Dinner for Two

by Mike Gayle

  herstory

  Caitlin’s in tears while she’s telling me this story and I feel about as low as it’s possible to feel. I can’t believe I’m responsible for upsetting her like this.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping the tears from her face with a tissue. ‘It’s been such a terrible day. When I didn’t know where Nicky was I was so terrified that something had happened. It’s been such a strange day. Possibly the strangest of my life.’

  She bites the corner of her lip and half smiles. It’s pure Nicola.

  ‘D’you know,’ she continues, ‘this morning I woke up in bed I thought, It’s a nice day today, I’ll go and pick up Nicky, we’ll do some shopping, maybe see a film in the afternoon and it’ll be a really relaxing day. And now here I am, less than twelve hours later, sitting here in my living room with you . . . my child’s father.’

  So there it is. The answer I’ve been looking for all this time and it’s the king of anticlimaxes. Had she told me I wasn’t Nicola’s father I’m not sure it would’ve made the slightest bit of difference to me.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I know I’ve done everything wrong. This is all my fault.’

  ‘No,’ she says, looking across at me. ‘It’s not your fault and it’s not my fault. It’s our fault. We both created this confusion. We’re both responsible.’

  I nod half-heartedly.

  ‘It was about a week after the girls and I came back from Corfu that I realised I was late,’ she continues. ‘I tried to put it to the back of my mind because, well, I reasoned that as we only slept together once I was being paranoid. But then after another week I went to see a doctor at my local surgery and had a test. I remember every single second while I waited for the results as if it were yesterday. I was just there hoping with all my might that it would be negative. I told myself that I’d been stupid and I’d never be that stupid again, if only I could have my future back and everything get back to normal. When the doctor told me it was positive I cried and cried. I was so scared. Absolutely terrified. All I could think was how I’d messed everything up.’

  Suddenly I feel this all-encompassing sadness, as if I’ve been taken back to that time. I imagine Caitlin going through all this on her own at seventeen years old and can barely believe it. I’d known girls at school who had got pregnant at fifteen and sixteen and I’d never given them a second thought because they were always the ones whom everyone expected to have kids before they left school. They were the tough girls who thought they could look after themselves. The ones who shocked us were like Caitlin: when news spread around the playground that they were pregnant no one laughed because everyone knew it could so easily have been one of them.

  next?

  ‘Did you always know you were going to keep the baby?’ I ask her. (What prompted the question was my recollection of a girl at sixth form college who had an abortion after her boyfriend had got her pregnant at seventeen. What was strange was that all these years later I can’t recall this girl’s name, can’t picture her face, or anything else about her; no matter what she’s ended up doing with her life, whatever she’s achieved in later years, she will always be in my mind ‘The Girl Who Had The Abortion’.)

  ‘No,’ says Caitlin. ‘But I don’t regret for a second that I did.’

  ‘No, of course not. Nicola’s great. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I know I haven’t acted like any kind of responsible adult during all this,’ I tell her. ‘I mean, Nicola’s thirteen and, well, you’re her mum and you’re legally responsible for her and who am I? No one, really. It’s just that, well, this has been a really strange situation and I just want to say that none of this is her fault.’ I laugh. ‘Well, her going off to the party was definitely her fault but the rest of it – her contacting me – that was just her being curious. Her not wanting to hurt your feelings. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I should’ve insisted that she tell you straight away but . . . I didn’t and I’m sorry.’

  ‘When Nicola told me I was angry with you. Very angry. I was scared, too, because I didn’t know anything about you and your life now. I didn’t know what sort of man you were. She could’ve easily got herself into trouble . . . but I suppose her being so trusting of you was my fault too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s always asked about you. Even when she was really small. And I’ve always wanted her to know that it wasn’t because you didn’t love her that you weren’t with us. You weren’t there because you didn’t know. I always tried to show you in the best light. I told her about everything you hoped and dreamed about doing in your life. I suppose I turned you into a bit of a hero. But I wanted her to be proud of you. So, like I say, it is partially my fault. Still, I hated the fact that she’d been lying to me all this time, that she’s capable of keeping such a big secret from me. It just seems wrong. I’m her mum, the closest person to her in all the world. She should have been able to tell me anything.’

  ‘She can,’ I tell her. ‘She just didn’t want to hurt you. She didn’t want you to think she loved you any less just because she wanted to meet me. And you have to admit that if she had told you she would’ve been dealing not just with all her own feelings about meeting me but her feelings of guilt about you.’

  ‘Is that why you haven’t told your wife?’ says Caitlin sharply.

  I don’t reply. I deserve what she has said. It must’ve sounded like I was justifying Nicola’s lying to her, which I was.

  Caitlin apologises immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘That was completely uncalled-for. This is just so difficult.’

  ‘But you’re right, though,’ I tell her. ‘That is one of the reasons why I didn’t tell Izzy.’

