Dinner for Two

by Mike Gayle

  It’s not just your own wedding that requires planning: attending other people’s requires military-style planning too, especially when it comes to purchasing gifts. My wife and I are so good at it we have a system: she does it all. It took us a while to work out that this was the best way to do things but after the last time I did the present shopping and returned with three CDs, a Play Station but no wedding present she gave up. Now she shops on her own and seems to derive as much pleasure from it as shopping for herself. First she has to survey every store within a fifty-mile radius before she can ‘short list’ a number of ‘maybe’ gifts. Second, she has to revisit her chosen stores and spend at least five minutes touching each of the preferred gifts (in her contacts my wife has 20/20 vision and yet her dependence on her fingertips never ceases to amaze me). Third, she has to narrow it down to two potential presents, both of which she buys, takes home then returns to the shop where they were bought the following day to buy a third item.

  And that, in a roundabout way pretty much sums up how men feel about weddings. On the surface we might seem unfocused and uninterested but, metaphorically speaking, deep down we know, having walked around the shopping mall of life, we have found the perfect gift for ourselves, which is, of course, you.

  rules

  Two days later Izzy arrives at the flat late in the evening. She looks tired and drawn. We walk into the living room in silence and then, as we sit down on the sofa, she opens up the conversation: ‘I’m not pregnant.’ Neither of us speaks for a moment and I take the opportunity to let the disappointment soak in. Realistically I think we’d both known it was unlikely that she was going to be pregnant. In this day and age even a self-confessed former po-faced music journalist has enough amateur fertility expertise to know that it can take up to three months after coming off the pill for a woman’s hormone levels to get back to normal. Three weeks, then, was always pushing it a bit.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t know . . . but I suppose maybe it was for the best. They weren’t exactly the best circumstances for a child to be conceived, were they?’

  I don’t answer her question and instead ask one of my own. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I went to Mum’s.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s fine. It was good to spend some time with her. She helped me get a lot of things into perspective.’

  ‘Are you coming home?’

  There’s a pause and then she asks, ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘I love you,’ I tell her.

  ‘That was never in question,’ she replies.

  ‘So are you coming home?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question yet,’ she says.

  ‘Of course I want you to come back,’ I tell her. ‘This is your home.’ There’s a long silence. Prompt her again.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What?’ she replies, as if her mind is somewhere else.

  ‘Are you coming home to stay?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s up to you,’ she says. ‘I’ve tried hard to see things through your eyes. I can understand that you didn’t know how to tell me about Nicola, how the news about this girl had hit you so hard that you hadn’t been able to think straight.’ She pauses, as if losing the thread of her thoughts. ‘I can even understand how you might have thought you were protecting me from the truth. But I don’t need protection as much as I need honesty. I mean, what else might there be in your life that I don’t know about?’

  ‘There’s nothing more.’

  ‘I know, but that’s the fear I’ve got to live with now.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ She doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘How do you think it made me feel to know that you couldn’t talk to me about this? We’re supposed to be there for each other. No matter what, you should know that I’m always going to be on your side. Always. No matter what you do I can’t stop loving you. That’s how love works. Did you think I was just going to turn round and say, “That’s it, I don’t love you any more”? I love you without condition, Dave. Yes, what’s happened has hurt me and yet despite it all I continue to love you with a strength I didn’t know was possible. I love you because you are part of me. I love you because loving you is like loving myself. I know that, despite all that has happened, you are a good man. And I won’t . . . I can’t give you up . . . There’s one thing, though . . . I suppose it’s the biggest thing of all. I’ve tried and tried to get my head round Nicola. But I can’t. She’s your daughter. She’s part of you and someone from your past. And I just can’t seem to get over it, no matter how much I love you. This beautiful girl is everything I wanted us to have . . . I can’t stop you seeing her. I don’t even want to stop you seeing her. She’s part of your life. But I don’t ever want to meet her. I just can’t. And, well, I need to know you can accept this before I agree to come back. I’m not going to change my mind. This will just have to be the way it is.’

  I tell her I understand and finally she allows me to take her in my arms. And I hold her tightly and tell her that I’m going to make it all up to her. This isn’t the way I wanted things to turn out, though. It isn’t meant to be like this.

  gift

  A few days later an invitation arrives from Damian and Adele to the christening of baby Maddy. I tell Izzy we don’t have to go, that we can send a present instead. But she says it’s something we have to do, that it’ll be all right. So eventually we find ourselves sitting in a pew in a church in Totteridge where Adele’s parents live.

  At eleven o’clock on the dot, the vicar gives a short sermon about love, understanding, and the imparting of knowledge. He advises Damian and Adele to bring up little Maddy in a manner that’s both true and right and then he announces that everyone should move to the baptismal font. The congregation shuffies to the back of the church and stands in a semicircle, while Adele passes a sleeping Maddy to Damian, who passes her to the vicar, who calls for the godparents to step forward. He dips his hand into the water and sprinkles a few drops on Maddy’s head.

