Dinner for Two (26 page)

‘I feel like we’re finally getting serious about life,’ says Trevor. ‘Serious enough to start looking at houses that we might be able to afford . . . Houses with gardens and okay schools in the area.’

‘You’re not . . .?’

‘No,’ says Stella. ‘Not yet, anyway. But it’s part of the plan. We buy a place, maybe we get married, but by next year we want to have a kid.’

‘Isn’t this all a bit fast?’ I ask. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘It isn’t too fast at all,’ says Stella. ‘That’s been the problem all along. I used to think I had all the time in the world to do everything I wanted. But what’s the use of having all the time in the world if you’re always wasting it on things that don’t mean a thing?’

This morning some CDs arrive in the post from various music PR companies. Normally I just bundle them all into the spare bedroom to work through when I can be bothered but today, as I’m not going in to work, I decide to listen to them. I’m usually cynical when it comes to CDs – all the staff at
Louder
were unless it was an artist we really liked. Basically we’d act like kings with a court jester, dropping the promo CD or tape into the stereo and giving it a short amount of time to prove itself before being consigned to the pile marked ‘Crap’, never to be played again. You have to do this kind of thing when you’re a music journalist simply because of the sheer volume of stuff that you get sent. Not every album can be judged like this – some are ‘growers’ and in my time I’ve consigned a fair number of multi-platinum or critically acclaimed albums to the ‘Crap’ pile but that’s just the way it goes. What I really love, though, is the rare moment when you put on an album by someone you’ve never heard of expecting to skip through the tracks in moments only to be blown away, and this morning that happens. I put on a CD called
Small Moments
, by an Irish singer called David Kitt, lie in bed and listen to it. It’s simple stuff – a bedroom recording-studio operation: one guy with a guitar and a few bits of rudimentary electronic gadgetry but it works perfectly. It was – to put on my music journalist head – a twenty-first century Nick Drake. I love it. It lifts my mood and transports me to another place. I listen to the whole album on repeat until midday. In the middle of ‘Another Love Song’, the album’s high point, the bell rings. I pick up my jeans and T-shirt from the floor, throw them on and answer the door. It’s Nicola in her school uniform.

‘Nicola,’ I say, surprised.

‘Hi,’ she says.

‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘I wanted to see you. I’ve been worried about you. Why haven’t you called me? I’ve left about a million messages on your answerphone.’

This is true. She has been ringing all weekend. Big, long, rambling messages, and I haven’t returned a single one.

‘I’m really sorry, sweetheart,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly. It’s just that something came up and everything dropped out of my head.’

‘I was worried. I thought something bad had happened to you.’

‘I’m really, really sorry. I should’ve remembered.’

‘Didn’t you get my other messages?’

‘Yeah, I did, but I had a lot on my plate.’

She looks hurt. ‘So you ignored them?’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose, Nicola. It was . . . just . . . well, I had a lot on, okay?’

‘But I left loads of messages . . .’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t you want to see me any more?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then why didn’t you call me? I thought my phone was broken. We’ve never gone this long without talking since I’ve known you.’

This isn’t true but that’s not the point. I should’ve returned her calls. I know it’s a hateful thing to do. But standing there in the communal hallway of my house being lectured by a thirteen-year-old girl is the last thing I need when my wife has left me. The absolute last thing.

And before I know it I’ve lost my temper with my beautiful girl.

‘What do you want from me?’ I snap. ‘I’ve already told you I’m sorry. What more is there?’

The look of horror on Nicola’s face brings me to my senses. If I’d wanted to hurt her my mission is accomplished. Within seconds floods of tears are streaming down her face and all the time she’s just looking at me, unable to believe I can act in such a terrible way. I can’t believe it either.

‘What have I done wrong?’ she asks. ‘I only wanted to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘What have I done?’ she repeats. There’s real pain in her voice. ‘Why don’t you like me any more? What can I do to make you like me again?’

‘It’s not you,’ I tell her. ‘Of course I love you. I’m sorry. You’re all I’ve got.’ I throw my arms round her and hold her tightly, unsure if I will ever let go.

We talk, my daughter and I, about everything. It’s hard to tell her the truth but I want to be honest with her. I tell her about Izzy leaving, I tell her about the miscarriage, and I even tell her that Izzy might be pregnant, although I half expect her to get even more upset. But she doesn’t. She’s really
grown-up
about it. She listens carefully, and when I finish she tells me not to worry. She says that whatever it is I need to do to get Izzy back she’ll help me. She tells me that everything will be all right. And the strange thing is, I believe her.

So, after she leaves to go back to school, I make my way to the spare bedroom and turn on my laptop, slap a fake smile on my face and begin my next ‘Male Man’ column. Two hours later I’ve finished it. Eight hundred words of ‘What your boyfriend might be thinking’ that makes me sound like the world’s most perfect partner. It made me feel good writing this piece. I’d hit rock bottom and now the only way is up.

Dear Izz,

The show must go on eh?

Dave XXX

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.

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.