From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

  ‘Well, one of us did,’ says Barbara archly. Until the twins came along, she used to do something high-flying in the City that neither Tom nor I ever quite understood.

  ‘But that’s the beauty of it,’ I say. ‘That is my ambition. To have a child.’

  ‘Why now?’ asks Barbara. ‘What’s wrong with your life the way it is?’

  ‘Nothing. But I suppose that I just pictured it a little differently. That I’d have a family by now.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should have thought about settling down earlier,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, well, it’s called “settling down” because most people end up settling for someone they don’t really want to be with, and the down part is because that makes them depressed…’

  Tom puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. ‘Or is it because you like playing the field too much?’ he says, adding, ‘Lucky sod!’ before ducking to avoid the oven glove Barbara throws at him.

  ‘Tom, “playing the field”, to use your quaint expression, isn’t quite the fun you make it out to be. There’s an awful lot of rejection and disappointment involved. Can you imagine what that’s like?’

  ‘Will, I’m an actor,’ says Tom. ‘I get rejected and disappointed every day.’

  ‘And anyway, it’s you two who are the lucky ones. You’ve managed to find someone who you want to spend the rest of your life with and, together, you’re building a family unit. This house isn’t just a house.’ I gesture again towards the conservatory, which resembles the aftermath of an explosion in Hamleys. ‘It’s a home.’

  ‘But, Will,’ says Barbara. ‘I can’t really see you doing domesticity.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I still want the “family” part. And before it’s too late.’

  Tom makes a face. ‘Too late? Too late for what?’

  ‘Listen,’ says Barbara. ‘Don’t rush this. You’ve got a while yet.’

  ‘Maybe so. But think about it. I’ve got to find someone. Get her pregnant. Hope the pregnancy goes okay, and then it’s a further nine months. So I can’t procrastinate.’ I make a lunge towards the tray of Yorkshire puddings, and manage to grab one before Barbara can stab me with a fork. ‘Goal setting. It’s what I tell all my clients. And so by the time I’m thirty-one…’

  ‘Which is’–Tom does a quick calculation–‘less than a month away.’

  ‘…I’m going to find someone to start a family with.’

  As I sit back in my chair and examine the soggy piece of batter in my hand, Barbara frowns. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

  ‘Your Yorkshire puddings are just a bit…mushy.’

  Tom lowers his voice. ‘That’s what breastfeeding two kids does to you,’ he says, followed by ‘Ouch!’ as Barbara’s second oven glove catches him on the ear.

  Barbara sits down next to me. ‘I think you’ve forgotten something, Will.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What about falling in love? It’s not a business decision, having kids.’

  I take a bite and chew thoughtfully. Fortunately, it tastes better than it looks.

  ‘Well, there’s another thing.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ says Barbara. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How long did it take you two to fall in love?’

  ‘Years,’ says Tom, checking Barbara’s got nothing left to throw. ‘I mean, we’d known each other for ages before we started going out, and I think we fell for each other pretty quickly, but of course while you might be “in love”, there’s a difference between being “in love” and being “in love enough…”’

  ‘…to have a baby,’ says Barbara, finishing the sentence for him.

  ‘Precisely,’ agrees Tom, before realizing he’s actually agreeing with himself.

  Barbara looks at me sympathetically. ‘What about you, Will? Have you ever been in love?’

  I pretend to consider this for a moment. ‘I don’t think so…’

  ‘What about whatsername?’ interrupts Tom.

  I don’t have to guess who he means. ‘Anita?’

  Tom nods. ‘You were pretty keen on her at the time.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe. But I’m not sure it was love,’ I say, pronouncing it ‘lurve’.

  ‘There’s always Sadie?’ he suggests.

  ‘Sadie?’ says Barbara. ‘Was that someone at college?’

  I blush. ‘He means Sade. The singer. And it’s pronounced shar-day, Tom, for the millionth time. I was head over heels in love with her. When I was thirteen.’

  Barbara sighs. ‘Will, I’m talking about a real person.’

  ‘Sade was real. Is real.’

