Dinner for Two (16 page)

As I continue up Tottenham Court Road it occurs to me that I should feel relieved to have been handed a Get Out of Jail Free card, that I’ve been let off the hook. Nicola doesn’t want to see me again, Izzy is none the wiser, my life can go back to normal. But I know that ‘normal’ isn’t possible any more because I don’t want to be free of Nicola and I’m not sure she wants to be free of me. It’s clear from her message that she’s more worried about me than she is about herself and, if anything, this makes me want to see her more.

When I reach the office I decide to call her on her mobile and leave a message. But then, just as I pick up the phone, Fran comes into the office and disturbs my concentration. ‘You’re
so
going to be freaked out by this,’ she says, waving a magazine in front of my face.

She holds up the front cover. I can see now that it’s an old copy of
Femme
featuring an airbrushed former A-list female TV presenter next to her equally famous musician boyfriend. ‘Last night I started rooting through some of the millions of magazines that clog up my bedroom, trying to work out which ones I was going to throw out, when I came across this old copy of
Femme
and you’ll never guess what I found in it.’ She flicks through the magazine until she reaches the page she’s looking for, then hands it to me. I scan the headline: ‘Does Your Partner Have A Secret Love Child?’ The article has Izzy’s name in the byline and my heart races. I turn to the front cover to check the issue date: January 2000.

‘I shouldn’t read too much into this,’ says Fran, matter-of-factly. ‘You know that this kind of topic is regular women’s-mag fodder, along with “Is Your Partner Cheating On You?” and “How To Get Your Man To Give You A Sixty-minute Orgasm” but . . . well, it is a weird coincidence, isn’t it?’

Izzy’s article consists of three women’s case histories, which detail how they came to discover their partner’s children. The first woman was in her early twenties and had only found out her boyfriend had cheated on her when the other woman appeared at her front door carrying a baby. The second was in her late twenties and discovered by accident that her husband of two years had fathered three kids by three separate women. The third, in her early thirties, was pictured with her two-year-old daughter, claiming that the father was an unnamed married pop star.

A fact box running down the side of the article really catches my interest. According to statistics, in England and Wales in 1998, of 240,611 births outside marriage, 49,960 had no father’s name on the birth certificate – a strong indicator that the father was either unknown or no longer present in the child’s life. A family law expert explained that the only way a father in the UK could have a child DNA-tested was with the permission of the mother, which she could refuse. This same lawyer also stated that a man discovering he has a child has no legal rights over it unless they are awarded to him by the child’s mother or, failing that, a successful application for a Parental Responsibility Order (PRO). This involves a court hearing at which a judge decides whether the child’s best interests will be served by having the absent father in its life.

The child’s best interests
. I have no idea what they might be. Is it in Nicola’s best interests never to see me if I really am her father? Would it be better for her if I stayed out of her life? Should I try to contact her mum and get things out in the open, or should I try to continue to see her on my own so that we can get to know each other on our own terms?

More so now than ever, I need to talk. Once again I choose Fran, but the office isn’t the place to tell her. I ask her if she wants to go for a lunch-time drink and she agrees. It might be one of the biggest clichés in the book but I tell myself that a problem shared really might be a problem halved.

Fran’s bored of Hampton’s so she’s taking me, rather aptly, to Freud, a small below-street-level bar in Covent Garden. As we walk we talk office gossip – which means Fran talks office gossip while I listen: Tina is thinking of dumping her boyfriend, Ellie apparently pulled a C-list soap star after a photo-shoot last week and Gina is getting married.

We reach the bar and go downstairs. There are three staff behind the counter and a number of couples and small groups of people drinking and eating. Fran and I order Cokes and a bowl of olives, then retire to a table opposite the bar.

‘So?’ says Fran. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this lunch-time?’

‘No reason.’

‘Yeah, right. Come on, out with it.’

‘Who says I want to talk about anything?’

‘
I say
.’

‘Okay, okay, okay. There is something I want to talk about but not yet. I need a while to warm up. In the meantime, what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘I’m the Love Doctor, aren’t I? Haven’t you got a love dilemma? How’s things with Linden?’

‘He’s all right.’

‘Good.’

‘He’s asked me to move in with him.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I said no.’

‘Why?’

‘Loads of reasons.’

‘Like?’

She sighs. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’

This isn’t like Fran. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

She laughs. ‘I can’t believe you’re the same grumpy music journalist who walked into
Teen Scene
.’

‘It’s just that—’

‘There’s nothing wrong, Dave,’ she says firmly. ‘I’m fine. I know I usually talk about everything but sometimes I talk too much. So I think it’s back to you. Come on, I know it’s to do with that letter. Has she contacted you again?’

‘I’ve got a confession about that. I’ve met her.’

‘But you told me—’

‘Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry. I suppose I’m a bit like you, really. It was okay talking about it when it was all theoretical but then suddenly I met her and . . . well, I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anyone.’

‘No one else knows at all?’

‘Apart from her, me and you.’

‘When did you meet her?’

‘Yesterday lunch-time.’

‘I thought you said you were just going out to get a sandwich. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered if you’d said’– she lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper – ’“Fran, I’m going out to meet my long-lost thirteen-year-old daughter.”’ She laughs. ‘So come on then, what’s she like?’

‘She was absolutely amazing. I mean there she was sitting across the table from me . . .’

‘What table?’

‘The table in McDonald’s—’

‘I thought you were getting a sandwich?’

‘I was and then she was outside waiting for me.’

‘And so you took her to McDonald’s? The first time you meet your estranged daughter and you take her to –
and I’m guessing here
– the McDonald’s at the top end of Oxford Street?’

I nod.

‘You really know how to treat a girl.’