  Afterwards everyone moves on to a pub round the corner called the Cricketer’s Arms. Izzy and I try to chat to Damian and Adele but they’re forced to work the room like a Hollywood celebrity couple.

  ‘This is all a bit strange, don’t you think?’ says Izzy, as we stand at the bar. ‘Everything’s changed so much in such a short time . . . It seems like change happens faster the older we get,’ she continues. ‘I used to be scared of change, you know, but it can be good. It means you’re moving on, moving forward. I was thinking about work and how I loved my job when I began and now . . . well, it doesn’t feel half as important to me as being with you.’

  I take her hand. ‘I know what you mean. That’s exactly how I felt about Louder. It was my dream job but when it closed I knew it wasn’t everything. There’s so much more to life.’

  Izzy nods thoughtfully. ‘We both live in a world where everything that’s seen as important is to do with being the latest, the most fashionable, the most must-have. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve bought some item of clothing not because I liked it but because I knew there was a waiting list as long as my arm for it.’

  ‘Or the number of times I’ve proclaimed some band or other to be the most important band since the Beatles or the Stones only to get bored before they’ve even released an album.’

  ‘I remember when we were just friends and you’d always try to brainwash me into liking whichever band you were championing at the time,’ says Izzy. ‘You’d give me promo tapes by the dozen, call me up and play music down the phone at me and then drag me to some grotty pub to hear the future of rock and roll.’

  ‘But that’s the way you’re supposed to feel about music,’ I tell her. ‘You’re supposed to feel like every new band you hear could be bigger than the Beatles. Now, though, every new band seems like it’s just a bunch of kids recycling my record collection, and although they probably are, I don’t think that’s the
point. Maybe I’m out of touch.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I can’t stay at Femme for ever. There will come a day, in the not too distant future, when I’ll have to graduate from the world of feisty young women to a more sedate women’s mag or a nice interiors mag. I can see it in some of our contributors now. They’re the best writers I know but their stuff is starting to sound hollow because they’re not living it like their readers are. Do you know what I’m saying? It’s like Femme readers are out every Friday night with a bunch of mates doing vodka shots, and for us, these days, a Friday night is just you, me, the TV and the sofa. I can fake it for a while longer but pretty soon I’m going to get bored of it.’

  She sips her drink. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my dad dying recently. I never tried to see any good in it. It was always easier to see it as the most terrible thing ever. Devastating. To think that it had ruined my life. And then recently it occurred to me that ever since it happened it’s like I’ve been looking at it the wrong way. I had the most wonderful dad in the whole world. His love made me who I am today. What more could I want? There are people in the world who have never experienced that kind of love and they’re the ones who have the right to be bitter about life, not me. Imagine if my dad had never been there and I’d never had his love. I wouldn’t be me at all. I’d be someone else. Maybe someone you could never have fallen in love with. Sometimes we spend too much time wishing life wasn’t the way it is. Sometimes, I guess, you just have to be grateful for what you’ve got.’ She lets out a nervous laugh. ‘And here endeth the sermon.’

  Time

  Workwise, things get back to normal relatively quickly. I take on some freelance shifts in the Sound Scene office in Bayswater, and while it’s not what I want to be doing I reason that it will do for now. Izzy, meanwhile, has a lot on with running the magazine and preparing for each round of interviews for the editor’s job. As for our relationship, it’s hard to say what’s going on but I know it’s not normal. Izzy is in denial about Nicola. If I’m on the phone she makes a point of not asking who I’m talking to, if I go out she won’t ask where I’m going and when I come in she won’t ask where I’ve been. In short, she no longer asks the everyday questions in case she can’t handle hearing the answers. When I try to talk to her about Nicola she won’t be drawn. When I try to talk to her about what’s happening to us, she won’t discuss that either.

  choice

  It’s Friday evening, two weeks later, and I’m on my way to Nicola’s house to join her, assorted family and friends to celebrate her fourteenth birthday. I’ve spent weeks wondering what present I can possibly buy her that might make up in some small way for all the birthdays I’ve missed. I thought back to our window-shopping trip all those weeks ago and called Caitlin to find out Nicola’s dress and shoe size then returned to Nicola’s favourite shop. I saw items that looked vaguely similar to the ones we’d seen that day – but every time I picked anything up I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to get her a present that she’d thank me for then leave at the bottom of her wardrobe. I wanted her jaw to drop. I wanted her to feel like I’d got the right present for her because I knew her so well.

  After that I thought about giving her money – the ideal gift for any teenager – but I knew that, under the circumstances, it just wouldn’t be right. I thought about music but, like clothing, it’s so much down to personal taste and easy to get wrong. Other gifts I crossed off the list included: a new mobile phone, makeup, perfume, a car (grasping at straws here), a PlayStation 2, concert tickets, signed autographed stuff from any number of the bands I’ve interviewed, and a new pair of trainers. In the end I went back through all of the things I’d rejected, selected two items and carefully wrapped them in shiny dark blue foil.

  here

  ‘Dave!’ says Nicola, on opening the door.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I give her a kiss, and hand her the two presents but hold on to the bottle of wine I’ve also brought.

