From Here To Paternity

by Matt Dunn

  I cheer up a little when I kiss the twins goodnight, and as Barbara puts them to bed, I give Tom a hand setting the table, but for some reason, by the time we’ve finished, there’s a fourth place laid out. And when Barbara comes back downstairs, even though I have a strange feeling that I’m going to regret asking, I can’t help myself.

  ‘Is, er, someone else joining us?’

  Tom and Barbara look at each other conspiratorially. ‘Oh. Did I not mention?’ says Barbara. ‘There’s a friend of mine coming.’

  ‘And this would be a female friend, I suppose?’

  ‘Might be,’ says Tom.

  ‘Oh great,’ I say, with as little enthusiasm as I can muster. ‘Another blind date.’ My mind suddenly flashes back to my coffee-shop tug-of-war, and it occurs to me to go and get my coat, but Barbara’s cooking lasagne this evening, which happens to be my ultimate favourite. Now I come to think of it, that’s probably why it’s on the menu–to make sure that I stay.

  Barbara looks at me guiltily. ‘Now don’t be like that, Will. Her name’s Sarah, she’s divorced, and—’

  ‘And what’s wrong with her? Apart from the fact that, being divorced, she’s probably going to be extremely bitter, and hate all men on sight?’

  Tom hands me a glass of wine. ‘Why do you have to assume there’s something wrong with her?’

  ‘Because you’ve invited her here. This evening. On an obvious set-up. What is it? She’s only got one leg–and even that has a fat ankle? And please don’t tell me she’s got a nice personality.’

  Barbara holds up a hand to silence me, walks across to the bookshelf, takes down a photo album, and hands me a photo from the loose ones inside the front cover. In it, there’s a college-days Barbara with her arm round a girl who I have to say is a level or two above the normal type Tom and Barbara have tried to set me up with in the past. And from what I can tell, all her limbs are present and correct.

  ‘How old is this photo?’

  Barbara shrugs. ‘About ten years? But she hasn’t changed much.’

  ‘Oh yes? When did you last see her?’

  ‘Today, actually.’

  ‘And why have you never mentioned her before?’ I say, still a little suspicious.

  ‘Because today was the first time I’ve seen her for ages. I bumped into her in town. And it turns out she’s just got divorced, so…’

  I hold my hand up. ‘Hold on. “Just” as in how recently, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s just about to become final. Anyway…’

  ‘Oh great. The ink isn’t even dry on her divorce papers, which means she’s so on the rebound that she’ll probably come bouncing in through the front door.’

  Tom sighs. ‘Will, we’re hardly, I mean, Barbara’s hardly going to set you up—’

  ‘Introduce,’ corrects Barbara.

  ‘Sorry, introduce you to someone if they’re damaged goods. Sarah’s pretty sorted, apparently.’

  ‘And what have you told her about me, exactly?’

  ‘Not much,’ says Barbara. ‘Just that you’re a friend of Tom’s, and that you’re single, and that you happen to be coming round here for dinner this evening.’

  I check my watch and wonder whether it’s too late to just head home with a takeaway, particularly since I had such a good time with Emma the other evening. But just as I’m about to make my decision, which is made harder by the cooking smell that’s wafting in from the kitchen, the doorbell rings.

  And as it transpires, Sarah’s not only pretty sorted, but she’s also extremely pretty. About five foot four, with short blonde hair, a nice figure, and an even nicer smile, she even blushes when she’s introduced to me.

  Tom hands her a glass of wine, and I’m a little shocked to see the speed at which she nervously gulps it down, and when we sit down at the table some half an hour later, she’s already on her third. As we tuck into our lasagne, the conversation flows, but not as well as the Chardonnay down Sarah’s throat, and by the time we get onto dessert, it’s not only the pears that are stewed.

  ‘So, Will,’ she says, gesturing towards me with her spoon. ‘Barbara tells me you’re desperate to be a father?’

  I shoot an accusing glance across the table, where Barbara seems to have found something especially interesting in her wine glass.

  ‘It’s, er, something I’m considering,’ I say.

  ‘Did you and James want kids?’ asks Barbara, handing Sarah the jug of custard, which she puts unsteadily down on the table.

