From Here to Paternity

Chapter 1

As I understand it, there are ways to celebrate the news of the arrival of your first child. Handing out cigars, for example, or the traditional glass of something alcoholic. Seeing as neither Tom nor I smoke, I’ve decided on the second option, which is why I’ve just opened a rather nice–as in on the plus side of a fiver–bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. But while I don’t pretend to be an expert in all things birth-related yet, I’m pretty sure it’s the baby’s head you’re supposed to be wetting, and not the father’s.

‘Sorry, Will,’ says Tom, handing me a tea towel so I can mop up the mouthful of wine he’s just spat over me in surprise. ‘But…you’re going to be a father?’

I dab at the red stain on my now not-so-white shirt, and grin back at him, at the same time trying to ignore the crashing of plates I’ve just heard from the kitchen where Barbara, Tom’s wife, is preparing the Sunday roast. And although I’m not sure I like the emphasis Tom’s put on the word ‘you’re’, I react like one of those nodding dogs you used to see in the back of brown Austin Allegros.

‘Yup.’

Tom shakes his head, making one of those long-suffering faces that I’ve come to know from my best friend over the years. Barbara, on the other hand, slams shut the oven door and comes rushing in from the kitchen. For once, she doesn’t say anything, but instead gives me a look that leaves no doubt she can’t quite believe what she’s just heard.

You? her look continues. Will Jackson, the most irresponsible man I know? A father?

I keep nodding, much to Barbara’s obvious bewilderment. She and Tom have been married for nearly ten years, and by now she’s usually quite accepting of my various escapades. But apparently not this one, because when she finally manages to form a sentence, it’s not quite the one I was hoping for.

‘You’re joking, surely?’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ I say, my idiotic grin suggesting otherwise.

‘Tom?’ implores Barbara, sitting down next to me at the table and putting her head in her hands. She’s wearing a pair of crocodile-puppet oven gloves, which make her look like she’s being attacked at a Punch and Judy show. ‘Say something, will you?’

‘Er, congratulations?’ He holds a hand out towards me, which I shake enthusiastically. ‘But I thought you and…What was the name of your last one?’

I have to think for a second. ‘Cecilia.’

‘Ah, yes. The lovely Cecilia. I thought you and she had split up?’

‘We did.’ I take a sip of my wine. ‘Last week.’

‘Oh.’ His expression changes to one of confusion. ‘But—’

‘Typical!’ interrupts Barbara. ‘And I bet you binned her because you got her pregnant, didn’t you? Poor girl. Well, I don’t know what you’re looking so happy about. There are far too many single-parent families nowadays without you adding to that number.’

I inch imperceptibly away from Barbara, all too aware of her potential to show her disapproval in more physical ways. ‘No–you don’t understand. I binned her, to use your sympathetic description, because she’s not the one I’m having the baby with.’

‘This gets worse,’ says Barbara. ‘You’ve been cheating on her and you’ve got someone else pregnant.’

‘No. Nothing like that.’ I make a hurt face. ‘What do you think I am?’

Fortunately, Tom holds up his hand before Barbara can begin to tell me. ‘Hang on,’ he says. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Are you, or are you not, having a baby?’

‘I will be, yes.’

‘So,’ sighs Barbara, removing the oven gloves and placing them on the table, ‘who’s the–and I use the word advisedly–lucky girl? Anyone we know?’

I shrug. ‘It’s not even anyone I know.’

She frowns. ‘So you haven’t actually got anyone pregnant?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘But you are going to be a dad?’ says Tom.

‘Yup.’

Tom and Barbara exchange puzzled glances. ‘So what are we celebrating, exactly?’ asks Tom. ‘The fact that you’ve become a sperm donor?’

‘No. The fact that I’ve made a decision to do something life-changing. I, Will Jackson, am going to be a father.’

As I sit back smugly in my chair, enjoying the sound those particular words have made, and Tom and Barbara look at each other in disbelief, there’s a long, awkward silence. So long and awkward, in fact, that I feel I have to start speaking again. ‘And I’ll tell you something–the day I decided was the happiest day of my life. Finally, I realized I had a purpose. A direction.’

