fact, that I feel I have to start speaking again. ‘And I’ll tell you something–the day I decided was the happiest day of my life. Finally, I realized I had a purpose. A direction.’
‘Other than going nowhere fast, you mean?’ Tom says. ‘And what do you mean, you decided? On your own?’
Barbara looks even more mystified than before. ‘Isn’t it normally the kind of decision that takes two people?’
‘It is. I mean, it will be. Eventually. Yes. And there’s the thing.’
She reaches over and takes a swig from Tom’s glass. ‘What thing?’
‘I just need to find the right woman. Which is what I wanted to ask you. Well, ask Barbara, really…’
‘Steady on,’ says Tom. ‘I know we’re friends, but there are some limits.’
It’s my turn to be confused. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘And you’re not going to, either,’ says Barbara, folding her arms.
‘No–you don’t understand. To ask whether you know anyone who might be suitable. For me.’
Barbara stares at me for a second while she attempts to process this particular piece of information. ‘For you to have a baby with, you mean?’
‘Yup.’
‘Let me just think…’ She gazes off into the distance theatrically before suddenly cuffing me round the top of my head. ‘No! Of course not. What a ridiculous idea.’
‘It’s not ridiculous, Barbara,’ I say, smoothing my hairstyle back down. ‘I’m not getting any younger.’
‘You’re thirty,’ says Tom. ‘That’s hardly old.’
‘Yes it is,’ I say. ‘I found a grey hair the other day.’
‘So what?’ says Tom, running his fingers through his hair, in the manner of the man in the Grecian 2000 advert. ‘Even I’ve got a few.’
‘It wasn’t on my head, Tom. And besides, my biological clock is ticking.’
As Barbara and Tom stare at me in disbelief, the kitchen timer rings, much to Barbara’s amusement. ‘Oh my word. It’s Desperate Dad,’ she laughs, before heading back into the kitchen.
‘Will, you’re a man,’ says Tom, refilling his wine glass. ‘You don’t have a biological clock, and even if you did, your clock can keep on ticking long past…Well, as long as there’s still juice in the battery, so to speak.’
‘Precisely,’ agrees Barbara, as she places a tray of strangely shaped Yorkshire puddings on the table. She’s normally an excellent cook, but hasn’t quite perfected the Sunday roast yet. ‘So, why the big rush? You’ve not got some incurable disease you haven’t told us about?’
‘No–nothing like that.’
‘Shame,’ jokes Tom, topping up my glass.
‘It’s just that I love kids. Well, the twins especially.’ I nod over towards the conservatory, where Jack and Ellie, Tom and Barbara’s five-year-olds, are sat in front of the TV, spellbound by some Disney DVD that they’ve already seen approximately four thousand times. ‘And I see the enjoyment you get from the two of them, and I want to be a part of that.’
‘You are a part of that,’ says Tom reassuringly.
‘When you remember their birthdays,’ adds Barbara. ‘Which you’d think would be easy, seeing as they’re both on the same day.’
‘No, I mean that I want some of that. For myself. My own family.’
‘There’s some merit in that,’ agrees Barbara, slapping my hand away from the tray. ‘At least then you won’t be turning up here for lunch every Sunday.’
Tom smiles. ‘What’s brought this on? I never had you down as the two-point-four type.’
‘I’m not. I mean, neither did I. But I’m going to be thirty-one soon. That’s not thirty any more. It’s “thirties”. And recently, I—’
Barbara taps the side of her nose. ‘Aha. Will, I’m sensing the phrase “mid-life crisis” here.’
‘It’s not a mid-life crisis. Heaven knows I see enough of them in my clients to know what one looks like.’ I work as a life coach. Which isn’t really a proper job, and certainly isn’t a valid basis for taking money off people, according to Barbara. ‘But there’s a reason why those holidays are called “18–30”. Because at thirty-one, you need to take life a bit more seriously. Have some responsibilities.’
‘But you’ve never been on an 18–30 holiday,’ laughs Tom.
‘And I won’t be able to, soon. So I’ve got to get on with the next phase of my life.’
Barbara pats my hand sympathetically. ‘You’re feeling broody, aren’t you?’
‘No–I just want to do something with my life.’
She shakes her head. ‘This isn’t just another of your five-minute obsessions, is it? Like the time you got the tropical fish? And we all know how that turned out.’
I redden slightly. ‘Yes, well, how was I to know they’d be so labour-intensive?’
‘Will, remembering to feed them every week and cleaning their tank out occasionally is hardly labour-intensive. And by the way, any fool knows you don’t do it with bleach.’
‘Especially while the fish are still in there,’ adds Tom.
Barbara sighs. ‘And if you think the fish were hard work, you obviously haven’t got the first idea about looking after a child.’
Tom nods. ‘It’s quite a lifestyle change, you know. A fair distance from your current man-about-town existence.’
‘And that’s precisely why I want all this.’ I gesture around the room with the hand holding my wine glass, causing Barbara to check anxiously for signs of spillage on the carpet. ‘I’m tired of single life.’
‘You wouldn’t be single if you didn’t keep breaking up with all these women,’ points out Tom.
‘Have you thought about getting a dog instead?’ suggests Barbara, heading into the kitchen and returning with a bowl of roast potatoes. ‘As a pet, rather than as a girlfriend, I mean?’
‘Very funny.’
Barbara shakes her head. ‘I wasn’t joking.’
‘Will, do you really know what it’s like?’ says Tom. ‘Being woken up throughout the night? The constant crying? The mess everywhere?’
‘And that’s just when you’re trying to get pregnant,’ says Barbara.
Tom grins. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, walking into the conservatory and ruffling the twins’ hair. ‘We’ll lend you our two for a few days, if you like. See what you think after that.’
From in front of the television, Jack and Ellie glance nervously in my direction.
‘Really?’ I glance even more nervously back. ‘I’ll, er, just take them away with me after lunch, then.’
‘Fine,’ says Tom.
‘Great,’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that Jack’s bottom lip has started to tremble.
‘Over my dead body,’ says Barbara, fetching a plate of roast beef from the kitchen and putting it down on the table.
‘Go on,’ says Tom. ‘It’ll be good for him. Might make him think a bit differently.’
‘Tom–you seem determined to pu
t me off. Don’t you think I’d be a good dad?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ says Tom, neatly side-stepping the issue. ‘I just…I mean, Barbara and I just want you to know what you’d be letting yourself in for.’
I put my wine glass down. ‘Tom, you didn’t ever meet my dad, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, nor did I. Not really, anyway. He left when I was still a baby. And that’s why I’ll be a good father. Because I’d never do that to a child of mine.’
‘Maybe so,’ says Tom. ‘But I just want you to know what it really means to be responsible for someone else. You can’t even keep your houseplants alive. Having kids…Well, it affects your every waking hour.’
‘And a lot of your sleeping ones as well,’ adds Barbara.
‘It’s true,’ insists Tom. ‘You’re on call twenty-four-seven. And what’s more, you look at these little things, and realize there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for them.’
As he smiles down at the twins, Ellie swivels round and tugs on his trouser leg. ‘Daddy, can I have a drink?’
‘Not now, Ellie,’ says Tom, picking her up and plonking her back in front of the television. ‘Daddy’s talking to Uncle Will.’
‘I thought you said there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for them?’
‘Yes, well.’ Tom sits back down at the table. ‘It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it?’
‘It is for you,’ says Barbara, fetching a couple of juice cartons from the kitchen and handing them to the twins.
Tom ignores her. ‘And then there’s the career stuff,’ he continues. ‘If you’re at all ambitious then, sometimes, having a child means you have to put that ambition on hold.’