  At the mention of her ex-husband’s name, Sarah’s face darkens. ‘Well, James did,’ she snorts. ‘Literally. Which is why he’s shacked up with one at the moment, I imagine.’

  Tom and I exchange confused glances. ‘Oh really?’ he says, through a mouthful of pudding.

  ‘Yes,’ says Sarah, taking another huge gulp of wine, before sliding her empty glass across to Tom for him to fill up. ‘The work experience girl at his office. She can’t be more than seventeen. Pervert.’

  As Sarah gives us a step-by-step, or rather, shag-by-shag account of the breakdown of her marriage, I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but she seems to be giving me the eye across the table–at least, I’m fairly sure she is, given that her eyes are each looking in opposite directions. But by the time we’re on to coffee, I’m in no doubt at all, given that Sarah’s leg is rubbing against mine, which is quite a feat given that Tom’s sitting awkwardly in between us.

  Despite the caffeine, and as on most weekday nights, Tom and Barbara’s eyes are beginning to shut, and it’s not even eleven o’clock. Sensing an escape route, I look at my watch exaggeratedly, and yawn.

  ‘Well, thanks, Tom, thanks, Barbara, for a lovely evening,’ I say, standing up from the table. ‘And Sarah, it was, er, pleasant to meet you.’

  Tom starts awake. ‘Oh. Right. You off, then, Will?’

  I nod. ‘And not a moment too soon. You two look like you’re ready for bed.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones,’ slurs Sarah, in what I guess is meant to be a suggestive manner. As she struggles to her feet, knocking over her thankfully empty wine glass, she catches her handbag on the arm of her chair, spilling half of its contents onto the floor as she does so. ‘Could you possibly call me a cab?’ she says, gathering the assorted items together and stuffing them back in. ‘Unless…’

  The word hangs in the air, until I ask, fearing I already know what the answer is going to be.

  ‘Unless what?’

  Sarah flutters her large, brown, and somewhat out-of-focus eyes in my direction. ‘Unless Will can drop me off?’

  We all follow her gaze to where she’s staring at the car keys I’ve been jingling unconsciously in my haste to make my escape. Off of what? I’m tempted to ask.

  ‘Er…’ Now I’m stuck with a dilemma. I’ve quite plainly got the car, so the polite thing to do is offer to give Sarah a lift home. Only problem is, I’m worried she’ll throw up all over my pristine leather upholstery, plus, I’m not sure how I’m going to get her out of the car at the other end, let alone escape from her potentially drunkenly amorous clutches. My alternative is to tell her that I’ve drunk too much and will have to leave the car here and get a cab myself, but then, of course, she’ll offer to share hers, and that puts me in pretty much the same position. Plus, I’ll have to shell out for the cab fare, along with an extra tenner for the cabbie when Sarah throws up all over his seats instead of mine, and then get another cab to come and rescue my car in the morning before the wardens impound it. I’m standing there hopelessly when, suddenly, I hit on a solution. ‘I would offer you a lift home, Sarah, but I’ve drunk a little too much, and I probably shouldn’t be driving myself, let alone risk having anyone else in the car.’

  Brilliant, I think, congratulating myself on my inventiveness. I can see the admiration in Tom’s eyes, and he’s even imperceptibly nodding at the genius of my escape. Sarah, on the other hand, looks like she might burst into tears.

  ‘But…Oh.’


  And I don’t know why Barbara does this–perhaps because she’s feeling sorry for Sarah, or maybe because she’s desperate to see me give it more of a go with this friend of hers, but she walks over to me, grabs my arm firmly, and escorts me to the door. ‘You’ve not drunk that much, Will, have you? And I’m sure Sarah would really appreciate a ride.’

  As Tom tries his hardest not to burst out laughing, and Sarah follows us through the hallway, I glare at Barbara. Because now, of course, I do feel incredibly guilty. Do I really want to trust this poor, upset and, it has to be said, incredibly pissed and potentially randy woman to some lecherous minicab driver, when I know I’m absolutely fine to drive her home?

