Dinner for Two (20 page)

Nicola pulled a face. ‘I don’t put just anything on my walls, you know. I’ve got some taste.’ She continued the tour, pointing out her favourite books, her favourite CDs, her favourite incense sticks and even her favourite cuddly toys – the only things in the room that remind me she’s still only a kid. Only a few years ago these toys had been her favourite things in the world and even now it’s obvious they still hold a strong attachment.

‘I used to have hundreds,’ she explains, pointing to the collection of soft toys that reside on the floor in the corner of her room by her portable CD player. ‘But I gave a lot of them away because they were a bit babyish.’

‘So what are these?’

‘These are my favourites.’ She points them out one by one. ‘This one,’ she waves to a teddy bear the size of a four-year-old, ‘is Patrick. I’ve had him since I was really small. My gran bought him for me.’ She points to his nose. ‘Can you see how that patch of fur is worn?’ I nod. ‘I did that. Mum said I used to rub his nose to get to sleep. I did it every night for years.

‘This one,’ she points to a furry white gorilla, with a red face and beady eyes ‘. . . is Harry and he does this—’ He has springs attached to his hands and a string attached to his head so that when he bounces up and down his arms wave in the air. ‘Mum bought me him for my birthday when I was ten because I was really into wildlife and said I wanted a pet monkey.’

‘Who’s this one?’ I ask, indicating a furry tiger. Its mane is slightly matted, its fur is worn: all in all it has seen better days.

‘This one,’ says Nicola. ‘He’s one of my favourites. I’ve had him since I was eight. You’re going to think that I’ve made this up but his name is Dave.’

‘Dave?’ I repeat.

‘I named him after you,’ she says and smiles. ‘I always knew you two would meet one day.’

It’s a few days later and I’m on my way home from work when I bump into Sean, an old friend of Izzy’s who lives in Glasgow. Sean’s wife Amy had a baby daughter, Amber, last summer just before Izzy got pregnant and I’m not even sure whether he knows what happened. Sean is in London for the day on business and on his way to a meeting with a client. He asks after Izzy and I ask about Amy and Amber. He says Amy’s fine, then spends a good ten minutes telling me about Amber: her sleeping patterns, her favourite foods, how her ability to grab his fingers shows that she’s destined to be a genius. The list is endless.

I hate myself for it but I feel jealous – not because he’s got a baby and I haven’t but because he’s telling me how wonderful
his
daughter is but I can’t do the same for mine. I want to tell this man, who isn’t even a close friend, all the things that make me proud of Nicola: how pretty she is, how good she is at art, how her teachers say that some of her Key Stage 3 work is so good she might get a gold certificate. But I have to bite my tongue. He concludes, ‘You and Izzy really should have kids. It really will change your world.’ I kind of laugh and half smile because I know he doesn’t mean anything by it. But his careless comment really stings and I look at my watch quite deliberately because I don’t want to stand here with him any more. Before we go our separate ways he makes me promise that Izzy and I will come and spend the weekend with him, Amy and Amber, and the first thing I do after leaving him is get out my mobile and call Nicola.

‘Hello?’ says Nicola brightly.

‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Where are you?’

‘Hi, Dave,’ she says. ‘I’m in my room listening to music. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Really good. What about yourself?’

‘I’m a bit bored. I’ve got loads of homework and I just feel too tired to do any of it. I’d go to sleep but Mum said she’d be checking to make sure I did it. She was joking but you can’t be too careful with my mum.’

‘I was just wondering what you fancied doing next time we meet?’

‘I don’t mind, really. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of driving around in the car.’

I laugh. ‘I think I am.’

‘How about a compromise? We could drive around in the car and listen to a CD of
your
choice. You’re always telling me about those millions of albums you’ve got that I should listen to. Here’s your chance.’

‘I tried that one, don’t you remember? I played you my favourite REM album
Automatic for the People
and you said it was “totally rubbish and boring”.’

‘But it
was
totally rubbish and boring,’ Nicola giggles.

‘That’s as may be but it doesn’t matter anyway because I’ve got a plan. Maybe . . . we could go shopping for your birthday.’

