Dinner for Two (13 page)

‘But I’m not some random guy. I did sleep with her.’

‘Even better. Gives the story authenticity. All her mates believe her because they were there, her parents believe her because her mates believe her and the guy who is actually the father is just grateful he’s off the hook.’

I take a long swig of my beer and look at Fran in disbelief. ‘How do you come up with this stuff? I’d never have come to those conclusions in a million years.’

‘My wasted youth. Big fat airport novels with gold lettering, American TV mini-series, the whole lot. If it’s trash I’ve either read it or watched it.’

‘So you definitely don’t think she’s mine?’

‘Not definitely but I think it’s unlikely. Whatever the answer, the fact remains that you do not know for sure that you’re this girl’s dad, and short of having DNA tests I don’t think you could.’

‘I don’t know how you go about having a DNA test. Boots don’t sell kits, that’s for sure.’

‘I bet you can get them on the Internet. You can get anything on there or failing that, maybe you should get yourself on
Jerry Springer
or
Ricki Lake
. Every time I have a sickie and turn on the TV they always seem to be doing paternity tests.’

‘That’s useful to know.’ I pick up my beer and finish it in several gulps then put the bottle firmly on the table. ‘I’d better get home.’

‘I’m sorry, Dave,’ says Fran quietly. ‘I know you think I’m being flippant about this thing but it’s all just so unreal that I’m finding it difficult to get my head round it.’

‘You’re right. And this is the first time I’ve seen how ridiculous the situation is. There’s every chance that the girl isn’t my daughter. There’s every chance that she’s lying or her mum’s lied to her. There’s every chance that this is some horrible freak coincidence. But there’s also every chance that she
is
mine, that she’s
not
lying, that this isn’t about coincidences but real life. And the thing is . . .’

Fran looks at me and for a second I think she knows what I was going to say. I haven’t told her about the miscarriage but maybe she’s guessed how much I want to be a dad.

‘The thing is?’ she says quietly.

‘Nothing,’ I say, putting on my coat. ‘Nothing at all.’

At home I don’t know how to behave around Izzy so, in classic male behaviour pattern, I opt to avoid her. When she’s in the kitchen I go into the living room. When she comes into the living room I go to the bedroom. When she comes into the bedroom I head for the spare bedroom that we use as an office, which also doubles as home for my second hi-fi and my CD and record collection. This place is my comfort zone. The wall opposite the door is lined with custom-made shelves for thousands of CDs, vinyl albums and twelve-inch singles. I had to get in a carpenter from Crouch End to build them – and the strange thing is he turned out to have been in a band a few years ago that I’d reviewed several times for
Louder
.

There’s a large desk under the window where I work at my laptop. Sometimes Izzy comes in here too but she prefers to work at the kitchen table because there’s more light. On the table are a lamp, a fax-machine, and a mini-palm that Izzy bought last week from Safeway in Camden Town because she said I needed some oxygen in here. In the corner is a battered brown leather armchair I inherited from an ex-girlfriend, and on the floor are hundreds of back issues of magazines including
Femme
and
Louder
. There are no posters because I think posters are studenty but there’s a large white wipe board, which was an impulse buy one day when I was walking along the Broadway. I don’t use it much. Five weeks ago I wrote a twenty-five-item to-do list on it, and only four things are crossed off. I pick up a dry marker pen and cross off ‘Buy a plant’, at number twenty-two and add ‘Sort my life out’ at twenty-six.

I take Nicola’s letter out of my bag and wonder what to do with it. I feel guilty for even having it in the house but I can’t risk leaving it at work and I can’t risk carrying it around with me either. I think several times about destroying it but that feels wrong. Hiding it is the only option. I scour the room for the perfect place then head to the shelf with the twelve-inch singles and pull out one. It’s a three-song EP called
Maybe I Can Wear Your Jacket
by a band called the Parachute Men. I bought it over ten years ago after hearing it at two o’clock in the morning at an Indie night in a small club in Camden Town. At the time it was so absolutely and incontrovertibly everything I wanted from a record: passion, yearning and a female vocalist who sounded a bit like Debbie Harry. I’m pretty sure it only sold a few thousand copies but to me it was worth more than a mono-only copy of
Blonde on Blonde
or any of the multitude of rare Japanese-only pressings of Beatles seven-inch singles for which people like me are supposed to sell our souls. It was my all-time favourite record. If there was a fire in the flat and I could rescue only three things they’d be (in this order): Izzy, this record and the cat, mainly because Izzy would make me drop my hi-fi to go back and get him. I slip Nicola’s letter and the photographs inside the dust sleeve of the record and put it back on the shelf.