  Five minutes later, we’re heading down the A316 towards Whitton, which we’ve managed to work out between the three of us, the phone book, and Tom’s A to Z is where she lives, Sarah herself being a little bit hazy on this particular detail. I’d been worried about making small talk on the way home, but, fortunately, and in between burps, Sarah does more than enough talking for the both of us, and while I’d normally be trying to put my foot down, I steer the TVR carefully round the corners, more than a little worried about Sarah regurgitating Barbara’s lasagne all over my carpets.

  When I eventually pull up outside her house, I prepare myself for her drunken attempt at a goodnight kiss, wondering what’s the best way to play it. Am I better off getting out first, thus ensuring Sarah gets out too, and therefore giving me the option of getting straight back in the car, or do I stay in my seat, assuming that she’ll just attempt to lean over, then let her get it over with, at which I’ll grit my teeth and take it like a man, and hope her tongue–or the lasagne–doesn’t come my way too? I decide on the latter of the two options, but Sarah makes no attempt to do either, despite my parking in the middle of the road.

  I think about reaching across to open her door from the inside, but don’t want it to be misinterpreted, as indeed any move in her direction might. After a couple of awkward minutes, having made sure she is, in fact, still awake, there’s nothing for it, and I revert to plan A.

  ‘Well, lovely to meet you, again,’ I say, climbing out of the car and walking round to the passenger side to open her door. I hold out my hand to help her out of the low-slung seat, but it takes her three or four unsuccessful attempts to get up before she realizes she’s still got her seat belt fastened, which prompts another two minutes of uncontrollable giggles.

  ‘Oh, look at me,’ she says, unclipping the belt at the fifth go, while dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. ‘Is my mascara running?’

  For its life, I’m thinking, wishing I could do the same. I reach down and heave her out of the seat and into a more or less upright position on the pavement, but just as I do, the car engine, which I’ve left running in an attempt to reinforce the fact that I’m not intending to hang around, stalls.

  ‘Maybe it’s trying to tell you something,’ says Sarah, licking her lips in what I imagine she hopes is a suggestive manner, but looks more like she’s just come back from a rather painful visit to the dentist.

  It’s pretty clear to me that sex is on the cards. In fact, it’d be pretty clear to even someone who’d never met a woman before that sex is on the cards. Sarah’s certainly not unattractive, and even by my standards it’s been a while. But she is very, very drunk, and there’s no way I’d ever want to take advantage of that.

  Sarah gropes in her handbag, and after what seems like an eternity, produces a set of keys. Cursing Tom and Barbara, I realize that unless I physically help her into her house, there’s a danger that she won’t actually be able to negotiate the five or so yards to her front door and, even if she did, the chances of her managing to get the key in the lock are somewhat remote.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your door,’ I say, grabbing her elbow, and then half escort, half carry her up the garden path. But after fumbling with the keys, Sarah can’t seem to get the door open.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say.

  She stares at the key in her hand as if she’s never seen one before. ‘S’not working.’

  ‘Here,’ I say, taking it from her. ‘Let me try.’

  Normally, I’d find this amusing. But tonight, all I want to do is get the door open, shove Sarah inside, and close it after her. Although, try as I might, I can’t seem to get the key to fit.

  ‘You’re sure this is the right one?’ I ask, as Sarah slumps heavily against the wall. Then, as if by magic, a light comes on, and the door swings open by itself. Or rather, thanks to the dressing-gown-clad woman who’s just unlocked it from inside.

  Sarah stares at the woman through glazed eyes, before a look of recognition crosses her face. ‘Rebecca,’ she says, enunciating the word extremely carefully. ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  Rebecca folds her arms. ‘This is my house, Sarah. You live next door. Remember?’

  As Rebecca gives me a look as if to imply that this isn’t the first time, I mouth ‘Sorry’, pick Sarah up, put her over my shoulder and, as she squeals with delight, carry her back down Rebecca’s path and up what I’m hoping is hers. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, the key fits first time in her own front door, and so I walk her through to her lounge and deposit her on the sofa. I leave her keys on the coffee table, find a duvet from the bed upstairs and drape it over her now-sleeping form, then retrieve a bucket from the kitchen, which I leave next to the sofa, just in case.