  2.4

  Caitlin is laughing softly to herself. When I look at her for an explanation she explains, ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to think I’m mad. I was just about to ask you how you are. Isn’t that weird? All this stuff to talk about and I’m acting like I’ve just bumped into you in the street . . . but, well, how are you?’

  ‘A good question,’ I say. ‘And my answer is that I’ve definitely had better days than this.’

  ‘Me too.’ She exhales deeply as if she’s trying to relax. ‘Nicola’s told me all about you. Well, you know, all the important stuff. I can’t believe you’re an agony uncle! She showed me the picture of you in Teen Scene and I just had to laugh.’

  ‘It’s an odd thing for a grown man to be doing, but it’s just a job, really. When you’re a journalist you have to be prepared to do the odd weird thing like that to make a living.’

  ‘But didn’t you want to be in a band?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to be a lot of things in the time that’s passed since we met. I ended up writing about music, though. This is terrible, but I can’t even remember what you wanted to be.’

  ‘A teacher. And that’s what I am . . . How long have you been married?’

  ‘Three years. Although we’ve been together six.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘What about you? Are you seeing anyone?’ I’m asking out of politeness rather than a desire to hear an answer I already know. If I didn’t ask it would feel as if I was openly acknowledging her failure to find a partner – a failure which I presume in part is down to the fact that she has a teenage daughter and therefore in part my fault.

  ‘I’m single,’ she says, ‘but out of choice rather than circumstance. I suppose I’ve always been a bit commitment-phobic.’ She stands up and picks up a magazine from the coffee table in the corner of the room. It’s a copy of Teen Scene. ‘I didn’t know what to make of it when Nicola told me how she’d found you. In fact, I didn’t believe her until she showed me your picture in here. It all sounded too far-fetched for words. I mean, first there was you as an agony uncle on a teenage girls’ magazine but then there was Nicola managing to spot it was you. What were the odds of her recognising a picture of you in a magazine from a single old photograph? I’m not sure that even I w
ould have recognised you. It was one night. A long, long time ago.’

  Our eyes meet briefly and we both look away. There’s a long uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I ask.

  She nods.

  ‘Did you ever try to find me?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Over the years I’ve thought about a million different ways I could’ve contacted you. I could’ve written to the hotel you were staying at or found out the tour company you’d booked through. I knew which university you were going to and what subject you were studying so I could’ve addressed a letter to your department. I could’ve looked up all the Hardings on the electoral register living in Streatham, but at the time I didn’t do anything. During my pregnancy I had way too much to deal with to find you. After Nicola was born in May, I had too much to deal with in being a new mum and then it was university, teacher training . . . The list of excuses was endless. The thing is, every single one of Nicola’s birthdays has always been a reminder of my failure to find you.’

  focus

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ asks Caitlin.

  ‘I want to be part of Nicola’s future because there’s nothing we can do about the past. Sometimes I’m not even sure who I am to her or what role I could play in her life but what I do know is this: she’s part of my life now. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’

  ‘She already loves you – I could tell from the look on her face when she thought she’d got you into trouble that she thinks the world of you . . . And she really liked your friend whose home she stayed at last night. Sounds like they had a right party this morning.’

  ‘What’s her punishment going to be?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it yet. I can’t punish her for seeing you, that wouldn’t make sense, and I already know she regrets lying to me about the party. She’s a good girl normally. I think maybe we’ll just put this behind us and start anew. No lies and no secrets.’

  Even though it’s late Caitlin and I continue talking, filling in all the gaps. In a short space of time our conversation becomes both frank and honest. Caitlin tells me more about her last relationship and the moment she realised it was unlikely she’d ever find what she was looking for. The reason, she tells me, is simple: ‘While I’m prepared to compromise on my own behalf I absolutely refuse to settle for anything less than perfection when it comes to Nicola.’ I wonder whether given her circumstances I would’ve been able to make such sacrifices in the name of love.

  Then she suggests we tell Nicola that everything is okay and she leaves the room to call her down from her bedroom only to discover her sitting on the bottom stair. Caitlin explains to Nicola in front of me how we’ve sorted things out between us and that everything is going to be okay now. I am dumbstruck by the momentous realisation that this is the first time that all three of us – father, mother and daughter – have ever been in the same room. I wonder if we’re a family and if so what kind? And if we aren’t then what exactly are we?

  This question is my companion on the Tube on my way home. When I get home I still have no answer to it but what I do know is this: I have to tell Izzy the truth. I have to tell her everything.

  don’t

  I can hear Izzy in the kitchen but I don’t go in and say hello straight away. I head to the spare bedroom and search for the record where I’d hidden Nicola’s letter. I take out the photo and put it into my back pocket. When I enter the kitchen Izzy is loading the dishwasher.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, and flashes me a huge smile. She stops what she’s doing and comes and puts her arms round me. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How was your day, sweetheart?’

  ‘Fine. How was yours?’

  ‘Don’t get me started.’ She presses her lips lightly against mine. I return the kiss with more force, and then I do it again and again until I’ve manoeuvred this simple greeting into a full-blown bout of passion. All the time I keep wondering if this just might be our last kiss.