Normally, given a problem, my first action is to drop a CD into my hi-fi, put on my headphones, sit back in the leather armchair and leave everything behind for forty minutes or so. When the album I’d selected for company finished, I may not have solved my problems but I would at least feel better about being in the world. Today I know that there’s no point in doing this. Scott Walker doesn’t have an answer for what’s going on in my life, and neither does Lauryn Hill, Mark Eitzel, Chuck D, Beth Orton, the GZA, Björk, Al Green, D’Angelo or Roddy Frame or any of the hundreds of artists who can fit into my CD player. For the first time in my life I’m lost without music instead of lost in it.

It’s later in the evening, and the small lamp on the desk is on but the main light is off. I’m still in the armchair listening to the sound of nothing. Izzy knocks on the door, comes into the room and turns on the main light, making me blink.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘It’s okay,’ I reply.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing much. I’m still on lots of PRs’ mailing lists so I’ve got this lot to work through.’ I point to a large pile of CDs in Jiffy-bags. ‘I could be up most of the night listening to this lot.’

Izzy nods but she’s not convinced, I can see. ‘What’s wrong, babe? You haven’t said a word all evening. You’ve been avoiding me.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘You don’t look okay.’

‘Well, I am.’

Without saying another word she leaves the room. I listen to the sound of her footsteps across the hardwood floor of the hallway, the familiar getting-ready-for-bed noises of taps running and the toilet flushing, the click of the hallway light and the bedroom door closing. Then I allow the tears of anger, frustration and disappointment I’ve been holding back all day to run freely. This is the moment at which I know I don’t have it in me not to contact the girl who has written to me. I take out the photograph with her number from its hiding place, search for my mobile phone and dial. Her phone is switched off, so I breathe a sigh of relief and half smile as I listen to her voice: ‘Sorry, I’m not available right now . . .’ The message, in typical teen style, rambles on much longer than necessary. In contrast the message I leave is more succinct: ‘Hi, it’s Dave from
Teen Scene
. You wrote to me. I think we should talk. I’ll try you again some time.’

It’s just approaching ten o’clock as I reach work. I was up so late last night, thinking about the girl in the letter, that I overslept this morning, even though Izzy woke me several times with stern reminders that I’d be late if I didn’t get up. She made no reference to last night’s lack of conversational skills, which made me feel even worse. I knew I owed her an apology so once she’d left the flat I called her office number and left a message on her voicemail: ‘It’s me. Why do you put up with me? I love you. Speak to you later.’

When I arrive at work there’s a message on my voicemail from Izzy: ‘
Women have a very complicated relationship with the telephone. But the intriguing question for
Femme
readers is what boyfriends think of the messages women leave on their answerphone. The usual amount of words. End of this week, please. And by the way, I love you too.
’

I e-mail her to say I’ll do it for my next column and then I receive a message back telling me to ring her immediately because she has news for me. I dial her number and wait. She answers on the second ring.

‘Hello,
Femme
magazine.’

‘It’s me.’

She laughs. ‘Guess what?’

‘What?’

‘Kara’s leaving
Femme
. She’s been poached to launch a new title in Australia.’

‘And you’re excited because . . .?’

‘You know why I’m excited!’

Izzy has always wanted to be the editor of a women’s magazine. From the first day I saw her on our journalism course it has been her number-one goal.

‘They’ve offered you the job?’

‘Not exactly. They’re making me acting editor as of the end of this week. You would’ve loved it – I was really cool. I said I wasn’t interested unless they were seriously considering me for the job – you know how they are here, they get you to look after a magazine for half the pay of an editor then wonder why you’re annoyed when they get someone else in who’s got “more hands-on experience”.’