  And later, as I’m driving back home, I find myself thinking about Emma, and wondering whether I’d have been quite as much of a gentleman with her.

  Chapter 20

  I’m sitting by the window in the seventh-floor café in the Tate Modern, marvelling at the view of St Paul’s Cathedral across the Thames. But I’m not just here to enjoy the scenery–I’m waiting for Emma to arrive. She’s got the day off college, and isn’t working until tomorrow, and to my surprise, since I only mentioned it in passing yesterday, she’s agreed to meet me for lunch.

  There’re a few families in here too–foreign tourists, I’m guessing, judging by the fact the kids aren’t at school, plus the way the adults aren’t fussing over them like most of Tom and Barbara’s friends seem to whenever they take their children out in public–and it’s lovely to see the kids playing happily around the tables, or fascinated by the bird’s-eye view of the river.

  It’s five minutes to midday, and I’m nursing a cappuccino while taking bets with myself as to just how late she’s going to be, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I’m assuming it’s going to be someone else asking whether the empty stool I’ve had to guard for the last twenty minutes is free, but instead, and to my astonishment, it’s Emma.

  I don’t quite know how to greet her. I mean, we didn’t kiss goodnight the other evening, therefore it hardly seems appropriate to kiss her hello, so I just sort of half stand up, prompting a couple of what appear to be scruffy art students leaning on the counter next to me to point at my stool and ask whether I’m leaving. When I shake my head, they look most put out.

  ‘You look surprised to see me,’ says Emma, taking off her coat and jumping up onto the seat next to mine.

  ‘No, not at all. I’m…Well, yes. Actually. Because you’re early, I mean. Not because I thought you wouldn’t come.’

  Emma shrugs. ‘I hate people who are late. I think it shows a lack of respect. Like they’re saying that their time is more valuable than yours. Don’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it that much. But now you put it that way…Can I get you a drink?’

  She looks at my coffee, and then at her watch. ‘Glass of white wine, please. Seeing as it’s not a school day.’

  When I get back from the bar, Emma is scowling at the students, who have grabbed a nearby table.

  ‘What’s wrong? Did they say something to you?’

  Emma shakes her head. ‘No. But they’re rolling a bunch of cigarettes. And from what I can tell, it’s not just tobacco they’re filling them with.’

  I look acr
oss to where they’re sitting, one of them laying out a series of Rizlas, and the other blatantly crumbling what even to my untrained eye appears to be cannabis resin into the pile of tobacco. ‘Well, I’m sure they’re not going to smoke them in here.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Will. There’re lots of children about. And if they drop some of that…stuff on the floor, who knows what could happen?’

  I look at the two students. They’re both taller than me. And certainly taller than Emma, even when they’re sitting down. ‘Do you want me to go over and say something?’

  ‘No need,’ says Emma, jumping down from her stool before I can stop her, and walking across to where they’re hunched over the table. She clears her throat, and they both look up from their assembly line.

  ‘What?’ says the scruffier of the two, although it’s a close-run thing.

  Emma folds her arms. ‘Should you really be doing that in here?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ says his mate.

  ‘Well, it’s illegal, for one thing.’

  ‘So? They should legalize this stuff, anyway. People are going to do it whatever.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous argument. That’s like saying they should reduce the age of consent because paedophiles are going to sleep with children. And it doesn’t change the fact that, as of today, it’s against the law.’

  It’s a good line, and I can tell that the two of them are struggling to come up with a rebuttal. ‘So?’ says the scruffier one eventually, leaning back in his chair defiantly. ‘What are you going to do? Arrest us?’

  As I brace myself to dive in at the first sign of trouble, Emma nods over in my direction. ‘Well, my friend over there is an off-duty policeman. Perhaps you’d like to discuss the legal intricacies with him down at the station?’

  They both swivel their unkempt heads towards me, and I nod in agreement. Ten seconds later, they’re heading for the lifts, obviously assuming that by ‘station’, Emma didn’t mean Waterloo.

  ‘Impressive,’ I say, wondering whether I should be pleased or not that they thought I looked like a constable. ‘You’ll do well as a teacher.’