‘Other than going nowhere fast, you mean?’ Tom says. ‘And what do you mean, you decided? On your own?’

Barbara looks even more mystified than before. ‘Isn’t it normally the kind of decision that takes two people?’

‘It is. I mean, it will be. Eventually. Yes. And there’s the thing.’

She reaches over and takes a swig from Tom’s glass. ‘What thing?’

‘I just need to find the right woman. Which is what I wanted to ask you. Well, ask Barbara, really…’

‘Steady on,’ says Tom. ‘I know we’re friends, but there are some limits.’

It’s my turn to be confused. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘And you’re not going to, either,’ says Barbara, folding her arms.

‘No–you don’t understand. To ask whether you know anyone who might be suitable. For me.’

Barbara stares at me for a second while she attempts to process this particular piece of information. ‘For you to have a baby with, you mean?’

‘Yup.’

‘Let me just think…’ She gazes off into the distance theatrically before suddenly cuffing me round the top of my head. ‘No! Of course not. What a ridiculous idea.’

‘It’s not ridiculous, Barbara,’ I say, smoothing my hairstyle back down. ‘I’m not getting any younger.’

‘You’re thirty,’ says Tom. ‘That’s hardly old.’

‘Yes it is,’ I say. ‘I found a grey hair the other day.’

‘So what?’ says Tom, running his fingers through his hair, in the manner of the man in the Grecian 2000 advert. ‘Even I’ve got a few.’

‘It wasn’t on my head, Tom. And besides, my biological clock is ticking.’

As Barbara and Tom stare at me in disbelief, the kitchen timer rings, much to Barbara’s amusement. ‘Oh my word. It’s Desperate Dad,’ she laughs, before heading back into the kitchen.

‘Will, you’re a man,’ says Tom, refilling his wine glass. ‘You don’t have a biological clock, and even if you did, your clock can keep on ticking long past…Well, as long as there’s still juice in the battery, so to speak.’

‘Precisely,’ agrees Barbara, as she places a tray of strangely shaped Yorkshire puddings on the table. She’s normally an excellent cook, but hasn’t quite perfected the Sunday roast yet. ‘So, why the big rush? You’ve not got some incurable disease you haven’t told us about?’

‘No–nothing like that.’

‘Shame,’ jokes Tom, topping up my glass.

‘It’s just that I love kids. Well, the twins especially.’ I nod over towards the conservatory, where Jack and Ellie, Tom and Barbara’s five-year-olds, are sat in front of the TV, spellbound by some Disney DVD that they’ve already seen approximately four thousand times. ‘And I see the enjoyment you get from the two of them, and I want to be a part of that.’

‘You are a part of that,’ says Tom reassuringly.

‘When you remember their birthdays,’ adds Barbara. ‘Which you’d think would be easy, seeing as they’re both on the same day.’

‘No, I mean that I want some of that. For myself. My own family.’

‘There’s some merit in that,’ agrees Barbara, slapping my hand away from the tray. ‘At least then you won’t be turning up here for lunch every Sunday.’

Tom smiles. ‘What’s brought this on? I never had you down as the two-point-four type.’

‘I’m not. I mean, neither did I. But I’m going to be thirty-one soon. That’s not thirty any more. It’s thirties. And recently, I—’

Barbara taps the side of her nose. ‘Aha. Will, I’m sensing the phrase mid-life crisis here.’

‘It’s not a mid-life crisis. Heaven knows I see enough of them in my clients to know what one looks like.’ I work as a life coach. Which isn’t really a proper job, and certainly isn’t a valid basis for taking money off people, according to Barbara. ‘But there’s a reason why those holidays are called 18–30. Because at thirty-one, you need to take life a bit more seriously. Have some responsibilities.’

‘But you’ve never been on an 18–30 holiday,’ laughs Tom.

‘And I won’t be able to, soon. So I’ve got to get on with the next phase of my life.’

Barbara pats my hand sympathetically. ‘You’re feeling broody, aren’t you?’

‘No–I just want to do something with my life.’