  ‘Thanks.’ She kisses me again. ‘Mum says I have to wait until everyone’s arrived before I can start opening the presents. Two of my cousins haven’t turned up yet and they’re always late so it could be a while.’

  ‘Fourteen, eh?’ I say, sounding middle-aged.

  ‘Do I look older?’ she asks.

  I look at her before I answer. She’s obviously wearing a number of her birthday presents because everything looks brand new: a pair of indigo bootcut jeans, a pair of relatively high-heeled strappy sandals and a tight black top with the word ‘Babelicious’ marked out in diamanté studs. Her trademark corkscrew curls are down and although she’s wearing ‘going out’ makeup, she doesn’t look like she’s plastered it on. She does look older. But she looks beautiful too.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, with a big smile. ‘You do. Can I come in now?’

  Nicola laughs as she realises we’re still standing on the doorstep. ‘Yeah,’ she says.

  She ushers me into the living room where one of her dreadful club-mix CDs is playing just loud enough for her friends to be entertained but for the adults not to have to yell at each other. The room is fairly packed – there must be at least thirty people in there. Nicola asks if I want a drink and I tell her I’ll help myself. She says her mum’s in the kitchen sorting out the food.

  ‘Dave!’ says Caitlin, as I enter the kitchen. She’s in the middle of putting a tray of something into the oven. Another woman, uncovering a platter of sandwiches wrapped in cling film, turns round and looks at me, then looks at Caitlin and smiles.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ says Caitlin. ‘I’m really glad you could make it.’ She closes the oven door, wipes her hands on a tea-towel. She looks a lot different from the last time I saw her, more glamorous. Like Nicola, she’s wearing her hair down and it frames her face perfectly and she’s not wearing her glasses. Bizarrely she’s wearing bootcut jeans, strappy sandals with heels and a tight black top with ‘Babelicious’ across it.

  ‘I feel like I’m seeing double,’ I tell her.

  Caitlin laughs. ‘You mean the outfit? Us O’Connell girls like a little joke. Every now and again Nicola and I pretend we’re sisters instead of mum and daughter. I had the jeans and the shoes already and the top is apparently a very early or very late Mother’s Day gift – even though I had to pay for it myself.’

  I hand her the bottle of wine. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘We’re drinking the really cheap stuff at the minute so this’ll be a nice change.’

  I can see that Caitlin’s friend is angling for an introduction. Something about her seems familiar but I can’t place it. Eventually she drops all pretence of subtlety and says, ‘I’m Colleen, Caitlin’s best friend and Nicky’s godmother.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m Dave,’ I say, shaking her hand.

  Caitlin laughs. ‘She’s not backward in coming forward, is she? Dave, meet Colleen. Colleen, meet Dave. The funny thing is, Dave, you’ve met her before.’

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ says Colleen. ‘I was with Caitlin on that holiday. I got off with your mate Jamie.’

  It all comes back to me. ‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘Wow, it’s good to see you again.’

  ‘She’s been dying to speak to you ever since she heard we were in touch,’ says Caitlin.

  ‘Why?’

  The two women exchange secretive glances.

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ says Caitlin, laughing, ‘but Colleen’s kind of hoping that you’re still in contact with Jamie and that he’s single.’ With that they burst into fits of laughter.

  ‘You want Jamie Earl’s phone number?’ I ask.

  ‘He was really cute!’ says Colleen, laughing. ‘He had an arse like a ripe peach.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him in ages,’ I say, when I can control the laughter that erupts at her description. ‘But the last I heard of him he was living in Bournemouth working in the hotel trade. I’ve got his parents’ number so by all means give him a call.’

  ‘Excellent,’
says Colleen. ‘Mission accomplished, so I’ll make sure all the guests have drinks – and leave you two alone.’ Still chuckling, she grabs two open bottles of wine, one white, one red, and exits the kitchen.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive her,’ says Caitlin, wiping down one of the surfaces with a paper towel. ‘She’s just split up with her fella for about the fifth time in as many years and it’s sending her a bit funny in the head.’ I smile but don’t say anything. ‘I take it you sorted out what to buy Nicola in the end?’ she asks.

  ‘Nearly,’ I reply. ‘Couldn’t make my mind up.’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got her she’ll love it. She’s quite good like that.’

  ‘It’s nice to know I have her pity if I need it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She’s been really nervous about you coming tonight. The clothes, the hair, the makeup, it’s all for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘This afternoon she told me she wanted to look perfect for you. I told her you wouldn’t mind what she looked like but she wouldn’t have any of it.’

  ‘She looks beautiful.’

  ‘She does. There’s a couple of lads from her school here and they’re all gobsmacked by her.’

  ‘Not Brendan Casey?’

  ‘He’s old news now, apparently.’

  There’s a long silence.

  ‘I’m really sorry your wife couldn’t come.’

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ I say. ‘It’s just that she’s acting editor at the moment and things are . . .’ My voice trails off. It’s obvious Caitlin doesn’t believe me. ‘She didn’t want to come,’ I correct myself.