I’ve been thinking about asking her if she wants to do this all week. I don’t like to ask whether she and her mum have enough money but it’s clear that it isn’t overflowing. I want to do something for her – anything, really – and this is all I can think of.

‘We can’t go shopping.’ She sighs. ‘It’s not my birthday until May and, anyway, how would I explain anything I get to Mum?’

‘Two good points you’ve made there and I’ve thought about both already. How about we do this? We don’t go ordinary shopping, we go window-shopping. You choose what you want right now and when it’s your birthday we’ll come back and get them. What do you reckon?’

‘It sounds great. But what about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘What about all the presents I should’ve bought you? Birthdays, Christmas and Father’s Day?’

Father’s Day hasn’t been a day to which I’ve ever paid much attention. I’ve always believed it’s been created by the greetings-card industry to boost trade. Mother’s Day is the real thing. The one you don’t dare to forget. Father’s Day is a cheap imitation, an excuse for your dad to do what he does every Sunday – sit in his favourite armchair and watch rubbish TV, but in cartoon socks and a bad-taste tie. But as I listen to Nicola talk I suddenly believe in Father’s Day. I want my bad taste ties and cartoon socks.

‘I don’t need any presents,’ I tell her. ‘I’m fine, honest.’

‘If we’re going to do this,’ she says adamantly, ‘I want to get you something too. And I won’t go unless you let me.’

Nicola and I meet as arranged and travel into the West End by tube. I’ve told Jenny I’m going to be working from home all day. Nicola has told her mum she’s going to Keisha’s house and she told Keisha to cover for her because she was secretly meeting a boy. Between us we have created a complicated web of necessary lies – which we were becoming exceptionally gifted in delivering.

The afternoon is a revelation to me of the inner workings of the teenage mind. Nicola takes shopping for gifts seriously: she drags me into accessory shops, sportswear shops, mobile-phone shops and even a sandwich shop before attending to her real delight, clothes shops. Her favourite is a large store near Oxford Circus. Here she tries on skirts, most of which look exactly the same to me but which I’m told have different detailing. She tries on tops, hats, shoes and all the time with a look of complete contentment.

As she picks through the rails, and throws them back with a dismissive huff if they’re not quite what she wants, I look around me. There are girls with nose-rings, girls with purple hair, tall girls, short girls, girls with skateboards, hard girls, posh girls, rude girls, and girls whose jeans are so baggy I can’t understand why they don’t fall over – there are girls of every variety and yet they all have one thing in common: they’re wearing clothes that make them look older than their years. With some, it’s only when I look carefully that I can see their baby features and the youth they’re trying to hide. Even Nicola is at it. At one point she tries on a pair of hipster jeans and a crop top and asks my opinion. She could easily have passed for seventeen, and this saddens me because I don’t want her to grow up so fast when I’ve only known her such a short time.

In contrast to the earlier part of the window-shopping expedition my side of things is far more sedate. I take Nicola to the rock and pop section of the Oxford Street HMV Megastore, locate the M section and, within seconds, find what I’m looking for and show it to her.

‘Van Morrison,
Astral Weeks
,’ she says, reading the cover. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Just a bloke who can sing a bit.’

‘It’s only six pounds ninety-nine,’ she says. ‘Is that all that you want?’

‘The truth is I can’t stand Van Morrison,’ I tell her. ‘It’s nothing personal but I absolutely hate him and detest everything he’s ever recorded.’

Nicola laughs.

‘But Izzy – and this
is
her only flaw – likes him. At least, the early stuff. She had
Astral Weeks
on tape when I first met her and she played it all the time. She drove me up the wall with it and then she eventually wore it out or lost it and never got round to replacing it because she doesn’t care much about music, these days, but every now and again I see her mooching about the flat and I think that if she had her
Astral Weeks
tape she’d be listening to it. I told her to buy another copy but she always forgets and I’ve thought about doing it myself but I never do.’

‘Why?’

‘I know this is going to sound pathetic but it’s difficult to spend money on music I loathe.’

Nicola laughs. ‘Oh, come on, Dave. You can’t even do it for Izzy?’

