by Matt Dunn
I tell her about my job, and she seems interested, and when I ask her what she does, she tells me she works as a copywriter in advertising.
‘“I’m Lovin’ It,”’ she says. ‘“Just Do It!”’
I sit back in my chair and raise my eyebrows appreciatively. ‘You wrote those?’
Debbie shakes her head. ‘No, I just like them.’
She still smokes, which is the only black mark I can give her, and I find it funny that something we all used to think was so sophisticated and exotic back then should be the complete opposite now. But despite the Marlboro fumes that I have to fight not to constantly wave away from my face, we have a nice evening. So much so that the time flies by, as we spend most of the time talking about who we remember from school, what they’re up to now, and who we used to fancy, which of course included each other. And when Debbie admits that she still fancies me now, I start to think that my Friends Reunited subscription was the best seven pounds fifty I’ve ever spent.
The evening goes so well, in fact, that when Debbie invites me back for coffee, I don’t even have to think about it. We even kiss a little at her front gate, and although I can taste the cigarettes on her breath, her tongue is still as agile as it ever was. Eventually, she breaks away, and fumbles in her handbag for her house keys, and I follow her up the path, kissing the back of her neck as she attempts to put the key in the lock.
‘I can’t get it in,’ she giggles.
I nibble her ear suggestively. ‘Let’s hope that won’t be a problem later.’
As we make our way into the hallway, I’m mindful that we haven’t actually discussed the real reason why I’m here, and my conscience suddenly gets the better of me.
‘Debbie, your “three is better than two” comment…’
‘Shhh!’ She places a finger on my lips, and then replaces it with her mouth, and after a moment’s hesitation, I pick her up and carry her into the lounge, trying to ignore the sudden twinge in my back. Still kissing, we collapse onto the sofa, but when I try and raise the subject once more, she shushes me again.
‘Why do we have to be quiet?’ I whisper, watching Debbie pull her jumper off over her head.
‘So we don’t wake him,’ she says, reaching round to unfasten her bra. ‘Let’s have a bit of time on our own first.’
‘Wake him? Wake who? Your lodger?’
Debbie shakes her head, before jumping up off my lap and unzipping her jeans. ‘No, silly. My husband.’
It’s as if a bucket of cold water has been poured over my groin. ‘Your…husband?’
Debbie nods. ‘He’s asleep upstairs, so let’s try and keep the noise down. We don’t want to get him down here just yet.’
Just yet? I’m still in a state of confusion, but one thing is clear to me–I don’t want to get him down here at all. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a husband.’
She nods towards a framed photograph on the bookshelf, where a tattooed bruiser has his arm round Debbie on a beach somewhere. He’s grinning at the camera, and judging by the way that he towers over Debbie, I’m in serious trouble.
Bollocks. He’s going to come downstairs any second and find me about to shag his wife, and when he does, I’m going to get seriously beaten up. I haven’t been in a fight since my school days, and I lost that one. And while, admittedly, nowadays I work out on a regular basis, it’s my running ability that might come in handier, because from the looks of him, Debbie’s husband can more than take care of himself.
‘He’s a…big bloke, isn’t he?’
Debbie smiles mischievously. ‘I’ve never had cause to complain. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll measure up.’
The bucket of cold water on my groin has now turned into ice, and as Debbie sits down next to me and wriggles out of her Levis, I stand up awkwardly.
‘But…’
Debbie pats the sofa next to her. ‘It’s okay. We’ve got an arrangement.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’
‘You know–if either of us wants to bring someone home, we can. Like I said on my profile?’ She shrugs, her not-inconsiderable breasts jiggling up and down as she does so. ‘I don’t think human beings are meant to be monogamous. Do you?’
I do, actually. In fact, I think fidelity is one of the most important things in the world. There’s no justification for any kind of arrangement I can imagine, and certainly not the kind of arrangement that Debbie has in mind. And as I look down on my nearly naked ex-classmate, it all suddenly becomes horribly clear to me. It’s not broody that she’s feeling, but horny. Three might be better than two for Debbie and her husband, but it’s not exactly the kind of ‘plus one’ I was hoping for.
