Twenty Something

by Iain Hollingshead

  My own subconscious is stalking me and there’s nothing I can do about it. Why the fuck did she ring and hang up like that? I try to phone her back, but her phone diverts straight to answering machine.

  I don’t even know what I want her to say. I think I’ll make a great father one day, but not now. Now it would ruin my life. My parents would kill me. I’d probably end up marrying Lucy out of a perverse sense of guilt. My mum’s delight that the two of us were back together would be outweighed by her anguish at having a semi-bastard grandchild.

  But could I face Rick having a baby with my ex-girlfriend of three years? I’m not sure I could. Especially if it’s ginger

  Monday 2nd May

  Blur sang about bank holidays. It was a happy song about barbecues and six-packs of beer. It didn’t mention anything about discussing pregnancies with your ex-girlfriend.

  We met up in the same bar in Covent Garden where Lucy had made up the news about pulling Rick back in January. I think the barman recognised me as the madman who’d stormed out crying.

  ‘So?’ I said.

  Poor Lucy, she looked tired and withdrawn.

  ‘So. Here we are.’

  ‘Yes, here we are.’

  ‘Did you know that today is our anniversary?’ she asked, somewhat surprisingly.

  Of course I didn’t know. I’ve never quite understood anniversaries. Do you start counting from when you first meet? Or when you first pull? Or when you first introduce them as your girlfriend to someone?

  ‘Oh yes,’ I mumbled, correctly guessing that now wasn’t the time to share these thoughts.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, cutting to the chase, ‘I am a hundred and ten per cent sure that I am pregnant.’

  I winced at the maths. You don’t have to be a banker to understand that that’s pretty certain.

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first,’ she went on. ‘I took the pill for over three years while going out with you, and I stopped it recently to give my body a rest. As you know, the pill regulates your periods.’

  Lucy Poett, BSc Biology.

  ‘So when I missed my first period at the end of February I didn’t worry too much. Then I missed my second period and then my third. I did my own pregnancy test and it was positive. I went to the doctor on Saturday and she confirmed it.’

  ‘And are you going to keep it?’

  ‘Well, at first I didn’t want to. But I’m now eleven weeks pregnant.’

  Eleven weeks? It’s exactly eleven weeks since Rick slept with her on Valentine’s Day. Ten weeks and four days since I bent her over the kitchen table.

  ‘You can use an abortion pill up to nine weeks, but after that they have to do a vacuum aspiration. I just can’t face hoovering up our baby.’

  ‘Our baby?’ I was trying to be gentle with her, but I must have shouted the words. People started looking at me weirdly.

  ‘Yes, baby. Our baby,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘Who else’s is it going to be?’

  ‘Well, you slept with Rick three days before me, didn’t you? Isn’t it just conceivable (bad choice of word) that his sperm had a head start on mine? They can’t swim that slowly.’

  ‘I’m sure his sperm are Olympian athletes. But they couldn’t get very far inside a condom, could they?’

  ‘Rick used a condom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you slept with me without a condom after you’d stopped taking the pill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? You didn’t tell me that you’d stopped taking the pill.’

  ‘Because I love you, Jack. Because you’re The One. Because I’ll never stop loving you. And I know that you feel the same way about me. You’re just too scared to admit it. You’re too afraid of commitment.’

  ‘You love me so much that you’d trick me into making you pregnant? You’d make a fool out of me to dupe me into coming back to you?’

  She gave me a long and emotional answer which boiled down to one word: yes. Women never use one word when a thousand will do just as well.

  ‘I can’t handle this. I need time to think,’ I said.

  I got out enough money to cover our drinks and left calmly, too numb to show any emotion. I didn’t walk back to the tube. I stood still and the road moved in slow motion under me like a movie. Happy extras floated past me. I was the star in my own tragicomedy. This was the kind of thing that happened to other people. Not to me.

  And now that I’ve thought about it long and hard, I cannot imagine a worse situation.

  I wanted to ring Leila to explain everything to her, but I was worried that she’d take a pretty dim view of me sleeping with my ex-girlfriend. So I rang my dad and he was a sympathetic listener, but there wasn’t much he could say to help.

