by Matt Dunn
‘Well…’
‘Splendid,’ says Ellen. ‘I’ll go and tell them you’re thrilled with the idea.’
Thrilled? Scared stiff, more like.
After my make-up’s been done, which seems to consist of just dabbing on some brown powder to stop my forehead reflecting the studio lights, I’m led through to the green room, which I realize is so called because I’m feeling sick with nerves. There’s coffee and doughnuts on a table in the middle, but I don’t dare have anything in case it gets stuck in my teeth or even worse, makes an unscheduled reappearance when the cameras start rolling.
After a couple of minutes, a young girl with a clipboard comes and fetches me, and a few moments later–during a break for the news, apparently–I’m sitting on the famous peach couch being introduced to Martin and Trudy. Trudy smiles warmly at me, and although she’s old enough to be my mum, she’s still attractive enough for me to blush when she tells me she likes my jacket and fingers one of the lapels appreciatively. Martin, on the other hand, gives me the weakest, clammiest handshake I’ve ever felt. He’s got the orangest face I’ve seen, and after checking himself on one of the monitors, he summons one of the assistants over to adjust his hair, tutting loudly when she accidentally tugs his microphone wire. As Trudy rolls her eyes at me, the assistant looks like she wants to strangle him with it.
As I stare at the bank of cameras in front of me, I’m starting to sweat, though more from the combination of the hot studio lights and the jacket I’m wearing. I wonder if it’s too late to take it off, but the microphone that’s just been clipped to the lapel might make that a bit difficult.
‘Tell me something, Trudy,’ I say. ‘What would you think is the demographic of your viewers?’
Trudy smiles. ‘Oh, it varies, really. Students, stay-at-home mums, pensioners…’
‘And which of those do you think will be appropriate for what I’m looking for, exactly?’
Trudy looks like she’s about to answer when a hush falls around the studio, and from behind one of the cameras, Ellen counts down, ‘Five, four, three…’ and then makes the ‘two’ and ‘one’ signs with her fingers. I’m feeling like making some finger gestures towards her of my own, but suddenly there’s a camera in my face with a blinking red light on the top, and my throat goes very, very dry.
‘Welcome back,’ says Trudy. ‘Well, for all you ladies watching this morning, we’re joined on the sofa by Will Jackson, who wants to make an honest woman of you…or perhaps a dishonest one? Let’s find out. Welcome, Will.’
The red light seems to glow even brighter on the camera in front of me. ‘Hi,’ I say, in my best manly voice, but what actually comes out is little more than a squeak.
‘So, Will,’ says Martin. ‘Tell us about your little plan.’
Condescending git. ‘Well, it isn’t a plan, really, Martin. It’s just that, well, I love kids, and I didn’t seem to be having much luck in my relationships, so I thought I’d, you know, try and find someone. A woman, that is. To start a family with…’
As Martin and Trudy nod encouragement at me, I’m conscious that I’m gabbling on, but for some reason, I can’t stop myself. I start talking about my disastrous internet dating, and the nightmare blind dates, and I’m even just about to tell them about the time that Debbie invited me back for a threesome when, thankfully, Martin interrupts me.
‘Well, that’s all really interesting, but we’ve got a surprise for you, Will. Someone who knows you very well, in fact. On the line, we’ve got Claire. Are you there, Claire?’
Claire? I rack my brains quickly for any Claires that I know, but I can only come up with the one. Claire who I dated for around six months two years ago, and who I split up with because she…Well, because she was a bit thick, really. Very attractive, but not the brightest of girls. And once you’ve got past the physical side–which, admittedly, took the best part of five of those six months–you’ve got to have something to talk about.
It takes me a second or two to remember how I finally dumped her, and when I do, underneath my make-up, my face goes as red as the light blinking away in front of me. We’d been out for dinner, and she’d said she wanted kids, and I’d said I didn’t. Which was a lie. Because even back then I did want kids. Just not with Claire. Oh no. Please don’t let it be her.