‘I wasn’t thinking, was I?’

‘You can say that again. So what
was
she like?’

‘Amazing. Really amazing. And so smart, funny and sharp. Listen to me, I’m already sounding like a doting father.’

Fran smiles. ‘And she looks like you?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I thought I saw flashes here and there, but who knows? On the other hand she told me she was obsessed with music. I was, too, when I was her age—’

‘A teenage girl obsessed with pop music? Now
there’s
something she couldn’t have achieved on her own!’

‘Okay, sarky, you’ve made your point.’

Fran looks at me. ‘Why do you want her to be yours, Dave?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Most guys in your position would be looking for a million and one different ways to find out that the kid wasn’t theirs but you seem to be doing the opposite. Why?’

‘It just seems right.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘In July Izzy was pregnant.’

‘Oh,’ says Fran.

‘It didn’t work out. And, well, we decided that maybe kids aren’t for us, at least for the moment, but the thing is—’

‘You want to be a dad,’ says Fran.

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ I tell her. ‘It’s more complicated. It’s hard to explain . . .’

My hand is on the table and Fran puts hers on top of it. ‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ she says. ‘If you’re happy about Nicola then I’m happy for you, Dave. But as the only person you’ve told about this I think I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I didn’t rein you in a bit.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, from what you’ve told me you still haven’t met her mum.’

‘No.’

‘So, as far as I can see, you’re no closer to being sure Nicola’s yours than you were when you first got the letter. And, well, I think you have to be sure. Not just for Nicola’s sake but for yours too.’

Fran’s right, of course. Once again I’ve got way ahead of myself. I did need reining in. Maybe that’s what Nicola realised – the essential madness of our situation.

‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘Nicola called me today and said that she doesn’t want to see me again. I think . . . I know it’s because she thinks she’s messing up my life but she’s not.’ I take a sip of my Coke. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘So you haven’t already made up your mind?’

A smile spreads across my face. ‘Yeah, I have, actually.’

‘So what are you asking me for?’ says Fran. ‘You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.’

It’s five past three – just before the end of school on a crisp, sunny winter’s day. I’m standing by Nicola’s school gates. As comprehensives go, Wood Green appears to be no better and no worse than the one I’d attended when I was her age. I look around me at some of the mums and dads sitting in cars waiting for their kids. It’s hard to believe that at thirty-two I have anything in common with the type of people who do the ‘school run’, and yet here I am and here they are. I even spot a couple of women who look my age and wonder what their story might be.

At quarter past three I hear a bell ring and seconds later kids are flooding out of the school’s doors and along the path towards the gates. Soon I’m surrounded but I spot Nicola well before she reaches the gate. I call her name and she looks up but doesn’t see me. I call again, and she notices me, but as she walks over to me I have to ask myself again whether I’m really acting
in the child’s best interests
.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks quietly. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

‘No. Of course not. It’s just that I got your message and I wanted to talk to you about what you said.’ She nods. ‘I understand this is all a bit weird for you. I really do. I mean I’m this strange guy who works on a magazine and you’re a schoolgirl. And you think I’m your dad—’

‘I
know
you’re my dad.’

‘You do?’

She nods again.

‘But how?’

‘Because of what Mum told me years ago. Because you’re the guy in the photograph. And because of what Mum told me last night.’

‘What did she tell you last night?’

‘I asked her about you again – she’s used to that. When I was younger I used to ask about you all the time.’

‘So what did she say last night about me?’

‘I asked her if she saw you again whether she’d recognise you.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She said yes. She said even though you’d probably changed quite a bit the one thing that would be the same was your eyes. She said you had really beautiful eyes. And, well, you have, haven’t you?’

I want to laugh. This seems too ridiculous for words but Nicola believes it: my eyes are her evidence.

‘So, why don’t you want to see me any more if you know I’m your dad?’

‘All I wanted to do was meet you. I’ve done that now and it was nice. You were nice. But I don’t want to cause any trouble. You’ve got your own life and . . .’

‘If the reason you don’t want to see me again is because you’re worried about me then
don’t
worry. I mean it. I really do want to see you if you want to see me.’

‘But you’re married . . . you don’t want me messing it up.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I tell her. ‘I
do
want to see you.’

‘What will your wife say when you tell her about me?’

‘The same thing your mum will say when she finds out, probably.’

‘Are you sure?’ she says.

‘Absolutely. But, more importantly, are
you
sure? Like I said, I reckon this must be pretty weird for you.’

‘It must be weird for you too.’

‘Yeah, but I’m thirty-two. Weird is pretty much normal when you’re my age.’

‘What do you think we can do to make this not weird?’ she asks. ‘Last time we had a McDonald’s but we can’t keep doing that – we’ll get fat.’

‘I suppose it would help if we came out in the open and told Izzy and your mum what was going on. At least then it wouldn’t feel like we were doing something wrong. That’s what’s making us feel so strange – the secrecy. I’m really terrible with this kind of thing. And I’m sure it can’t be easy for you either.’

‘So you mean you
want
to tell your wife?’

‘And you know you should tell your mum,’ I say.

‘Yes, but the thing is . . .’

‘What?’

‘If I told Mum, everything would change. It wouldn’t be about me getting to know you, it would be about Mum being angry with me and, well, I haven’t done anything for anybody to be angry at, have I?’

‘No, I suppose you’re right.’

‘I will tell my mum about you – I
want
to tell her about you – and I know you’ll have to tell Izzy because it wouldn’t be nice not to . . . but wouldn’t it be nice just to have a bit more time? You know, just to hang out and stuff? All I want to do is get to know you better first.’

‘How long do we give ourselves, then? A day? Two days? A week?’