  I’m going to have to sort it out for myself, but I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want this. I don’t want her, I don’t want a baby and I certainly don’t want a baby with her. This is a living nightmare and I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

  I try to lay my thoughts out logically:

  (1) Babies

  Babies are good things. They chuckle and call you ‘Dada’, and one day you can teach them to play football for England and they’ll buy you a nice big house in Cheshire. It’s good for the human race to procreate. I have above-average genes and I’d like to see them passed on. More than anything else, I want to be a good father one day. Being a family man would make me very happy.

  But babies are also bad things. They cry and they stink, and they cost a lot of money. They require a great deal of attention. They deserve a responsible father, and not someone who’s too scared to go to the GP about his testicular lump/steals trees/shags random slags dressed as schoolgirls/wants to get sacked from work.

  I don’t want a baby.

  (2) Lucy

  Lucy is a nice girl. She makes me laugh. She’s also very attractive. We have good sex together, especially when we’re not actually together. Having a baby with Lucy might jolt me into sorting out the rest of my life. It might teach me to put others first and to stop being such a whingeing hypochondriac.

  Lucy, on the other hand, is vain, petty and snobby. She’s also a freak. She tried to pull my best friend to make me jealous. Then she slept with him on Valentine’s Day. Then she tricked me into having unprotected sex with her three days later. Her lovely closure letter on 16th March was merely a pack of lies while she waited to see if she’d trapped me into becoming a father. Hell, I trust her so little that I can’t even be sure if her pregnancy story is true. There is no way I am going back to her.

  I don’t want Lucy.

  (3) Abortions

  I don’t like the idea of abortions. I don’t like the idea of killing anything. And how could I kill my own son/daughter? A quick bit of research on Google tells me that an unborn baby’s heart begins to beat between the eighteenth and the twenty-fifth day. Electrical brain waves have been recorded as early as forty days. Lucy has been pregnant for at least seventy-three days.

  But then I don’t think it’s fair to bring an unwanted child into this world to satisfy the whim of a mad girl who’s trying to lure her boyfriend back.

  I want an abortion.

  And so I plan to call Lucy’s bluff. If she wants to go ahead and have the baby anyway, I’ll work it out as it comes. And I also really have to talk to Rick — who’s chosen a very bad time to go away on holiday.

  Tuesday 3rd May

  Mr Cox dragged me into the office again.

  ‘Jack, I could not help noticing, that is to say I did notice, as I walked past your desk yesterday, that you were not there, that is to say you were in absentia. Perhaps you would not mind explaining why.’

  ‘Mr Cox, yesterday was a bank holiday.’

  ‘Yes, Jack, I am not unaware of that fact. That fact is, in fact, irrefutable. But what possible relevance do you imagine that irrefutable fact has on your position here?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, Mr Cox.’

  ‘OK, dear boy. Let’s start
ab initio. What do you do for a living, Jack?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

  ‘No, Jack, neither am I. Nil desperandum. Back to first principles. Where do you work?’

  ‘In a bank, Mr Cox.’

  ‘Very good, Jack. And in what kind of bank do you work?’

  ‘An investment bank, Mr Cox.’

  ‘‘Excellent. A Proxime accessit answer, if not a First Class one. And what kind of banks close on a bank holiday?’

  ‘A high-street bank, Mr Cox?’

  ‘Eureka, young Lancaster. Quod erat demonstrandum. So why weren’t you here yesterday?’

  ‘Personal problems, Mr Cox.’

  ‘Plus ça change. Pray, who was the lucky recipient of your youthful affections this time? Ms Sid-day-bot-tome?’

  ‘No, Mr Cox, a former girlfriend.’

  ‘Jack, what do I pay you for?’

  Friday 6th May

  It has not been an amusing week. I sent Lucy a very long email on Tuesday outlining a toned-down version of my thoughts from 2nd May. She still hasn’t replied and time is running out for her to have a safe and effective abortion. I’m hanging on for Rick’s return next Monday.