‘Hello, Will.’
As a disembodied female voice booms into the studio, taking me a little by surprise, it doesn’t take me long to recognize that it is Claire. The tightness in my throat increases, and I reach forward for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of me, wishing it was something stronger.
And as Claire lays into me, encouraged by Martin and Trudy, I feel I should start defending myself. But what do I say? The truth about how we split up? Or will that make me come across as callous? After all, I don’t want to insult her live on air, do I?
But five minutes later, I do want to insult her live on air, as that’s all she’s done to me so far. I look frantically across at Ellen, willing her to go to another caller, but she just gives me a thumbs-up and mouths what I think is supposed to be ‘good television’. Eventually, thankfully, when Claire runs out of steam, Martin turns back to me.
‘So, Will. Perhaps not the best advert there?’
‘Yes, but then she’s one of my exes. What did you expect? A glowing reference?’
Trudy smiles sympathetically at me, then turns to the camera.
‘Remember, we’re here with Will Jackson,’ she says. ‘Will wants to be a dad. So much so that he was prepared to auction himself on eBay. All he needs is that special lady. Could it be you? Email in your details, telling us in twenty words or less why you’d like to have Will’s baby, and…anything else, Will?’
I feel like a rabbit caught in the headlights, conscious of the camera in my face, and realize that even though Emma might be watching, I’ve got no choice but to go along with this. And although I want to try and represent that I’m not a typical, fickle male of the species, I want to blurt out ‘a photo’. Really want to. So I do.
‘A photo. Please. Not that that’s the most important thing. But it’s essential that we’re…compatible?’
‘A photo, then,’ laughs Martin. ‘And clothed, please, ladies,’ he adds, leering into the camera.
After Trudy announces that we’ll be back in two minutes, we cut to the weather. I’m considering getting up and walking out, but my microphone seems to be caught on the sofa, and I just collapse back onto the cushions instead.
‘That was great,’ says Ellen, rushing forward as the red light blinks off on the camera in front of me.
‘Great?’ I say, a little shell-shocked. ‘What’s next? Asking another of my exes to rate my sexual technique?’
As Ellen tries to work out whether I’m being ironic or if I’ve in fact made a brilliant suggestion, the studio hushes once more, and I’m shepherded off the set and back to the green room. After a feature on cooking with tofu presented by some bloke who used to be on Big Brother, which I watch on the large flat-screen television in the corner, and a further news break, I have my make-up retouched, and I’m installed back on the sofa just in time for the last fifteen-minute segment.
‘And welcome back,’ says Trudy. ‘Now, thousands of you have been calling and emailing in your pictures for Will Jackson, our desperate dad. What do you think of that, Will?’
‘Thousands? Really?’ Surely she’s exaggerating for effect.
‘Exactly,’ says Martin. ‘And of the pictures we can show, you naughty ladies you, we’ve selected five for Will to choose from. Remember, the lucky winner will go out with Will on an all-expenses date to a top London restaurant. Our cameras will be there to record how it goes and, who knows, in nine months, we could be hearing the patter of tiny feet–live on air. So come on, Will, pick one.’ He beams across the sofa at me, as if he’s actually done me the biggest favour in the world.
‘Yes, Will,’ chimes in Trudy. ‘Don’t be shy. Pick one.’
On t
he huge screen at the back of the set, five photographs of women are arranged side by side. I look at the photos, conscious of the dead air as I don’t speak. They’re all reasonably attractive, and although a couple of them have a slight scariness about them, from what I can see none of them appear to have fat ankles. But being here, and being made to select one of them in some daytime-television nightmare is hardly the situation I wanted to find myself in when I started this quest. Perhaps I don’t have to agree to go out with any of them? Maybe I can hang it out until the credits roll without choosing one? Or maybe I’ll go out with all five? Like some sort of X Factor elimination contest?
‘Well, it’s difficult, based on just their photos, you know…’
‘Come on, Will,’ says Martin, his voice full of encouragement, although his expression is a little creepy. ‘Pick one.’
