Lessons for a Sunday Father (36 page)

Nat won’t even meet Ella. Since he found out Scott had a girlfriend, he’s retreated more into himself and he refuses to see him on even the occasional Sunday, so it feels like one step forward, two steps back at the moment. Scott says,

“Of course I don’t have to see Ella on a Sunday if Nat’s not ready to meet her. Rosie and I always have part of the day on our own anyway. Just tell him, can’t you? I want him to see the flat.”

“I’ll try.”

Nat’s desperate to see Scott’s flat, too. I know he is. He’d die rather than admit it to anyone though, so I’ll have to make it sound like he’s doing Scott a favour. It would be nice not to have to go through all this, to play it straight, but Nat’s got so much pride and now I think he’s been angry for so long that he can’t see any way out of it without losing face. I wish I could make it easier for him.

Nat asked me if I was going to let Greg move in. He said it almost as if he thought it was inevitable—as if I’d really just let someone waltz in here with his suitcases without even discussing it with my children. Anyway, I’m in no rush to become a one-woman support service for another man just yet. I enjoy Greg’s company and yes, thank you, things are very nice in the bed department too, but I’m happy with things as they are. He’s a lot more serious than Scott, which takes a little getting used to, and he’s much more thoughtful and sensitive too, which I like. Also, he
listens
when I’m talking. Cassie says we should have him cloned. It’s odd, but now I find myself being rather silly at times, and encouraging Greg to loosen up and live a little. The other Sunday, I had him dancing along the beach. He showed me how to do the polka. That’ll come in handy for all the balls I get invited to, won’t it? No, really, it was fun. Before, with Scott, I seemed to turn into this awful uptight Victorian-style governess, endlessly trying to keep him in line. It’s just terrific to have some time off from being the sensible one.

“It feels kind of strange to be looking down at you for once.” We’re standing outside Ella’s house, after that first date, and I’m wondering whether she’ll ask me in for coffee or if we can skip the coffee and cut straight to ripping each other’s clothes off. “I’m so used to gazing adoringly up at you in your van.”

“As it should be, of course. Shall I stand on a box so you feel more at ease?”

“Nah. Don’t do that.” I move a bit closer, leaning in towards her.

“Why’s that then?” Her face is only a few inches from mine, her lips soft and smiling.

“Because I don’t want to get neck-ache when I kiss you …”

After a couple of minutes, or possibly a couple of weeks, she pulls away and starts burrowing in her bag for her keys.

“Um …” she says.

“Hey—that’s one of my best lines. Go get your own script.”

God, that smile. I’d go without food to be on the receiving end of that smile—and you know what a one I am for my nosh.

I pull her close again.

“If you’re planning to drag me indoors and have your evil way with me, I want you to know that my resistance is really low at this time of year, so I can’t guarantee to put up much of a fight.”

“Ah, that wasn’t it actually. Look, no big deal or anything but I have to tell you something—”

I do not like the start of that sentence. It’s not got a lot of promise, has it? It’s the kind of sentence that finishes up with “I’m married and my husband’s about to come out with his shotgun.” I like sentences that begin more along the lines of, “This is the way to my bedroom” or “This bra’s uncomfortable, do you mind if I take it off …?”

“It’s just, well, I don’t want to start liking you and then you find out and—
whoosht
!” She goes like this with her hand, like an object zipping by at speed.

“Whoosht?”
My hand does a repeat performance.

“Yes, you know, out the door and I won’t see you for dust.”

“I’m not that fit, believe me. There’s men of ninety run faster than me. So, what’s the big secret? Only if you want to warn me about your husband and he’s going to bust out the door any second, I’d better be getting a head start on him.” “Hardly. No. I’ve got a child, that’s all. A boy. He’s two and a half.”

“Does he have a name, this small person?”

“Jamie.”

“Hang on—let me check my list …” I hold out my hand like a clipboard. “Alfred, Ben, Charlie—dum-dee-dah, here we go—Jamie. Yes, on my list of approved names. Shouldn’t present any problems. Why’s it a secret? Is he the result of a drunken fling with a politician?”

She wrinkles her nose up at the thought. It’s a pretty nose, a nose I would like to kiss at this moment, so I do.

“That’s nice. Believe me, a lot of men run a mile soon as they know you’ve got a kid.”