  More depressing still, they appear to have given up censuring me at my work. Even my comic attempt at dress-down Friday today — ripped jeans, trainers and a T-shirt which said ‘Fcuk the system’ — raised nothing more than a wry eyebrow from Mr Cox.

  Bad things come in threes, I mused, as I went to bed with no plans for the weekend. First, Leila and Buddy. Second, a lumpy testicle. Third, a pregnant ex-girlfriend.

  It’s all plain sailing from here.

  Wednesday 11th May

  Or maybe it’s not plain sailing.

  ‘No plans for the weekend’ turned into a very long weekend with Flatmate Fred in Amsterdam. I smell, I’m tired and I’ve got horrendous memory loss. Even if I do decide to go in tomorrow, I’m not sure if I can remember where I work. I’ve been AWOL for three days.

  It all started when we woke up at lunchtime on Saturday.

  Flatmate Fred: ‘What shall we do this weekend?’

  ‘I rather thought I’d read the papers until mid-afternoon, shower, get dressed, go out, drink eight pints, get into a sissy fight and then crash and burn with half the female population of our great capital.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we do every weekend?’

  ‘It’s what I do every weekend. You do it every weekday, too.’

  ‘Ha, very funny. I just find that every week in London merges into the next one. I can’t think of a single weekend that’s really stood out. Why don’t we do something properly different this weekend?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We sat in contemplative silence for a while.

  ‘We could go to a museum.’

  ‘Five minutes’ sustained thought and you’ve come up with that brainwave. You’re a crazy party-pooper, Fred.’

  Another longer silence.

  ‘Jack, do you have a passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, line your stomach. We’re going to Amsterdam.’

  And so we did.

  Amsterdam is truly the armpit of Europe (and it’s an unshaven smelly one, too). I’m told there are nice parts, but we stuck to the fun areas with entire streets of small windows lined with semi-clad women. It was like the Hammersmith Palais, but more honest (and probably marginally cheaper). The eldest, fattest women were placed at the end. Flatmate Fred coined the term ‘last-window girl’.

  We tried to assimilate ourselves slowly into the culture by having a Coca-Cola in an English pub. It seemed a safe bet — we hadn’t banked on the barman making us clarify what we meant by ‘coke’.

  So we decided to go and get stoned. I’m sure the coffee-shop tenders could spot the novices a mile off. We were the ones sidling up to the bar and mumbling, ‘I’d like a, y’know [cough], joint, if that’s OK.’ ‘Which joint do you want?’ ‘Shh, not so loud — there might be teachers around,’ etc., etc.

  But, once we’d convinced ourselves that we weren’t going to be writing out lines in detention, we were the happiest people in the world. Flatmate Fred was spouting lines of pure golden comedy. ‘Last-window girl — rahahahahaahaha.’ My left testicle stopped aching, I stopped worrying about Lucy and I had a warm, glowing feeling that I was going to end up with Leila.

  I still had this warm, glowing feeling on Sunday evening, so we decided to stay a little while longer. Work and Mr Cox could take a running leap. The next two days passed in a contented blur. Some events stand out clearly; I remember the ‘only gay pancake shop in Amsterdam’ very vividly. (How do you have a gay pancake shop? It’s like having heterosexual recycling bins.) Other events merged into a confused collage. Others still, flowed past, unrecognised and forgotten. The whole experience felt like a few minutes. It also lasted an eternity.

  It was all perfect until this morning, when Flatmate Fred decided it would be a good idea to try a hash cake. I ate one and it had no effect. So I ate another. And then a third. No one told me that it takes a little while to get into your system. I smoked another joint to ease the process along.

  Forty minutes later, I passed out in the loo. Flatmate Fred had to help me back to the hostel dormitory, where I spent three hours lying on my bed convinced that the slumbering backpacker opposite was going to axe me if I took my eye off him for a second. Paranoia spread all over me. I was pulling the whitie of the century. I could feel panic rising up my legs. It reached my waist. I had to stop it getting up to my vital organs or it would kill me. I had to concentrate. The walls were flying in at me, laughing at me, mocking me, crushing me.