  ‘Yes, but your love for her wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes it was. I had all her albums. And a massive poster of her on my wall. Above my bed, in fact. So I could see it as I…’

  ‘Oh please. Will, be serious.’

  ‘…went to sleep, I was going to say. And I am serious. Or at least I was about Sade, at the time.’

  Barbara looks at me as if I’m completely missing the point. ‘I’m talking about real, romantic love. Not an unhealthy obsession with some pop star.’

  ‘It wasn’t unhealthy,’ I mumble. ‘And anyway, what’s love got to do with it?’

  Barbara folds her arms. ‘What do you mean, what’s love got to do with it?’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Tom. ‘That was Tina Turner. Not Sade.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ Barbara asks me, a little more interested now that we’re on her territory.

  ‘Or was it Bonnie Tyler?’ Tom continues, to no one in particular.

  ‘I mean, what if I dispense with the “love” part?’

  Barbara frowns. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’m serious. What if I concentrate instead on finding someone who’s going to be a great mother? Someone who really wants kids and–here’s the clever part–has all the skills and characteristics that you’d look for in a mum. Surely that’s the best way to ensure that the child has the best possible upbringing?’ I look at them both hopefully, pleased with my fantastic solution. ‘What do you think?’

  Barbara grimaces. ‘Well…It’s hardly the traditional route, is it?’

  ‘So? What is the traditional route nowadays? Get married, have a family, get divorced? It’s only going to end up in tears anyway, so why not do without all that emotional bollocks and cut to the chase. Focus on what’s really important. The child.’

  Barbara retrieves her oven gloves from where she’s thrown them at Tom and stands over me, pulling them back on in the same manner that a boxer might. ‘You want to have a baby in the full knowledge that you’ll probably divorce the mother at some point?’

  I nod nervously. ‘That’s the idea. Surely if I approach it that way, at least we’ll avoid all the bitterness?’

  ‘So tell me–you’d plan to chuck her out onto the street when, exactly? As soon as Will junior goes off to college? Or turns twenty-one? I can picture it now–“Happy birthday, son. Here’s your present: the key to the door. And by the way, your mother and I only got together so we could have you, and now that you’re leaving home, well, so is she.”’

  I shrug. ‘That’s if I even get married to her in the first place.’

  Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘Welcome to Planet Will. Why you’ve remained single over the years just amazes me.’

  ‘I’m serious, Barbara. Times have changed. Getting divorced was really tough for my mum back when my dad left. Nowadays it’s more of a stage everyone goes through. Like puberty.’

  ‘Or temporary insanity, in your case,’ says Tom.

  ‘Besides, divorce isn’t necessarily such a bad thing for the kids.’

  Barbara sits back down. ‘I can’t wait to hear this.’

  ‘Think about it.’ I lower my voice, even though it’s unlikely that the twins are paying attention to anything except for the cartoon on the screen in front of them. ‘Say you and Tom split up, and then each marry someone else. The kids have now got two sets of parents. Twice the love. And from their point
of view, two homes. Two sets of toys. Two lots of holidays. And maybe even some more brothers or sisters. Surely if the parents can remain civil because they’ve both moved on, then that kind of arrangement’s better than when people stay trapped in an unhappy marriage just for the “sake” of the kids–who I’m sure will pick up on the bad vibes anyway?’

  Barbara stands up again. ‘Well, that’s one point of view,’ she says, making it clear with her tone that it’s not her point of view.

  Tom twists the top off another bottle of wine. ‘So, assuming we might just know someone, have you thought about the kind of woman you want to be the future ex-Mrs Jackson?’

  Barbara looks from Tom to me, and then back at Tom again. ‘Hold on. Let’s not discuss this as if we’re actually thinking of doing it,’ she says, before stomping back into the kitchen.

  I lower my voice again, but this time so Barbara can’t hear. ‘Okay–she needs to be at least thirty. That way, I’ve got a good chance of ensuring that her biological clock is ticking even louder than mine.’