“I told you about mine.”

“Not the same. They don’t live with you full-time.”

Too true, too true.

She stretches up to kiss me.

“You really OK with it?”

“Sure. So long as he doesn’t insist on sleeping in the middle …”

Cut to three weeks later if you will. It’s a Saturday afternoon. Jamie’s playing round at Cora’s house, that’s Ella’s sister, with his cousins. It’s raining, and not just a few light droplets either. This is rain that’s not going to give up and go home until you are seriously soaked, this is rain with
attitude.
We were planning on going for a bike ride along the old towpath by the canal, but as we’re not a couple of ducks it’s not looking like such a hot idea.

“Might as well stay in really.” I nuzzle at her neck.

“I could carry on with the mural in Rosie’s room.” It’s a castle and hills she’s painted on the wall. She’s a bit of an artist, is Ella. She likes to do some every week so there’s something new each time Rosie comes to stay. “I was thinking of adding a lake and some swans.” She tips her head back and half leans against me.

“Swans, yes. Could do that …” I very gently start licking her earlobe.

“Or I could go back home and bake some cakes for the van next week.”

“Cakes, yes. You could …” Tucking her hair back so I can kiss the skin behind her ear.

“Or we could do a jigsaw puzzle?” Her breathing’s faster, more ragged now.

“Jigsaw. Hmm-mm …” My hand slips down, sliding between her jeaned thighs and she half crumples against me.

“Or you could take me to bed …” Her mouth open to mine, her hands roaming up under my T-shirt, stroking my skin.

“Um, jigsaw puzzle’s probably the best bet.” My words slur out between hot kisses. I try to sneak my hand down the front of her jeans but they’re a good, snug fit. Struggling with the button now, the zip, leading her to the bedroom. She opens her eyes.

“Let’s take it slowly,” she says.

“OK, we’ll start with the edges.”

* * *

Take it slowly! Take it slowly? Is she kidding? I’ve waited months for this. Well, all right, three weeks then, but I’ve fancied her for ages so it counts as longer.

But slowly it is.

First, she draws my T-shirt up and over my head. Starts kissing me all over my chest, spacing the kisses out like a row of seeds. Her fingers lightly skim my skin, driving me crazy. Actually, if this is taking it slowly, I reckon I could stand a little more of it. I’ve never had anyone pay me so much attention.

She helps me off with my trousers. Yeah, I know, I’m forty-one, I’ve been managing to undress on my own for years, but she offered so what can you do? It’d be rude to say no, right? My pants virtually have to be peeled off me by this point, though if she leaves them on a minute longer they’d probably burst right off me or spontaneously combust.

Oh, hello, this looks promising. Ay-ay-ay … my eyes are rolling into the back of my head. God, I’ve missed this. Gail was never all that keen, to be honest, so it became a bit of a twice-a-year, birthday and Christmas treat, and it’s one thing you can’t do for yourself. Ella’s mouth is strutting some majorly funky stuff here and her hands aren’t just loafing either. I have died and gone to Heaven, there’s no other explanation. You can put “At least he died happy” on my headstone.

She leans me back on the bed, then quickly strips down to her bra and pants and climbs astride me. Bends to kiss me, her tongue flicking over my lips, gently drawing my bottom lip between her teeth. God, that’s good.

“I want to be inside you.” It’s what I mean, but it sounds feeble. It doesn’t sound like enough. “I want to be inside you, around you, through you, over you, under you, filling every inch of you …”

“You’ll have to be pretty supple.”

“I’ll be down that gym first thing in the morning.” I reach round her to unhook her bra. Circle her left nipple with the tip of my tongue then open my mouth wider to suck. She shivers above me.

“Cold?”

“No,” she smiles, drowsy-eyed. “Just shivery.”

“Here. Come under the covers.”

She snuggles up close to me.

“Any chance of removing these knickers in the next—oh—two seconds or so?”

“I was planning to keep them on. Good old-fashioned form of contraception—the barrier method.”

“You think I can’t sneak my way round these? Dream on.” I start stroking her thighs, teasing her, tracing a path over and around with my finger, hearing her breath catch in her throat as I stray from the path. I press harder, feeling her through the damp lace.

“Funny. Seems to be some kind of moisture down here. Perhaps I should investigate?”