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Yes–pick one,’ insists Trudy.
‘Pick one,’ mouths Ellen, from next to the camera.
And as I sit helplessly on the sofa, the ridiculousness of my situation finally gets to me. How deranged or desperate do you have to be to send your details in to national television offering your services as a mother? Possibly as deranged as you’d have to be to come on the programme looking for one in the first place, I’m beginning to think.
‘No!’ I say, standing up abruptly.
‘No?’ says Martin incredulously. ‘What do you mean, no?’
‘No, as in “no I’m not going to pick one,”’ I say. ‘This is ridiculous. It’s not a game. All I want to do is meet someone special, who needs me. Not’–I nod towards the pictures on the screen–‘someone with special needs.’
And with that, I rip off my microphone and walk out of the studio, leaving a stunned Martin and Trudy on the sofa, and side-stepping Ellen’s attempt at a rugby tackle as I go.
The silver Mercedes seems to be missing when I walk out of Television Centre, and I’m forced to make my own way to Shepherd’s Bush tube station. As I’m waiting on the platform, my mobile rings. It’s Tom.
‘Well, that went well,’ he says.
‘You think?’
‘Absolutely. Great television. You should have seen the look on Martin’s face.’
‘Yes, but now I’m going to be known forever as the guy who stormed off Today’s the Day.’
‘Nah,’ says Tom. ‘It’ll all be forgotten by tomorrow. Unless it makes it to one of those “bloopers” programmes, of course.’
I’m hoping that’s a joke, albeit a feeble one, because at the moment I’m in dire need of cheering up. ‘Tom, tell me something.’
‘Sure. What’s on your mind?’
‘It’s just, well, this kids thing.’
I can almost hear Tom rolling his eyes. ‘Here we go again. What now?’
‘Well, I was just wondering. I’ve been questioning my motivation lately. Particularly after everything that’s happened. And I was just curious as to how much it was your decision, and how much Barbara’s.’
‘Like everything we do, it was pretty much Barbara’s,’ he admits. ‘I was pretty easy either way. I certainly didn’t have this insane drive that you seem to have, but then—’
‘But then your dad didn’t leave when you were young, did he?’
‘Point taken. Sorry, mate. But no, I’d kind of always thought one day I might have a family but, like most men, hadn’t given it much thought, to tell you the truth. And when I met Barbara, and we’d been together for a while, I kind of ran out of excuses. I’d always thought I’d be happy either way, and kind of left it up to Barbara to decide when the right time was.’
‘But isn’t that a little, you know’–I struggle to find the right word–‘unthinking? Starting a family–bringing a new life into this world just because your other half suddenly decides her hormones are firing on all cylinders?’
‘Well, it’s not quite as simple as that, is it? Besides, isn’t that what we’re all here for, in the grand scheme of things? To reproduce? Maintain the old human race, and so on? And that’s not such a bad reason.’
‘Huh?’
‘Will, most men will tell you the same thing. There’re only a few of us who do it for any other reason than to keep the woman in their lives happy. Sure, you occasionally hear about guys who are determined to keep going until they produce a boy, a son and heir, someone who they leave everything to. Although in our case, at the rate Barbara spends money on the twins, it looks like there won’t be much to leave.’
My train is pulling into the station, so I jump on and grab a seat as far away from anyone else as possible. ‘But don’t you feel kind of uninvolved from the whole process? I mean, you do your bit at the start, obviously, but from then on you’re really only playing a supporting role.’
‘In more ways than one,’ laughs Tom. ‘And you’d think so, wouldn’t you, particularly if you’re not that bothered about it in the first place. But then look at my career–I’m only ever going to get supporting roles there too, realistically. But if it comes down to a choice between that, and not being in it at all, then it’s still no contest. I tell you, Will, having kids is a gift. A miracle.’
For a moment, I swear I can hear Tom’s voice crack a little. ‘I’ve never heard you talk about it before in this way, mate.’