She shakes her head. ‘This isn’t just another of your five-minute obsessions, is it? Like the time you got the tropical fish? And we all know how that turned out.’

I redden slightly. ‘Yes, well, how was I to know they’d be so labour-intensive?’

‘Will, remembering to feed them every week and cleaning their tank out occasionally is hardly labour-intensive. And by the way, any fool knows you don’t do it with bleach.’

‘Especially while the fish are still in there,’ adds Tom.

Barbara sighs. ‘And if you think the fish were hard work, you obviously haven’t got the first idea about looking after a child.’

Tom nods. ‘It’s quite a lifestyle change, you know. A fair distance from your current man-about-town existence.’

‘And that’s precisely why I want all this.’ I gesture around the room with the hand holding my wine glass, causing Barbara to check anxiously for signs of spillage on the carpet. ‘I’m tired of single life.’

‘You wouldn’t be single if you didn’t keep breaking up with all these women,’ points out Tom.

‘Have you thought about getting a dog instead?’ suggests Barbara, heading into the kitchen and returning with a bowl of roast potatoes. ‘As a pet, rather than as a girlfriend, I mean?’

‘Very funny.’

Barbara shakes her head. ‘I wasn’t joking.’

‘Will, do you really know what it’s like?’ says Tom. ‘Being woken up throughout the night? The constant crying? The mess everywhere?’

‘And that’s just when you’re trying to get pregnant,’ says Barbara.

Tom grins. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, walking into the conservatory and ruffling the twins’ hair. ‘We’ll lend you our two for a few days, if you like. See what you think after that.’

From in front of the television, Jack and Ellie glance nervously in my direction.

‘Really?’ I glance even more nervously back. ‘I’ll, er, just take them away with me after lunch, then.’

‘Fine,’ says Tom.

‘Great,’ I say, trying to ignore the fact that Jack’s bottom lip has started to tremble.

‘Over my dead body,’ says Barbara, fetching a plate of roast beef from the kitchen and putting it down on the table.

‘Go on,’ says Tom. ‘It’ll be good for him. Might make him think a bit differently.’

‘Tom–you seem determined to put me off. Don’t you think I’d be a good dad?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ says Tom, neatly side-stepping the issue. ‘I just…I mean, Barbara and I just want you to know what you’d be letting yourself in for.’

I put my wine glass down. ‘Tom, you didn’t ever meet my dad, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, nor did I. Not really, anyway. He left when I was still a baby. And that’s why I’ll be a good father. Because I’d never do that to a child of mine.’

‘Maybe so,’ says Tom. ‘But I just want you to know what it really means to be responsible for someone else. You can’t even keep your houseplants alive. Having kids…Well, it affects your every waking hour.’

‘And a lot of your sleeping ones as well,’ adds Barbara.

‘It’s true,’ insists Tom. ‘You’re on call twenty-four-seven. And what’s more, you look at these little things, and realize there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for them.’

As he smiles down at the twins, Ellie swivels round and tugs on his trouser leg. ‘Daddy, can I have a drink?’

‘Not now, Ellie,’ says Tom, picking her up and plonking her back in front of the television. ‘Daddy’s talking to Uncle Will.’

‘I thought you said there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do for them?’

‘Yes, well.’ Tom sits back down at the table. ‘It’s a figure of speech, isn’t it?’

‘It is for you,’ says Barbara, fetching a couple of juice cartons from the kitchen and handing them to the twins.

Tom ignores her. ‘And then there’s the career stuff,’ he continues. ‘If you’re at all ambitious then, sometimes, having a child means you have to put that ambition on hold.’

‘Well, one of us did,’ says Barbara archly. Until the twins came along, she used to do something high-flying in the City that neither Tom nor I ever quite understood.

‘But that’s the beauty of it,’ I say. ‘That is my ambition. To have a child.’

‘Why now?’ asks Barbara. ‘What’s wrong with your life the way it is?’

‘Nothing. But I suppose that I just pictured it a little differently. That I’d have a family by now.’

‘Well, maybe you should have thought about settling down earlier,’ she says.