It’s time for me to extricate myself–only trouble is, I’m not sure how. What is the etiquette here, exactly? Does one turn down the prospect of sex with another man’s wife with a simple ‘no thank you’, or will that appear a little rude? While Debbie may be particularly attractive, and I haven’t had sex for a while, I can’t let myself get distracted from the matter in hand. Plus, even if I did decide to go through with it–and I can’t believe that I’m describing the act of sex with someone as gorgeous, horny, and quite obviously available as Debbie as ‘going through with it’–what if Debbie’s husband comes downstairs and decides he wants to watch or, even worse, join in? There’s only one man that I want to see me having sex, and that’s, well, me.
I consider my options, which include either bolting for the door, or, well, bolting for the door, really. ‘Debbie, I’m flattered. Really I am, but…’
I hear a noise behind me and suddenly stop talking, and by the way a huge shadow has just fallen over the sofa, I don’t need to turn around to know that it’s Debbie’s husband, standing in the doorway. As he walks into the room, he extends a hand towards me which I shake, rather formally, and rather carefully, given the fact that he’s completely naked, and his hand isn’t all that’s extended in my direction.
‘Hi,’ says Debbie’s husband, returning my handshake firmly before walking past me and sitting down next to his wife, who proceeds to kneel on the floor in front of him. ‘Come and have a go,’ he says, beckoning me over. ‘If you think you’re hard enough.’
‘I’ve told him all about you, Will,’ says Debbie, looking over her shoulder at me, before sticking her head in his lap. ‘He’s excited to meet you.’
And while that is plainly obvious, what’s also clear is that now would be a good time to go. I surreptitiously pat the front of my jeans, though the only swelling I’m interested in locating is my car keys in my front pocket, and as Debbie’s husband seems a little distracted, probably due to what Debbie’s doing with her mouth, I seize my chance.
‘May I, er, use your bathroom first, please?’ I ask, although I’m probably overdoing it on the politeness front, given what else they’re obviously happy for me to use.
‘Help yourself,’ he grunts. ‘Left down the hall, door at the end.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and walk briskly out of the lounge. But when I get into the hallway, I turn right instead, run out through the front door, and don’t look back.
Chapter 12
It takes a good ten minutes for Tom and Barbara to stop laughing when I tell them the story the following day, possibly because I decide to confess all about my NewFlames experiences as well.
‘I meant to tell you to watch out for those scams,’ says Tom.
‘What scams?’
‘It was on Watchdog the other night. Big burly blokes from Africa join these dating websites pretending to be beautiful model types, then tell you they’re in some kind of trouble, and need some money to get out of it.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ I say sarcastically, trying to ignore Tom’s continuing sniggering. ‘So, anyway, I’ve decided to give up on internet dating.’
‘How about speed dating?’ suggests Barbara, putting a mug of tea down on the table in front of me.
I shake my head. ‘I’d already thought of that. But I hardly th
ink that three minutes is going to be long enough to vet the potential mother of my child.’
‘Even though that’s twice the time it’ll take you to have sex with her,’ jokes Tom.
‘I could always try and set you up on another blind date, assuming you don’t two-time this one the second you meet her,’ offers Barbara, heading back into the kitchen to fetch the biscuit tin.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I think I need to do this under my own steam.’
‘So what’s next?’ asks Tom. ‘Any other plans as to how you’re going to get yourself a family?’
‘Well, actually, I’ve realized that the easiest way is to have you two bumped off. That way I get Jack and Ellie, being their godfather, and all that.’
‘Not before my sister,’ shouts Barbara from the kitchen.
‘You couldn’t have her bumped off instead, could you?’ whispers Tom. He and Barbara’s sister, Jackie, have never seen eye to eye.
‘Speaking of sisters, what about yours, Tom?’ says Barbara, heading back into the lounge and putting the tin down on the coffee table. ‘She’s always had a soft spot for Will.’