‘Yes, well,’ sniffs Tom. ‘I know this sounds like a cliché, but having kids is the most amazing thing in the world. Ever. Nothing can prepare you for the way you feel when you first lay eyes on that screaming little thing. You suddenly have this incredible about-face when you realize that whatever you’ve done before, no matter what you’ve experienced, this makes it look like nothing on earth. You’ve created a life. Another human being. And what’s more, you’ve done it with the woman you love, and this little baby…’
‘Or babies, in your case.’
‘Sorry–these little babies are part of you. Made from you. And they’re still a work in progress. Every day, you see a change. Something different. They learn a new skill, or a new word. And what’s incredible is that these little miracles of human engineering are here because of you. And it’s the most wonderful thing you can imagine.’
‘But surely that’s why what I’m doing is so good? Because if I really, really want them, then I’m going to appreciate it even more. It’s not going to take me by surprise. I’ve got all this time to prepare for it.’
‘Ah, but that can have a negative side too.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re building this up like it’s the most important thing ever. So when it actually happens, there’s a risk that you’re going to end up disappointed.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, look at your car. You’d wanted one of those TVRs for ages, right?’
‘So?’
‘So when you actually got it, was it all worthwhile?’
‘Well, yes. Apart from the fact that it keeps breaking down. And I can’t drive it anywhere fast because London’s so congested. And it can’t get over speed bumps.’
‘But that’s what having a baby’s like, Will. Lots of speed bumps. It’s hard work. There’s lots of stress. Lots of disappointment. You can’t just lock it in the garage and take a taxi when you feel like it. It’s constant twenty-four-seven attention, even when you’re asleep. What happens if you build this up into the life-changing event you want it to be, and find it’s not actually changed your life for the better?’
And as the train disappears into a tunnel, and I lose the reception on my phone, for the first time I’m starting to wonder whether he may be right.
Chapter 24
I wake up before the alarm, as usual, and groan loudly as I remember the date. Today is my thirty-first birthday, and I’m officially past it. I lie there for a few moments, wondering whether I can just stay in bed all day, when the phone goes. It’s my mother.
‘Do you like your card?’ she asks, which means ‘Do you like the fact that there’s some money in it?’ Even though I earn mor
e in a year than she’s earned in her entire lifetime, my mother still thinks it’s a good thing to slip a fiver into the envelope every year. At least she doesn’t insist on knitting me a jumper instead. Any more.
‘Mum, the postman hasn’t arrived yet. It’s only’–I groan again as I catch sight of my alarm clock–‘twenty to eight.’
My mother sighs, and goes into some tirade about how postmen are much lazier than they used to be in her day. ‘So I’ll see you for dinner?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ I say. I’ve had dinner with my mother on every single one of my birthdays I can remember, and while I think it’s a tradition we’ve kept going more for her benefit than mine, to be honest, I don’t really mind.
I put the phone down and try and go back to sleep but, twenty minutes later, a loud ringing on the doorbell wakes me up. I jump out of bed and stagger, bleary-eyed, to the door.
‘Someone’s birthday, is it?’ says the postman.
‘How ever could you tell?’ I say, as I stare at the pile of brightly coloured envelopes on the mat by my feet.
‘I need your autograph as well,’ he says.
Oh no. It’s started already. Yesterday’s disastrous appearance on Today’s the Day is going to haunt me. ‘Listen, just because I’ve done one television show, I hardly think it’s appropriate,’ I say, secretly chuffed. ‘Who do you want it made out to?’
The postman looks at me strangely. ‘Just your name will do,’ he says, holding out a parcel and the delivery slip for me to sign.
‘Ah. Right. Of course.’
I take the package from him and close the door, then pick the cards up from the floor and sort through them unenthusiastically. How birthdays have changed. When did I lose all the excitement of opening my cards and presents? Perhaps if I don’t open any of them, I can pretend that the day’s never happened? That I’m still just thirty, rather than in my thirties.