‘Yes, well, it’s called settling down because most people end up settling for someone they don’t really want to be with, and the down part is because that makes them depressed…’

Tom puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. ‘Or is it because you like playing the field too much?’ he says, adding, ‘Lucky sod!’ before ducking to avoid the oven glove Barbara throws at him.

‘Tom, playing the field, to use your quaint expression, isn’t quite the fun you make it out to be. There’s an awful lot of rejection and disappointment involved. Can you imagine what that’s like?’

‘Will, I’m an actor,’ says Tom. ‘I get rejected and disappointed every day.’

‘And anyway, it’s you two who are the lucky ones. You’ve managed to find someone who you want to spend the rest of your life with and, together, you’re building a family unit. This house isn’t just a house.’ I gesture again towards the conservatory, which resembles the aftermath of an explosion in Hamleys. ‘It’s a home.’

‘But, Will,’ says Barbara. ‘I can’t really see you doing domesticity.’

‘Maybe not. But I still want the family part. And before it’s too late.’

Tom makes a face. ‘Too late? Too late for what?’

‘Listen,’ says Barbara. ‘Don’t rush this. You’ve got a while yet.’

‘Maybe so. But think about it. I’ve got to find someone. Get her pregnant. Hope the pregnancy goes okay, and then it’s a further nine months. So I can’t procrastinate.’ I make a lunge towards the tray of Yorkshire puddings, and manage to grab one before Barbara can stab me with a fork. ‘Goal setting. It’s what I tell all my clients. And so by the time I’m thirty-one…’

‘Which is’–Tom does a quick calculation–‘less than a month away.’

‘…I’m going to find someone to start a family with.’

As I sit back in my chair and examine the soggy piece of batter in my hand, Barbara frowns. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.

‘Your Yorkshire puddings are just a bit…mushy.’

Tom lowers his voice. ‘That’s what breastfeeding two kids does to you,’ he says, followed by ‘Ouch!’ as Barbara’s second oven glove catches him on the ear.

Barbara sits down next to me. ‘I think you’ve forgotten something, Will.’

‘Which is?’

‘What about falling in love? It’s not a business decision, having kids.’

I take a bite and chew thoughtfully. Fortunately, it tastes better than it looks.

‘Well, there’s another thing.’

‘Uh-oh,’ says Barbara. ‘What do you mean?’

‘How long did it take you two to fall in love?’

‘Years,’ says Tom, checking Barbara’s got nothing left to throw. ‘I mean, we’d known each other for ages before we started going out, and I think we fell for each other pretty quickly, but of course while you might be in love, there’s a difference between being in love and being in love enough…’

‘…to have a baby,’ says Barbara, finishing the sentence for him.

‘Precisely,’ agrees Tom, before realizing he’s actually agreeing with himself.

Barbara looks at me sympathetically. ‘What about you, Will? Have you ever been in love?’

I pretend to consider this for a moment. ‘I don’t think so…’

‘What about whatsername?’ interrupts Tom.

I don’t have to guess who he means. ‘Anita?’

Tom nods. ‘You were pretty keen on her at the time.’

I shrug. ‘Maybe. But I’m not sure it was love,’ I say, pronouncing it ‘lurve’.

‘There’s always Sadie?’ he suggests.

‘Sadie?’ says Barbara. ‘Was that someone at college?’

I blush. ‘He means Sade. The singer. And it’s pronounced shar-day, Tom, for the millionth time. I was head over heels in love with her. When I was thirteen.’

Barbara sighs. ‘Will, I’m talking about a real person.’

‘Sade was real. Is real.’

‘Yes, but your love for her wasn’t.’

‘Yes it was. I had all her albums. And a massive poster of her on my wall. Above my bed, in fact. So I could see it as I…’

‘Oh please. Will, be serious.’

‘…went to sleep, I was going to say. And I am serious. Or at least I was about Sade, at the time.’

Barbara looks at me as if I’m completely missing the point. ‘I’m talking about real, romantic love. Not an unhealthy obsession with some pop star.’

‘It wasn’t unhealthy,’ I mumble. ‘And anyway, what’s love got to do with it?’

Barbara folds her arms. ‘What do you mean, what’s love got to do with it?’