  I couldn’t hold on to a thought for more than a split second. They rushed madly through my brain; wild dislocated connectors. Leila — Buddy — American — New York — apple — Garden of Eden — sex — Rick — baby — Lucy — abortion — sin — Bible — school — Daddy — Mummy — New Year’s resolutions — tosspot — Buddy — Leila, etc., etc., all in half a second. I couldn’t slow them down. It was like an internalised game of Timmy Mallett’s Mallet on speed.

  I started to sing softly to take my mind off impending death.

  ‘Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any hash?’

  ‘Sleepen or fuck off,’ gargled the axe murderer.

  I couldn’t sleepen. It was time to fuck off. Pulling myself together, I found Flatmate Fred and bought a very expensive ticket back to London to face the music of pregnant ex-girlfriends and irate bosses.

  Friday 13th May

  Not the most auspicious date of the year — I decided it would be bad luck to go into work today. Actually, I decided it would be bad luck to go into work yesterday as well, but that’s beside the point.

  I’d deliberately left my mobile behind when I went to Amsterdam. When I came back, there were over twenty texts and voicemail messages waiting — one friendly text from Claire (doctors ’n’ nurses) arranging a drink, one from Katie (first Valentine’s card and Rick’s twin) asking me to the theatre (she must have forgiven me), one from Daddy asking about the Lucy situation, four from Leila showing an increasing level of concern about my absence, one mocking voice message from Buddy, three irate from Rupert (bald), five whingeing from Lucy and one and a half from Mr Cox.

  New message, received Wednesday, 12th May, at 10.52am:

  ‘Salve, Jack. Deo volente, this is Jack. My message was prefaced by a somewhat mechanised-sounding lady. Pray, are you courting her as well? What a busy life you lead. Too busy, it would appear, to come into the office This is Mr Cox Rupert Boscawen, who, as you no doubt will not be unaware, is your line manager, has informed me that you have not turned up for three days. Are you dead? Are you in rigor mortis? Might we dare to expect a resurrection at some point in the’

  Beep. End of message.

  New message, received Wednesday, 12th May, at 10.56am:

  ‘Lancaster, this is Mr Cox again. That bloody woman cut me off. Contact me as soon
as you get this. You’re in a mountain full of excreta.’

  Charming.

  There was also a text from Rick.

  ‘Easy mate, Rick here, innit. Where the hell are you? We really need to talk, izzit. R.’

  Rick was right. We really did need to talk — me in English; him in Rick-speak. Right away.

  I couldn’t face the forced jocularity of the Friday-night crowds: the wretched office workers who’d been waiting for their weekly chance to hit expensively themed bars and forget that they hated their colleagues almost as much as the jobs they were bitching about with them.

  So I went over to Rick’s flat in Angel. I gave him the summary of what Lucy had told me. And I told him how I felt about it.

  ‘Izzit. That’s exactly why I had to talk to you, Jack. That baby could equally well be mine.’

  ‘But she told me you guys used a condom.’

  ‘We did. A lemon-flavoured one, in fact.’

  The vague notion of my best mate sleeping with my ex-girlfriend was just about OK. The specifics were far from OK.

  I soldiered on.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It broke, innit.’

  Not only did Rick sleep with Lucy; his cock is so big that it shatters johnnies. How inadequate do I feel?

  ‘And you didn’t tell her?’

  ‘No, I assumed she was on the pill. Thought she made me wear the johnny in case I caught any nasty diseases off you.’

  ‘Cheers, Rick.’

  ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  If only ‘Fuck’ did know.

  Deciding that Friday 13th was no day to go about making life-changing decisions, we played five hours of FIFA football on the Xbox instead.

  Am not convinced that either of us is sufficiently mature to be a father.

  Wednesday 18th May

  Still haven’t been into work post-Amsterdam. I think I have hit upon the perfect way to get sacked — don’t turn up. This is a great deal easier than showing my face and performing elaborate ruses with email footers and trade union postcards. The only irony is that I can’t be sacked without a written warning, and they don’t have my home address to give me one. I find this incredibly amusing.