Happy Endings (45 page)

Friday, January 27th, 9.00 p.m.

Having a cigarette by the back door. Emily asleep upstairs. Drilling noise from next door. Almost a full moon tonight.

I had a drink with best mate Ben in The Alexandra tonight and he had some staggering news. He’s fallen madly in love with an Aussie girl and they’re leaving for Australia in less than a week!

‘I’m in love, mate. I think she’s the one.’

I’m in complete shock. He’s always been the single one. A confirmed life-long bachelor. He was never going to settle down, get married, have kids and do all the normal stuff. While I was busy creating a sensible suburban existence in south-west London, he was off bungee jumping in New Zealand, scuba diving in Australia and hiking the Himalayas. A part of me has always been jealous of his freedom and exciting lifestyle, but now he’s going to be just like me. It doesn’t feel right. I need to live vicariously through Ben, but if he’s doing the same mundane shit as me, it isn’t going to work.

‘I never thought I’d see the day. She must be something special.’

‘It was love at first sight. I’ve never felt this way before. She’s going back to Australia next week and I’m going with her.’

‘But what about your job? What about your flat? What about me? Are you coming back?’

‘I don’t know. I just know I need to go. Work’s giving me some time off. My flat will be fine and I think you’ll be OK.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

I can’t believe Ben is abandoning me in my hour of need. He invited Emily and me to his flat tomorrow night to meet Katie.

Sunday, January 29th, 10.00 a.m.

Drinking tea in the garden. Emily still asleep. Squirrel up and about. All quiet next door.

We had dinner at Ben’s flat last night. Katie is exactly what I expected. She’s tall, beautiful, interesting and I fell madly in love with her in about five seconds flat. Her life story reads like an action adventure. Mountain climbing, skydiving, scuba diving, iron woman competitions and surfing. Fitness oozed from her body like the smell of laziness seeps from mine. She’s gorgeous, funny, intelligent and absolutely perfect for Ben. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about him traipsing halfway across the globe though. Who will I go for drinks with now? When I said this to Ben he replied sarcastically,

‘In case you’ve forgotten, mate, you’re about to be a dad. You’ll have about as much use for pubs as I have for talcum powder.’ Then he laughed hysterically. I’m glad the smug bastard is going to Australia.

Monday, January 30th, 6.00 p.m.

In the lounge. Eating a Pot Noodle. Emily lying on the floor in pain. Raining.

I came home from work to find a stack of baby-related books on the coffee table. Here’s a selection:

50,000 of the Best Baby Names
. It makes you wonder which names were omitted. Adolf would be one I assume.

The World’s Best Baby Names
. A second baby name book seems a tad excessive. Do we really need names from North Korea and Iran? We’re unlikely to call our child Chung-Hee Spencer or Farzad Babak Spencer. I imagine we’ll probably stick to something a bit more traditional.

The Bloke’s Survival Kit for Being a Dad
. This jovial-sounding book was, I assume, purchased for me. I flicked through and even I was offended by the level of immaturity it presumes all men possess. I mean, seriously, it had a chapter called, ‘Babies v Beer – You think it’s all over, it is now!’

‘You expect me to read this rubbish?’ I said to Emily.

‘Fiona said Steve loved it. He couldn’t put it down.’

‘But Steve’s a moron.’

‘Just read the bloody book,’ Emily replied and it seemed a bit churlish to argue with a pregnant woman lying on the floor in pain. Admittedly the pain was not baby related. She twisted her ankle coming down the stairs, but she’s still carrying our child and is, thus, untouchable.

Tuesday, January 31st, 8.00 p.m.

Full moon. In the study. Emily asleep. Drinking wine alone.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to become a dad, or because Ben is leaving, or maybe it’s just the wine, but I’m feeling a tad wistful. Emily went to bed at six o’clock because she was knackered. She didn’t even eat dinner.

I’ve been going through my box of memories and reminiscing about my good old days. I found some old photos of me as a young boy with really awful clothes and a dodgy haircut (the late eighties wasn’t a good time for me).

I also dug up my old sixth-form yearbook. I skimmed through until I found pictures of Ben and me. We were trying our best to look cool and aloof, but obviously we looked stupid and inane. Ben had one of those half-goatee chin beards, which he thought made him look interesting and intelligent. Ironically, he was interesting and intelligent, but the half-goatee chin beard made him look like a bit of a knob.

Then I stumbled across a picture of my old girlfriend, Jamie O’Connell. God she was beautiful. Slender body, long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and breasts that seemed to literally defy gravity. Bouncy yet firm, pert but well rounded, large, but somehow just the perfect handful. She was also the first person I’d ever met who’d really travelled and who knew about obscure indie bands and not because she wanted to sound cool, but because she genuinely loved music. She had read just about every novel ever written and watched every film, including the black-and-white French ones (and not just because they’re occasionally a bit mucky). She created style instead of following it, spoke her opinion without ever preaching and while we were trapped in a sort of post-secondary school whirlpool of identity crisis, she knew exactly who she was. She somehow managed to be strong, vulnerable, sexy and intellectual all at the same time.

How she became my actual girlfriend will always remain something of a mystery. She was like a sixth-form Brigitte Bardot, while I looked bloody awful with my slightly long hair (curtains, as we called them) and extra-large glasses (they literally covered half of my face). She was also Scottish, which made her even more exotic and desirable, but somehow (sheer luck I’d imagine) I managed to woo her. Jamie was my first love and like all first loves I thought we were going to be together forever.

I start wondering about the girl I loved so much. Is she married? Does she have children? Where does she live?

In a moment of inquisitive melancholy, I manage to find her on Facebook. Unfortunately, her page is blocked and so I have no choice but to request we become friends. I doubt whether she’ll even remember me. She’s probably married to a rock star/actor/millionaire/model and living it up in the south of France. C’est la vie.

4.00 a.m.

I woke up in a terrified, sweaty panic. I’m going to be someone’s father! They’re going to call me Daddy and expect me to know how to mend things, know about photosynthesis and take them fishing. I don’t know how to fish. I went once when I was seven. I don’t know how to change a plug and God knows about photosynthesis. Something about light, carbon dioxide and plants, but I don’t know. How can I possibly be a good father if I don’t know about photosynthesis?

About the Author

Born in Southampton, England, in 1975, Jon Rance is the author of the bestselling romantic comedy novel,
This Thirtysomething Life
. He graduated with a degree in English Literature from Middlesex University, London, before going travelling and meeting his American wife in Australia. He drinks a lot of tea and spends far too much time gazing off into space.

Please visit his website at
www.jonrance.com
or connect with him on
Twitter @JRance75
.

Also by Jon Rance

This Twentysomething Life
(A sort-of Prequel Short Story)

This Thirtysomething Life