Happy Endings (42 page)

Unfortunately, Emily didn’t care about weekend mini-breaks. She’d had enough of her career. She used to love her job, but now it weighed her down and she was ready for a change. She was ready to start a family and be probably what she always dreamt of being, a mummy.

‘Well, I want to talk about it again. I want a family. I’m ready.’

‘But …’

‘But what? Give me one good reason why we can’t.’

The truth is I didn’t have one good reason. I didn’t have any number of reasons, good or otherwise. Is being selfish a good enough reason? Probably not. Is being afraid to grow up a decent argument for not having kids? Definitely not. What about inexplicable fear? I should probably have told her how much I loved her and explained I definitely wanted a family one day because I do. I want to have kids, do things like the ‘school run’, possibly buy a people carrier and wear slippers around the house. I want all of that, but not yet. I couldn’t confess any of this to Emily though and so I said the first thing that came to mind.

‘Because what about our trip to Italy? We said we’d definitely do that before we had kids.’

‘And we can, Harry. We can go in the next couple of months, I promise. Please just say you’ll think about it. It’s important.’

I took the easy way out and agreed to think about it. This led to a cuddle and a kiss. Women are so sneaky. Men are so weak. Why does starting a family scare me so much? Why when everyone around us is making babies with all the ease and excitement of the von Trapp family am I putting it off for a fantasy holiday once mentioned over a drunken Valentine’s meal? I fear I might be on the verge of some sort of early mid-life crisis.

And to rub salt in an already gaping wound, we’re having dinner tonight at Steve and Fiona’s in Worcester Park. Not only do they have three kids, but also the audacity (or stupidity) to give them all names beginning with the letter J (Jane, Joseph and James). How mental is that?

Monday, January 2nd, 9.00 a.m.
Bank holiday

On the sofa. Eating a bacon sandwich. Emily still asleep. Cloudy.

What a truly awful night. Steve and Fiona are expecting another baby. A fourth J to add to their jumble of Js. When are they going to stop? They told us over the guacamole dip. There must be something in the water (or perhaps the guacamole dip) in Worcester Park.

We have known Steve and Fiona since university and they used to be our regular going out partners. They used to be normal until about seven years ago when they announced they were pregnant. At first it wasn’t too bad, I was even mildly happy for them, but gradually, as they added to their collection of Js, rumblings of change began to sweep across our relationship. Steve and Fiona couldn’t go out anymore so we always had to go to their house for dinner, which would usually end before eight o’clock with both Steve and Fiona asleep on the sofa. Twice we threw a blanket over them and sneaked out. They also (very quickly it seemed to me) became walking clichés of exactly the type of people who have kids. They went from a snazzy four-door Audi to a boxy people carrier. They both gained enough weight that they were only physically attractive to each other. They started dressing as though clothes were merely canvasses for their children’s vomit and the last time we went to their house for dinner, Steve said to me (and I’m not making this up), ‘Daddy has to go pee pee on the potty wotty!’ It was the last straw. Baby talk had crossed the line.

Of course, their announcement led to the inevitable questions about when we were going to start trying for a baby. Cue glares of disappointment and despondency from Emily. I was prepared for this, but what followed completely threw me. Steve and I popped out to the garden for a cigarette. Actually, I popped out for a cigarette while Steve came to remember what it was like to smoke (Fiona made him quit when they had their first J). I was finally relieved to get some peace and quiet when Steve said, while inhaling my second-hand smoke

‘So, Harry old boy, what’s the problemo?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Why don’t you want to have kids? Kids are brilliant!’

They had pulled Steve in too. It was a bloody conspiracy. He was one of them. A woman in man’s clothing!

‘I’m not ready yet, that’s all.’

‘I wasn’t either, but now I’m having number four and I couldn’t be any happier. They change your life, they really do.’

‘So does going bald and I’m not ready for that either!’ I exclaimed and went back indoors.

The rest of the night was a complete and utter disaster. Hint upon bloody hint about having kids. At every opportunity they would pass me one of their Js to play with in the hope I’d suddenly see the error of my ways and proclaim, ‘I’m ready to have a family!’

Why does every parent in the world think you can’t be happy until you have kids? I don’t ring them up at eleven o’clock every Sunday morning when I’ve had a glorious lie-in to gloat. I don’t text them every time I’m at the pub having a few pints, while they’re at home changing nappies and I don’t brag about how much sex we have, knowing they probably haven’t done it for months. Parents are like the bloody Jehovah’s Witnesses of your thirties: hounding you to succumb to the almighty power of parenthood. Back. The. Fuck. Off!

10.30 a.m.

New neighbours next door. I had a quick peek out of the window when they were moving in and it’s a terrible thing to even think, I know, but they had the whiff of terrorists about them. Mrs Crawley from number four (head of the neighbourhood watch committee) was immediately outside in her front garden having a good old nose. No doubt she’ll call an emergency meeting. Unfortunately, I’m on the committee.

Off to Canary Wharf to meet best mate Ben for lunch. Hopefully this will cheer me up.

3.00 p.m.

In the kitchen. Watching a squirrel run around the garden. Feeling a wee bit tipsy after lunch with Ben. (Why do I always start using Scottish vernacular when I’m drunk?)

It was great to spend an hour with someone who didn’t only want to talk about the power of procreation. We talked about football, the good old days and his latest adventure to Peru. We smoked, drank and I had a very nice lunch before Ben had to get back to work. Although, before he headed off, I told him about the baby conversation I’d had with Emily and he said, ‘It’s perfectly natural, mate. You’ve been married for what, six years now? She’s in her thirties. It was bound to happen eventually. If you’re not ready to be a father, you need to figure out why and soon because, trust me, when it comes to babies, women get very impatient. Bloke at work, Rupert Strang, only been married for five minutes and he just got divorced. His wife wanted a baby and he didn’t. Admittedly, the devil was also screwing his assistant, but still, you get my point.’