  ‘What about going for a younger one? As in much younger. That way, by the time the kid’s out of the picture, if you do decide to stay together you’ve still got yourself a nice young—’ Tom stops talking abruptly, aware that Barbara’s reappeared, and is standing behind him holding a hot pan of gravy.

  ‘Nope. The way I see it, she needs to be in the same boat as me. Probably hasn’t had a child yet…’

  ‘What’s wrong with someone who’s already had a baby?’ says Barbara indignantly. ‘She’ll be better at motherhood. She’ll already have had the practice.’

  ‘Fair point. But equally, having another child could distract her from giving mine the attention it needs, and I want her to be completely dedicated to nurturing the baby.’

  ‘Will, don’t forget you’re talking about a woman here,’ says Barbara. ‘A human being. Not a growbag.’

  ‘She’s got to be smart, well dressed…’ I say, counting off on my fingers.

  Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘…come from a decent home, have a good job. And obviously she can’t have any physical deformities. Or mental ones. Or be fat.’

  Barbara sighs loudly, then heads back into the kitchen to fetch the gravy boat.

  ‘You really want to go through with this, don’t you?’ says Tom.

  I nod. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’

  ‘Since when?’ asks Barbara, walking back into the room.

  ‘Er…Since last Monday, actually. But I have given it a lot of thought.’

  ‘So I see,’ says Barbara scornfully. ‘Nearly a week…’

  Tom takes the gravy boat from Barbara and puts it on the table, careful to place it on the coaster. ‘Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?’

  ‘Tell me what the right reasons are, exactly. I know one thing–a lot of people do it for the wrong ones, or at the wrong time, or can’t afford it. I have the time. I’m going to provide a stable financial household. I even have the spare room. I’m fit, I’m healthy—’

  ‘If a bit mad,’ interrupts Barbara.

  ‘I’m serious. My life couldn’t be going better. I’ve got everything I need, except for…’

  Barbara smiles. ‘A brain?’

  ‘A family,’ I reply, helping myself to a couple of roast potatoes. ‘Fundamentally, I just really, really, really want to be a dad. And there’re a lot of men out there–present company excepted–who’ve already got kids and who can’t truthfully say that.’

  ‘But…’ Barbara seems to be struggling to find new arguments. ‘Why do you feel this need so strongly?’

  ‘I just…do. It’s hard to describe it. Just like Tom’s always known he wanted to be an actor, I’ve always wanted to do this.’

  ‘Well, why haven’t you yet?’ she says, passing me a plate with about half a ton of meat on it. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t had the opportunity.’

  ‘Because the kind of girls I’ve been attracted to so far, well…’

  Barbara folds her arms again. ‘Well what?’

  ‘They’ve been good-looking, great fun to go out with, sexy, fantastic in bed, but…’

  ‘But?’ Tom looks at me strangely. ‘How can there possibly be a “but” after that description?’

  ‘But I couldn’t imagine any of them looking after my children. Making them would have been fun, but, well, sometimes these things are mutually exclusive, aren’t they?’

  ‘Not at all,’ says Tom, although a little too slowly for Barbara’s liking.

  Barbara smiles. ‘So you’re just after someone who can be a good mother, pure and simple?’

  I finish my mouthful of roast beef. ‘Well, maybe not so pure…And that’s my dilemma. Because there’s a difference between the kind of girl I’d normally go for, and a, er, mother-type, isn’t there?’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Is there?’

  I look nervously across at Barbara, who’s brandishing her knife menacingly in my direction, and swallow hard. ‘Well, look at Cecilia, for example. A great girl, really good fun and all that. But could you really see her caring for a child for eighteen years?’

  ‘Not for even one evening,’ says Barbara.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Tom, trying to strain the lumpy gravy through his fork. ‘It’s genetic. They may not seem like it at the time, but the second a woman gets up the duff—’

  ‘That’s the accepted medical term, is it?’

  ‘Yup. Anyway–the moment most women catch even the slightest glimpse of a child, the old hormones kick in and they magically seem to know all this stuff about rearing and breastfeeding and the like. It’s as though it’s already programmed into them.’

