Dinner for Two (27 page)

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.’

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.

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.

‘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.

‘I kind of guessed that,’ says Caitlin. ‘It can’t be easy for her. I’m not sure I wouldn’t be the same if the tables were turned.’

‘But what’s the solution? I can’t extricate Nicola from my life. She’s in there now, part of me . . . just like Izzy’s part of me.’

‘It must be difficult being the one stuck in the middle.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I reply. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’ And, taking a deep breath, I tell her about the miscarriage.

‘That’s so sad,’ says Caitlin, when I finish. ‘No wonder she doesn’t want to meet Nicola.’

‘But what can I do? I don’t want Izzy to feel this way. And I don’t want Nicola to think any of this is her fault. But now that things are out in the open she’s going to think it’s strange Izzy hasn’t met her.’

‘I don’t want to be presumptuous, but . . . genuinely, and I mean this with my whole heart, is there anything I can do? I feel really terrible at how things have turned out. I feel bad for not trying hard enough to contact you when I knew I was pregnant and that Nicola’s never had a father in her life until now. I just feel that if there’s something I can do to make things even a little bit better I’d do it.’

‘Thanks. It’s really good of you to say that. But the truth is I don’t think there’s anything either of us can do. At the end of the day this is something only Izzy can come to terms with. I hope with all my heart that she will but I have to accept that there’s every chance she won’t, and that she has every right not to.’

It’s now nine o’clock, everyone has arrived and Nicola has begun to open her presents. In the last hour or so I’ve been introduced to Caitlin’s three brothers, David (the youngest at nineteen, studying law at UCL), Aidan (twenty-five, works in the City) and Paul (thirty and in computing), her sister Eloise (thirty-eight, the oldest of the family and mum to Nicola’s two fifteen-year-old cousins), and a whole host of friends. Everyone makes me welcome, and it would have been the perfect evening if Izzy had been there. I feel her absence like my own heartbeat – a constant reminder of what you need to survive. It doesn’t feel right being here without her. It feels disloyal. I decide to leave early.

‘I think I’m going to have to get off,’ I say to Caitlin, who’s standing next to me watching Nicola unwrap her presents. She looks at me, concerned, but doesn’t try to persuade me to stay, for which I’m grateful as I already feel like I’m letting Nicola down.