I did.

I’m watching a squirrel run around the garden and I’m wondering if I’m being a bit unreasonable. Maybe Ben’s right. It is a natural progression and we aren’t getting any younger. Should I give Emily a child whether I’m ready or not? Will I ever be ready? Sometimes I think it would be easier to be a squirrel because all he has to worry about is his nuts. Perhaps we aren’t that dissimilar after all.

Tuesday, January 3rd, 10.00 a.m.

In the study. Listening to The Beatles. Emily at work. Blustery showers on their way from the north (according to the BBC weatherman).

Last night when Emily got home from work, I made her a sumptuous dinner of citrus-seared tuna with crispy noodles, herbs and chilli (thanks Jamie Oliver). She seemed impressed. I opened a bottle of Italian red and attempted to have a proper conversation about starting a family. I was open, honest and everything she claims I’m not. I told her about my lunch with Ben and watching the squirrel, which to be honest, seemed to confuse her, but she listened intently and when I’d finished she said very calmly, ‘Harry, don’t freak out, but I’m pregnant!’

‘What? I … err … don’t understand, Em … how?’

‘About three weeks ago. We both had our work Christmas parties.’

‘Not ringing any bells.’

‘I came home drunk. You were eating a lamb kebab.’

‘Oh, right, yeah, the lamb shish …’

‘That’s what jogged your memory? Anyway, I forgot to take my pill that morning and we were a little lax with the condom.’

‘Shit.’

‘I took the pregnancy test on Saturday and it was positive.’

‘Are you sure though because pregnancy tests are notoriously hard to read? Blue lines, pink lines, single lines, double lines, who can really tell?’

‘It said pregnant, in words.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m definitely pregnant, Harry. You’re going to be a father.’

There is nothing in the world that can really prepare you for those words. You’re going to be a father. You, Harry Spencer, aged thirty-two, will soon be responsible for a little baby being. My whole life flashed before my eyes and I even surprised myself because no sooner had the words left her mouth than I started to cry. I wasn’t expecting that and I don’t think Emily was either. The tricky part though is I’m not entirely sure what sort of tears they were. It’s hard to categorise because I was certainly happy, but I was also scared, terrified and my mouth suddenly got very dry. However, after the initial shock had slowly downgraded to just surprise, I had a question.

‘But if you were pregnant all along, why were you asking me if I wanted to be a dad? Why the whole guilty baby parade at Steve and Fiona’s? Why didn’t you tell me straight away? I’m confused, Em.’ For the record I still am.

‘Because I knew it would be a big deal and I thought if maybe I could get you used to the idea first … I’m sorry, Harry, but you know what you’re like.’ (Yes, brilliant) ‘Are you happy about this?’

She had asked the question. It had to be asked I suppose and to be honest, I was. I didn’t think I’d be quite so delirious about it, but the reality was very different than the nightmare in my head. Maybe I was ready to be a father after all. I looked at her and smiled.

‘Of course I’m happy about it, Em. We’re having a baby.’

We kissed, hugged, she cried, I stopped, until gradually the horror of the situation slipped into my mind. I’m going to be a father forever. What if I fuck it up? What if I’m an awful dad? What if I don’t love them as much as I’m supposed to? What if …. I could go on, but while Emily was snuggled firmly into my neck, her tears of joy trickling slowly down my shirt, I couldn’t let go of the fear. It took me three attempts to pass my driving test and I studied hard for that, but this didn’t come with a learner’s manual and I only had one chance to get it right.

‘Are you going to be ready?’ Emily said or something along those lines because I’d slipped into a man-coma. Emily was talking (her lips were moving anyway), but I was locked inside my own little world, until she suddenly brought me back with a click of her fingers.

‘Harry, are you listening to me?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking.’

‘I know this is a lot to digest, but it’s not the time to have a mid-life crisis.’

‘Who’s having a mid-life crisis? I’m not having a mid-life crisis.’

‘Because the last thing I need at the moment is you losing touch with reality. You’re going to be ready aren’t you, Harry?’

Am I going to be ready? Obviously not. Am I having a premature mid-life crisis? Quite possibly. I didn’t know what to say. Unfortunately, while I was thinking about it, I slipped into another man-coma and before I knew what was happening, Emily was clicking her fingers again.

‘Harry, Harry …’

‘Yes, sorry?’

‘I said I’m going to need you for this. I can’t do this on my own.’

‘I know and I’m going to be here for you every step of the way.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

1.00 p.m.

Still awaiting the blustery showers from the north. Eating a packet of prawn cocktail crisps. Squirrel outside taunting me with his carefree happiness. Pain in my side.

In an attempt to delay the onset of middle-aged spread and prepare myself physically for the rigours of fatherhood, I attempted to do some sit-ups and almost fainted. I’ve had a sharp pain in my side ever since. I looked up the pain in my side and it could be anything from a stitch, kidney tumour, shingles, to an impending heart attack! Fantastic. I tried working out and it could lead to an early death.

I also made a list of pros and cons about having a baby:

PROS

1. Babies are cute and generally considered to be a good thing.

2. It will make my mother the happiest mother in the whole world.

3. It will make Emily the happiest wife in the whole world.

4. It might even make me happy.

5. We will have someone to take care of us when we’re old and miserable.

6. I will have someone to mould in my own image.

7. It might be fun.

8. I’m not getting any younger.

CONS

1. They’re expensive.

2. Changing nappies.

3. Lack of sleep.