‘So what did they say?’

‘That my name was at the top of the list. They want me to go for the job. Even Kara wants me to go for it and I tell you I’ll get it!’

‘My wife, the editor of a magazine with a massive circulation. How fantastic is that? I’m really proud of you, babe.’

‘I knew you would be.’

‘And I’m sorry about last night. I was just in a crappy mood. You should’ve just ignored me.’

‘I can’t. I love you. That’s what being in love means. Is anything bothering you?’

‘No. Not really. Just the usual. Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘But I do worry.’

‘Well, don’t. After the end of this week you’ll have enough to worry about with the magazine. Does this mean you’re going to start power dressing for meetings?’

‘A little bit of Prada never hurt anyone.’

‘Will I have to speak to your PA to arrange what time to meet you at home for dinner?’

‘You might.’

‘Will you be ashamed that your husband is called the Love Doctor?’

‘Never.’

We speak for another half-hour, during which she makes me promise to come out for a drink with her and some of the
Femme
crowd to celebrate. I can’t say no even though I don’t feel like being sociable. Then we suddenly remember we’re at work. She has a million and one meetings to sit through and I have a telephone interview with a Swedish pop band, a couple of three-line album reviews to write and some pop gossip to sort out.

It’s just coming up to one o’clock and I’ve been working solidly for most of the morning. The interview with the Swedish pop band went well, mainly because it was the complete opposite to the kind I used to do for
Louder
. No in-depth autobiographical details. Instead I just cut to the really important stuff – who their first kiss was with, what size underwear they wore, and ten things about Sweden that they thought
Teen Scene
readers wouldn’t know.

‘I’m going to get a sandwich,’ I announce to Fran. ‘Fancy coming?’

‘Can’t,’ says Fran. ‘I’m being taken out to lunch with Ellie.’ Ellie is
Teen Scene
’s six foot tall and ridiculously attractive beauty editor. ‘There’s a makeup launch or something and she wants company. The deal is we eat lunch at a posh restaurant, the makeup PR tells us about their range, we listen attentively then drink ourselves silly. It’s a three or four-bottler for definite.’ She giggles and adds, ‘This is such a great job.’

‘You’re choosing a “three or four-bottler” over Coronation Chicken on rye, a Snapple and a packet of crisps with me?’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s your loss.’

Fran reaches into her bag, pulls out her purse and hands me a pound coin.

‘What’s this for?’

‘Have a Snapple on me.’

I step outside and discover it’s raining, but I pull out my personal stereo anyway and put on the headphones, press play and begin listening to the Swans’ version of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. I was feeling in a bit of a retro phase this morning as I got ready for work and had dug out an old compilation tape I’d made when I was a student. I’d listened to it so many times that I knew it inside out. After the Swans there was Dinosaur Jnr’s ‘Freak Scene’ and then Public Enemy’s ‘Public Enemy No. 1’.

There’s nothing on my mind as I walk along Tottenham Court Road towards the deli where I usually buy my sandwiches. For one quiet moment I forget all the turmoil of the past few days. I’m not thinking about the girl in the letter, her mother, Izzy, being a father, an agony uncle on a teenage girls’ magazine or even my career. I’m enjoying living in the moment with the music in my head. But then an oddly familiar-looking teenage girl in a rain-sodden dark blue school uniform appears in my line of vision and, suddenly, living in the moment isn’t an option any more.

The two of us stand and stare at each other, struck dumb. There’s no doubting that this is the girl who sent me the letter. She’s wearing a black pea coat, a dark blue V-necked jumper, a blue and white striped tie and a matching blue skirt that comes to just below her knees. Corkscrew curls of hair are tied back from her face, her light brown skin is without a blemish and across her nose is a light dusting of barely noticeable freckles. Her deep brown eyes are gazing at me unflinchingly. She still has a lot of that awkward charm of early youth in her face and although she’s biting the corner of her lip, which makes her mouth look crooked, I can see that she is the kind of girl who in a few years will be breaking a lot of boys’ hearts. That’s what I think about in the twenty or so seconds while we stand and stare at each other in the middle of Tottenham Court Road.