“Must be environmental humidity—but you’d better check.” “Ah, yes, that’ll be it.” I start to burrow down under the quilt. “Seems to be at pretty high levels in this part of the country.”

Her legs shudder and widen for me. “Oh, it is,” she says, “It is.”

I’d tell you the rest but Ella says it’s private and also too rude for general consumption. Sorry.

There’s this knocking at my bedroom door. I carry on with the game. Then Mum’s voice, sounding all concerned.

“Nat?”

“Mn.”

“Can I come in?”

“What? Can’t you reach the handle or something?”

Excellent. This teacher at school, Mr Perkins, does this thing, right. When someone says, “Sir, sir—can I go toilet?” Perky goes, “I don’t know. Does Granny have to take you?” First time he says it, none of us got what he meant. Whoosh, straight over our heads. Then he tells us it’s like
can
isn’t the same as
may. Can’s
what you say when you mean something’s possible, like you can manage to do it and
may’s
when you’re asking if you’re allowed, wanting permission or whatever. Anyway, I remember it ‘cause Andrew nearly wet himself while Perky was telling us. He won’t let you go unless you say, “Please, sir, may I go to the lavatory?” He says it’s common to say toilet, but everyone else on the entire planet says it ‘cept for him, so what does he know? And even when you remember to ask how he wants he says you should have gone at breaktime and can’t you wait till lunch.

It’s wasted on Mum. She opens the door.

“Nat? What are you on about? Can’t you—” She stops then and crosses her arms. “Good game?” Ah, the trying-to-be-nice strategy. She’s been doing a lot of that lately. Actually, she’s not so bad. Just don’t tell her I said that, OK?

“S’all right.”

“Natty?” She only calls me that when she’s trying to get round me or treat me like a baby. “I thought you might be doing your homework?”

“Mn.”

“Could you switch off the game please.”

I turn away from the screen for a nanosecond. Fatal error. Terminated by an android. Thanks, Mum.

“Now look what you made me do.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Nathan, is that how you plan to spend the rest of your life? How’s that going to help you get your GCSEs? You could be anything you wanted to be—a doctor, a lawyer, a—”

“Yeah, right. Don’t you watch the news? There’s no jobs anyway.”

“So we might as well all give up now, is that right?”

“I’m just saying, what’s the point?”

She plonks herself down on the bed. There’s a bit of a rustle ‘cause I still had a mag under my duvet from last night, but she doesn’t seem to twig. She starts looking round at the floor, like she’s about to tell me to tidy it up, but she gives it a miss for some reason.

“But Nathan, look at your dad, for example …”

I give her a look. Oh, puh-leese. Since when has he ever been an example of anything?

“I know you’re still angry at him, and—well, I hope you’ll come to see he’s not as bad as you think. But my point is—your dad never got the chance to do much with his life, you know? He’s bright, but he left school as soon as he could at sixteen, with no qualifications to speak of, and that was it. He had to take the first job that came along. And he’s gone on that way. He works hard, but he could have done so much more.”

“Yeah, like Dad could have been a doctor or a judge?”

“Well, maybe not a doctor.” She does this spooky kind of smile. Jeez, I bet she’s thinking of Weirdy Beardy, then she goes, “He’s not much of a one for studying. And definitely not a judge, no. But he could have done
something.
Something that really interested him, I mean, something that made him look forward to each day. He could do his job in his sleep. It’s a waste, Nat. Don’t make the same mistake.”

Another rustle as she stands up. I hold my breath. She comes over and rests her chin on my head, the way she does with Dad sometimes. Used to do. Actually, it was kind of OK.

“But you’re not a doctor either and I bet you did all your homework. I bet you were a right goody-goody—like Rosie.”

She gives me a shove.

“Was
not.”
She rests her chin back on my head again and puts her arms round me. “There’s nothing wrong about being like Rosie and you know it. But no, you’re right, Nat, who am I to talk? I’ve wasted a lot of time, too, because I didn’t have a clue about what I wanted.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know either.”

“That’s OK. The thing is, you don’t need to know exactly what you want in your whole life when you’re only thirteen. But don’t leave it as late as me, hmm? Learn from my mistakes. Start noticing what you really enjoy so you know what you’re aiming for in life. But you also have to be prepared to work hard to get it.”