‘Hang on,’ says Tom. ‘That was Tina Turner. Not Sade.’

‘What are you getting at?’ Barbara asks me, a little more interested now that we’re on her territory.

‘Or was it Bonnie Tyler?’ Tom continues, to no one in particular.

‘I mean, what if I dispense with the love part?’

Barbara frowns. ‘Huh?’

‘I’m serious. What if I concentrate instead on finding someone who’s going to be a great mother? Someone who really wants kids and–here’s the clever part–has all the skills and characteristics that you’d look for in a mum. Surely that’s the best way to ensure that the child has the best possible upbringing?’ I look at them both hopefully, pleased with my fantastic solution. ‘What do you think?’

Barbara grimaces. ‘Well…It’s hardly the traditional route, is it?’

‘So? What is the traditional route nowadays? Get married, have a family, get divorced? It’s only going to end up in tears anyway, so why not do without all that emotional bollocks and cut to the chase. Focus on what’s really important. The child.’

Barbara retrieves her oven gloves from where she’s thrown them at Tom and stands over me, pulling them back on in the same manner that a boxer might. ‘You want to have a baby in the full knowledge that you’ll probably divorce the mother at some point?’

I nod nervously. ‘That’s the idea. Surely if I approach it that way, at least we’ll avoid all the bitterness?’

‘So tell me–you’d plan to chuck her out onto the street when, exactly? As soon as Will junior goes off to college? Or turns twenty-one? I can picture it now–Happy birthday, son. Here’s your present: the key to the door. And by the way, your mother and I only got together so we could have you, and now that you’re leaving home, well, so is she.’

I shrug. ‘That’s if I even get married to her in the first place.’

Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘Welcome to Planet Will. Why you’ve remained single over the years just amazes me.’

‘I’m serious, Barbara. Times have changed. Getting divorced was really tough for my mum back when my dad left. Nowadays it’s more of a stage everyone goes through. Like puberty.’

‘Or temporary insanity, in your case,’ says Tom.

‘Besides, divorce isn’t necessarily such a bad thing for the kids.’

Barbara sits back down. ‘I can’t wait to hear this.’

‘Think about it.’ I lower my voice, even though it’s unlikely that the twins are paying attention to anything except for the cartoon on the screen in front of them. ‘Say you and Tom split up, and then each marry someone else. The kids have now got two sets of parents. Twice the love. And from their point of view, two homes. Two sets of toys. Two lots of holidays. And maybe even some more brothers or sisters. Surely if the parents can remain civil because they’ve both moved on, then that kind of arrangement’s better than when people stay trapped in an unhappy marriage just for the sake of the kids–who I’m sure will pick up on the bad vibes anyway?’

Barbara stands up again. ‘Well, that’s one point of view,’ she says, making it clear with her tone that it’s not her point of view.

Tom twists the top off another bottle of wine. ‘So, assuming we might just know someone, have you thought about the kind of woman you want to be the future ex-Mrs Jackson?’

Barbara looks from Tom to me, and then back at Tom again. ‘Hold on. Let’s not discuss this as if we’re actually thinking of doing it,’ she says, before stomping back into the kitchen.

I lower my voice again, but this time so Barbara can’t hear. ‘Okay–she needs to be at least thirty. That way, I’ve got a good chance of ensuring that her biological clock is ticking even louder than mine.’

‘What about going for a younger one? As in much younger. That way, by the time the kid’s out of the picture, if you do decide to stay together you’ve still got yourself a nice young—’ Tom stops talking abruptly, aware that Barbara’s reappeared, and is standing behind him holding a hot pan of gravy.

‘Nope. The way I see it, she needs to be in the same boat as me. Probably hasn’t had a child yet…’

‘What’s wrong with someone who’s already had a baby?’ says Barbara indignantly. ‘She’ll be better at motherhood. She’ll already have had the practice.’

‘Fair point. But equally, having another child could distract her from giving mine the attention it needs, and I want her to be completely dedicated to nurturing the baby.’

‘Will, don’t forget you’re talking about a woman here,’ says Barbara. ‘A human being. Not a growbag.’