‘No. One year she asked me to buy
Abba’s Greatest Hits
for her mum and I couldn’t do that either.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s Abba, isn’t it? I would’ve gladly bought her mum
Blondie’s Greatest Hits
or a five-CD boxed set of Nick Drake or even Madonna,
The Immaculate Collection
. But not Abba. I couldn’t stand the thought of my hard-earned cash winging its way to Sweden to keep Benny and Bjorn in the luxury to which they have become accustomed. That’s where you come in. You can buy
Astral Weeks
for me with
your
money and I can give it to Izzy, and I won’t feel like I’m contributing to “The keep Van Morrison in even bigger Irish mansions fund”.’

Nicola punches me on the arm. ‘You’re so annoying sometimes.’

It’s an action that if I’d been a regular grumpy father teasing his regular moody teenage daughter, wouldn’t have stood out at all from any of the actions of the hundreds of people in the store. But as I turn towards her I catch a glimpse of someone on the other side of the CD display rack. It’s Izzy. I’m less than a few feet from her but she hasn’t seen me. She’s nearly close enough to touch yet she might as well be a million miles away. For a second I hope she sees me. In a way I wish that, right now, she would stare at Nicola, then at me, and make the connection. Then the deceit could stop. Then everything would be out in the open. I wouldn’t have to find the courage to tell her about Nicola.

Life isn’t that easy, of course. The choice is mine. All I have to do is speak and she’ll recognise my voice and look up and it will all be over.
All
I have to do is speak. I stand frozen in time trying with all my might to do the right thing. But the right thing won’t come. I duck down to the floor and pull Nicola with me then break into the coldest of cold sweats.

‘What is it?’ asks Nicola.

‘It’s Izzy,’ I whisper. ‘She’s here. You’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, I promise.’

Nicola heads for the exit without looking back once. Watching her walk away is the saddest thing in the world. I feel like I’m letting her down, as if I’m ashamed of her. I feel disloyal, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I wait until I can no longer see her then prepare myself for what I have to do next. I decide there are two options: the first is to walk out of the store without looking back; the second is to make myself known to Izzy. It seems wrong to walk away from her, it seems like the easy way out again and I don’t deserve an easy way out. So I take a deep breath, stand up and, as if nothing has happened, continue browsing through the CDs. In a matter of seconds she calls to me.

‘Hey, babe,’ I say, looking up. ‘What are you doing here?’

She walks over and greets me with a kiss. ‘I was just looking for a present for Stella. She seems a bit down so I thought I’d get something to cheer her up. What are you doing here?’

‘I fancied a change of scenery and, well, you know me . . . I find it hard to walk past any record shop without having a look. Anyway, never mind me, what were you going to get Stella?’

‘I don’t know, really. Something she can chill out to. She’s a bit stressed at work at the moment. Any recommendations?’

‘Hundreds.’

Izzy nods thoughtfully then glances down at my hand. I realise for the first time that I am still holding the Van Morrison CD. ‘Is that
Astral Weeks
I see before me?’

‘Yeah, it is.’

‘But you hate that album,’ says Izzy incredulously. “You once called it ’the worst load of pseudo-soul-folk-blues-rock” you’d ever heard and said it was “a shocking waste of a pair of ears to listen to such rubbish”.’

‘I said that?’

‘You know you did.’

‘Well, a man can change his mind, can’t he? Do you want it? I’m prepared to compromise yet more of my long-held principles just for you.’

‘I’d love it.’

‘Well, I’ll get it for you. And what about Stella’s present?’

‘What do you suggest?’

I take her over to W in the rock-and-pop section and show her the cover of Kathryn Williams’s
Little Black Numbers
. ‘Get her this.’

‘The girl who does our music page was raving about her ages ago.’

‘It’s the whole girl-with-a-good-voice-acoustic-guitar-and-a-string-of-broken-relationships thing. But it’s done very well. Stella will love it.’

‘Okay,’ says Izzy. ‘I’ll get it.’

I take it over to the till, pay for it with Van Morrison, hand both CDs to her and she kisses me. ‘What time will you be back at the flat?’ she asks.

‘The usual. What about you?’

She looks at her watch. ‘I’ll try not to be too late.’ She kisses me again. ‘I’d better get off.’ She turns to walk away, then stops. ‘Oh . . . I’ve completely forgotten to tell you the good news.’