‘Between her ears, sadly,’ says Tom.
I stick my tongue out at him. ‘No offence, Tom, but…’
‘But what?’ says Tom, helping himself to a couple of chocolate fingers while trying to ignore Barbara’s disapproving gaze.
‘But…Well, she looks a bit like you. A bit too much. Not that you’re not a good-looking chap, of course. But every time I kissed her, it’d be like kissing a female version of you…’ I shudder.
‘Kissing a male one’s bad enough,’ adds Barbara.
Tom shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’
We sit in silence for a while, sipping our tea, until it’s Barbara, bless her, who comes up with the idea.
‘What about advertising?’
I frown across the top of my mug at her. ‘What about it?’
‘Have you thought of doing some? To find this woman, I mean.’
‘What–some big picture of me up on a billboard next to the M4? I don’t think so.’
Tom dunks a chocolate finger into his tea. ‘It’s not a bad idea, you know.’
‘No–it’s not a bad idea,’ I agree. ‘It’s a terrible one. Whoever heard of anyone advertising to find someone to start a family with?’
Barbara pulls a copy of Woman magazine out from the magazine rack. ‘Well here, for a start.’ She flicks through and points out a particular article to me.
‘“Who Wants to See A Millionaire”. What’s this all about?’
Barbara takes the magazine back from me. ‘It’s this guy who can’t find anyone to go out with, despite being filthy rich.’
Tom nudges me. ‘He must be incredibly ugly, then.’
‘So he put an advert in his local paper,’ continues Barbara. ‘And the following week, he got around four hundred responses.’
I look at the article again. There’s a photo underneath the title. And he is, in fact, incredibly ugly. ‘And I suppose he lived happily ever after? Found the woman of his dreams?’
‘Or just died happy,’ suggests Tom. ‘And they couldn’t get the coffin lid down.’
‘I’m serious, Will. If you’re finding this person so hard to track down, why don’t you advertise?’
‘Where, exactly?’ I snort. ‘Take out a full-page ad in the papers?’
‘No,’ says Barbara, slapping Tom’s hand away from the biscuit tin. ‘Why not start small. Put an ad in the personals section.’
‘Personals? What makes you think this is something for the personals? Surely it’s more along the lines of “help wanted”?’
Barbara sighs. ‘Will, you’re looking for someone to have a baby with.’
‘Exactly,’ adds Tom. ‘Can I shag you and get you up the duff? It doesn’t get much more personal than that.’
‘I suppose so…’ I say, absent-mindedly scraping at what turns out to be a crack on the lip of my mug.
Tom nips into the kitchen, and returns with a pad and paper. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘What do we think?’
I pick up the newspaper and scan through the ads. ‘How much does it cost?’ I ask tentatively.
Barbara takes the paper from me and looks at the bottom of the page. ‘Five pounds per column inch.’
‘That’ll be about a tenner, then, for Will,’ says Tom. ‘Oh sorry. You mean…’
I make a rude gesture at him with a chocolate finger. ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘They’ve all given themselves titles at the front,’ says Barbara, ignoring our rather puerile banter. ‘Look–Lonely Larry, Horny Harry…’
Tom smiles. ‘It has to alliterate, does it? Now, what word starts with a W, and describes Will?’
I look at him menacingly. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Okay,’ says Barbara. ‘How about Desperate Dad?’
I shake my head. ‘No. That makes me sound…’
‘Desperate?’ suggests Tom.
‘No–more like I’m already a father, and I’m desperate for something else.’
Barbara sucks thoughtfully on the end of her pen. ‘Okay–what about a different approach? Something like “Let Me Be The Father Of Your Children”?’
‘Nope,’ says Tom. ‘Sounds like he wants to be a stepdad.’
‘True,’ says Barbara. ‘What about just “Let Me Father Your Children”?’
‘What about “Have My Baby”?’
As Tom and Barbara toss suggestions back and forth, I sit and drink my tea in silence. Eventually, I have to interrupt.