‘She’s got to be smart, well dressed…’ I say, counting off on my fingers.

Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘…come from a decent home, have a good job. And obviously she can’t have any physical deformities. Or mental ones. Or be fat.’

Barbara sighs loudly, then heads back into the kitchen to fetch the gravy boat.

‘You really want to go through with this, don’t you?’ says Tom.

I nod. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’

‘Since when?’ asks Barbara, walking back into the room.

‘Er…Since last Monday, actually. But I have given it a lot of thought.’

‘So I see,’ says Barbara scornfully. ‘Nearly a week…’

Tom takes the gravy boat from Barbara and puts it on the table, careful to place it on the coaster. ‘Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reasons?’

‘Tell me what the right reasons are, exactly. I know one thing–a lot of people do it for the wrong ones, or at the wrong time, or can’t afford it. I have the time. I’m going to provide a stable financial household. I even have the spare room. I’m fit, I’m healthy—’

‘If a bit mad,’ interrupts Barbara.

‘I’m serious. My life couldn’t be going better. I’ve got everything I need, except for…’

Barbara smiles. ‘A brain?’

‘A family,’ I reply, helping myself to a couple of roast potatoes. ‘Fundamentally, I just really, really, really want to be a dad. And there’re a lot of men out there–present company excepted–who’ve already got kids and who can’t truthfully say that.’

‘But…’ Barbara seems to be struggling to find new arguments. ‘Why do you feel this need so strongly?’

‘I just…do. It’s hard to describe it. Just like Tom’s always known he wanted to be an actor, I’ve always wanted to do this.’

‘Well, why haven’t you yet?’ she says, passing me a plate with about half a ton of meat on it. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t had the opportunity.’

‘Because the kind of girls I’ve been attracted to so far, well…’

Barbara folds her arms again. ‘Well what?’

‘They’ve been good-looking, great fun to go out with, sexy, fantastic in bed, but…’

‘But?’ Tom looks at me strangely. ‘How can there possibly be a but after that description?’

‘But I couldn’t imagine any of them looking after my children. Making them would have been fun, but, well, sometimes these things are mutually exclusive, aren’t they?’

‘Not at all,’ says Tom, although a little too slowly for Barbara’s liking.

Barbara smiles. ‘So you’re just after someone who can be a good mother, pure and simple?’

I finish my mouthful of roast beef. ‘Well, maybe not so pure…And that’s my dilemma. Because there’s a difference between the kind of girl I’d normally go for, and a, er, mother-type, isn’t there?’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Is there?’

I look nervously across at Barbara, who’s brandishing her knife menacingly in my direction, and swallow hard. ‘Well, look at Cecilia, for example. A great girl, really good fun and all that. But could you really see her caring for a child for eighteen years?’

‘Not for even one evening,’ says Barbara.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Tom, trying to strain the lumpy gravy through his fork. ‘It’s genetic. They may not seem like it at the time, but the second a woman gets up the duff—’

‘That’s the accepted medical term, is it?’

‘Yup. Anyway–the moment most women catch even the slightest glimpse of a child, the old hormones kick in and they magically seem to know all this stuff about rearing and breastfeeding and the like. It’s as though it’s already programmed into them.’

‘So you’re saying that if Cecilia had become pregnant, then all the partying would have suddenly stopped?’

Tom puts his fork down. ‘Well, the coke habit might have been a bit of a tricky one to kick. But essentially, yes.’

‘So why didn’t you ever let the two of us babysit for Jack and Ellie, then?’

Barbara rolls her eyes. ‘I refer you to Tom’s previous observation.’

‘Ah. But in any case, I’m going to have to play it safe. I can’t take the gamble that suddenly they’re going to turn into supermum. They’ve got to know what they’re doing from day one.’

‘Tell me something. Honestly,’ says Tom. ‘You haven’t just gone and knocked someone up, and this is your way of covering it up?’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I say. ‘And thanks for your faith in my motives.’

He grins sheepishly. ‘And you’re sure it’s really what you want?’

‘Well, let me ask you a question. What’s the most rewarding thing you’ve ever done?’

Tom considers this for a moment.