  ‘Wow,’ she says, as she pulls out of the embrace. ‘What was that about?’ She smiles mischievously. ‘Whatever it was I’ll have some more, please.’

  She kisses me again but this kiss is different. The moment has gone. The passion has evaporated. All that remains is guilt.

  ‘What’s wrong, babe?’

  ‘You’d better sit down. I’ve got something to tell you.’

  She can tell I’m serious and her face is filled with concern. Without speaking she sits down on the stool next to the sink. ‘Whatever it is you can tell me, Dave. You know that, don’t you? It’s not Mum, is it?’ Tears are already rolling down her cheeks. ‘Nothing’s happened to Mum, has it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not your parents?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘No one’s sick. Everybody’s fine.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  I reach into my back pocket and hand her the photograph of Nicola.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she says, looking at it. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My daughter.’ For a moment neither of us speaks. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. She knows this isn’t a practical joke. And there are no misunderstandings to be had either. All the escape routes out of this situation are closed. ‘Her name is Nicola,’ I continue. ‘She’s nearly fourteen. I met her mum, Caitlin, when I was eighteen. I was on holiday in Corfu. We spent one night together and I never saw her again. I got a letter a few months back when I’d first started doing the problem page at Teen Scene. It was from the girl in the picture. I’ve been in regular contact with her since then without her mum knowing. This morning her mum found out.’

  All that was missing was ‘The End’. Only I could distil a saga like this into a few hastily thrown-together sentences. I look at Izzy and I can tell she wants to cry again but the reality of the situation has shocked the tears from her. I know I have to give her more details – anything that might make her understand my point of view and so, without prompting, I tell the story again, right from the beginning, and as I speak the same question keeps recurring in my mind: Why didn’t I tell her from the very start?

  love

  Izzy listens without interrupting. Once it becomes clear that I’ve finished talking she stands up and picks up Nicola’s photo from the kitchen counter. ‘I stopped taking my pill three weeks ago,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I stopped taking my pill three weeks ago.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t know. Yet.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t you talk to me? Surely you could’ve talked to me about . . .’

  ‘I wanted the decision taken out of my hands. It sounds stupid when I say it aloud but that’s how I felt. I just wanted to get “accidentally pregnant” again. I didn’t want us to have to try to have a baby and have it fail again.’

  ‘And what does all this mean after what I’ve told you?’

  ‘I don’t feel anything,’ she says, without looking at me. ‘I’m numb.’

  ‘You must know that I didn’t do this to hurt you. I acted stupidly. I acted carelessly. I acted hurtfully. But I never did any of it to hurt you.’

  ‘So that’s okay?’ she says sharply. ‘You didn’t mean to hurt me so the fact that you have makes it all right, does it? Whether or not you inflicted this pain on me on purpose the result is the same. After dealing with all the hurt of the miscarriage, now I have to deal with this: the fact that you have a daughter with another woman; the fact that you’ve been skulking around, telling me lies all this time. How dare you try to deny me the right to be angry with you? How can you stand there and tell me you’re sorry? It’s meaningless. And if that is meaningless what else have you said to me that’s meaningless? You promised to love and cherish me for ever – was that meaningless? You promised you’d share everything with me – the good and the bad. Was that meaningless too? How can you stand there and say something like that? Something that w
ill completely and utterly destroy my peace of mind? I hadn’t thought it possible to feel so betrayed.’ She walks out of the room, grabs her coat and bag from the hallway and opens the front door.

  ‘Where are you going? You’ve got to stay. We’ve got to work this out.’ I catch up with her on the landing outside the flat and grab her arm. ‘Don’t go. Just don’t go, please.’

  She looks at me in a way she never has before – with a mixture of hurt and hatred. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she spits. ‘Don’t you dare touch me again.’

  listen

  It’s late afternoon on Monday and I’m at work. I could’ve stayed at home and moped around the flat. I could’ve spent the day in bed. But I don’t feel I have the right to fall apart. All I’ve earned is the right to go to work, keep it together and suffer in silence. So that’s what I do.

  I haven’t heard a word from Izzy for two days now – the entire weekend. I’ve called her mobile but it’s switched off, I’ve called Jenny and Stella, and both deny knowledge of where she is or might be. I even called her at work this morning and her assistant told me she was working from home today.

  Because I can’t talk to her in reality I talk to her in my head. I tell her I’m sorry a million times. I tell her I want everything that has happened to be in the past. And then I tell her I want us to make a new future – and what better way than with a baby? Her being pregnant seems to be the answer to everything. But I want to know that this is the right thing. I want to be sure. I want the kind of answer I give the readers of Teen Scene. They write to me looking for solutions to their predicaments and I oblige by giving them not just any answer but the answer, reducing their options from many to one so that they know exactly what they should do. I grab a handful of Love Doctor letters from my postbag, open them and begin to read.