‘What if I’m just…me?’
Barbara frowns at me. ‘How do you mean?’
‘What if I just list everything that I’ve got ready?’
She puts her pen down. ‘Don’t you think that they might find that a little…scary?’
‘Why on earth would they think that?’
Tom smiles. ‘Barbara’s right. Picture it this way. You go out with a girl a couple of times, then drive her back to your place in your child-friendly four-by-four, then once inside, she excuses herself to go to the toilet, only to stumble into the spare room by mistake, which she suddenly discovers is all newly decorated and full of baby furniture. Only trouble is–there’s no baby. And then there’s you, all chomping at the bit to get her impregnated.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that a woman might find that a little intimidating,’ says Barbara. ‘Like she’s just up for a production-line role.’
‘Just a womb on legs,’ adds Tom. ‘The walking womb-ed. A womb with a view…’
Once she’s sure her husband’s finished, Barbara smiles at me. ‘Because she’ll have no doubt that you’re only after one thing. And that’s to get her pregnant as quickly as possible.’
‘But, surely, if she wants that too then there’s no problem?’
‘Ah,’ says Barbara. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Because even though she might want it as much as you, or even more, this is a woman you’re dealing with. She still needs a little romance. A little wooing. She’ll want to feel that this baby is conceived out of love. Not just out of your desire to get yourself in and it out as quickly as possible.’
‘So you don’t think I should tell her what I’m up to?’
Barbara shakes her head. ‘No–that’s not what I’m saying at all. I just mean that you need to be a little more sensitive. Not quite so coldly mechanical about the whole process. Like it’s some service she’s providing for you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This baby’s going to be as much hers as yours, don’t forget. Maybe even more so. She’ll always be its mother. And she’ll be doing most of the primary caring. So don’t think that thirty seconds of huffing and puffing followed by eighteen years of paying the bills suddenly makes you in charge, just because it’s you who’s funding the whole venture.’
‘Barbara, you make it sound very impersonal.’
‘And so do you, Will. That’s the problem. And maybe that’
s why you haven’t had much luck so far.’
And as I drive home later, I can’t help thinking that maybe she’s right.
Chapter 13
I’m out on my usual early evening run when I have the idea, and although it hits me the moment I leave my flat and run past the auction house on the corner, it takes me a good forty minutes–until I’m running back up my street again, in fact–before I’ve managed to convince myself that it’s actually a good plan. I rush through the shower, grab a bottle of beer from the fridge to steady my nerves and, switching on my laptop, find my favourites list and click on eBay. Because, let’s face it, who needs to advertise when there’s a place where millions of people are browsing every day?
Almost before the page has loaded in front of me, I take a deep breath, and click on ‘sell’. But as soon as I’ve decided that an online auction might be a better option than a fixed-price sale, I hit my first hurdle: ‘Select A Category’. How on earth do I classify myself? I scroll through the categories on offer, stopping briefly at the ‘baby’ section, but it doesn’t have a sub-heading of ‘father’, so instead I settle on ‘everything else’. As my sub-heading I put ‘services’, but refrain from putting ‘baby’–after all, I want people to find me, and don’t want to be buried in between all the other weirdos selling, shall we say, less reputable items.
Choosing my item title is easy–‘Me’–and after an hour or so of careful editing, I’m pretty pleased with my description. For ‘Delivery Options’, I’ve replaced ‘Royal Mail First Class’ with ‘natural or caesarean’, not knowing if there’s a third. Once I’ve uploaded a photo–the same one I’ve been using, albeit without much success, on NewFlames–and set my starting price, which I’ve kept at a pound so as not to exclude anyone, I’m ready to hit ‘list’.
It’s not that I’m actually planning to take the auction through to conclusion. I’m just looking at it as another area where I can reach the widest possible audience in the quickest possible time. And given the response I’ve had even when I’ve sold complete junk on eBay–like the collection of Beanie Babies that a former girlfriend insisted on buying me–I’m pretty confident that the prospect of a real baby should get me more than a few enquiries.