  ‘So you’re saying that if Cecilia had become pregnant, then all the partying would have suddenly stopped?’

  Tom puts his fork down. ‘Well, the coke habit might have been a bit of a tricky one to kick. But essentially, yes.’

  ‘So why didn’t you ever let the two of us babysit for Jack and Ellie, then?’

  Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘I refer you to Tom’s previous observation.’

  ‘Ah. But in any case, I’m going to have to play it safe. I can’t take the gamble that suddenly they’re going to turn into supermum. They’ve got to know what they’re doing from day one.’

  ‘Tell me something. Honestly,’ says Tom. ‘You haven’t just gone and knocked someone up, and this is your way of covering it up?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I say. ‘And thanks for your faith in my motives.’

  He grins sheepishly. ‘And you’re sure it’s really what you want?’

  ‘Well, let me ask you a question. What’s the most rewarding thing you’ve ever done?’

  Tom considers this for a moment. ‘You mean financially? Well, certainly not having the twins. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘No,’ I say, as Barbara kicks him under the table. ‘Emotionally. Life affirming.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You mean the sort of rubbish you tell your clients about.’

  ‘Er, yes. That sort of rubbish.’

  ‘Easy,’ says Barbara. ‘Having Jack and Ellie. Obviously.’

  I turn back to Tom. ‘You?’

  Tom puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze. ‘Same answer,’ he replies, possibly because he knows which side his bread is buttered, but more likely to avoid another bout of domestic violence.

  ‘So can you blame me for wanting a part of that? Ask me the same question and I’d struggle to give you an answer.’

  ‘Or at least one that didn’t involve some combination of women, drugs and sex,’ suggests Tom.

  ‘Which, ironically, is what you’re going to need if you’re going to get anyone to agree to join you in this hare-brained scheme,’ adds Barbara. ‘Where on earth are you planning to find this poor girl?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a date tomorrow night, actually.’

&
nbsp; Tom raises one eyebrow. ‘Oh yes? And where did you meet this one? As the two of you were gazing hopefully through Mothercare’s window?’

  ‘Er…In Tesco’s, actually.’

  ‘Tesco’s?’ says Barbara. ‘Every Little Helps?’

  ‘And with a thing as little as yours,’ snorts Tom, ‘you’re going to need all the help you can get.’

  And this is pretty much how the rest of lunch goes, with Tom and especially Barbara trying to convince me of the stupidity of my plan. Eventually, I look at my watch, more for effect than because I’ve actually got to be anywhere, before getting up from my chair.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, carrying my plate through to the kitchen and sticking it into the dishwasher. ‘For lunch, I mean. Not the lecture.’

  Barbara follows me into the kitchen. ‘Someone’s got to keep you on the straight and narrow. I don’t know why you get offended by it.’

  I sigh exasperatedly. ‘No offence, Barbara, but it’s because this is what you always do–look down your nose at me from your perfect lifestyle in your perfect home.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She pulls open the door of the huge free-standing fridge in the corner, which is packed full of brightly coloured pots of food for the kids, and bottles of wine for the adults.

  ‘You and Tom. Sometimes you can be such…’ I nod towards the fridge, ‘Smeg marrieds. Just because I’ve been living my life differently to you up until now, the moment that I want to change it you start lecturing me because I don’t want to do things your way. It’s like…like you’re in life’s sixth form, and you’re talking to me like I’m still doing my GCSEs.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Will,’ says Barbara, as she escorts me to the door, closely followed by Tom and the twins, who’ve been reluctantly prised away from the television. ‘I don’t mean to have a go at you. It’s just that where you are now–it’s quite a long way from here to paternity.’

  ‘Barbara’s right,’ says Tom, nodding towards my gorgeous but highly impractical TVR parked next to his Volvo. ‘And it’s certainly a little different to the way we saw your life ending up.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Well, the way you’ve been going’–Tom scoops Jack and Ellie up off the floor in turn, holding each one out to me so they can plant sloppy goodbye kisses on my cheek–‘a lonely, drooling wreck in a retirement home somewhere.’