From Here To Paternity Page 5

  ‘Thank you for the mental image I’m trying hard to ignore.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘So you’re basically saying that I needn’t waste my time looking for anyone sexy?’

  Tom carefully peels the melted cheese off a clump of nachos to reveal a jalapeño, which he drops into the ashtray. ‘Not at all. By all means focus on the motherhood angle–it’s much more appropriate for what you’re trying to achieve. But bear in mind that although they might suddenly turn fat and middle-aged when they’re “with child”, they don’t all stay that way.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Tom grins. ‘Haven’t you heard the phrase “yummy mummy”? You know–the allure of the mature?’

  I peer at Tom over the top of my glass. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘Come with me one day when I’m picking the twins up from school. You’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Although I’m sure I can still bring myself to do the business afterwards, whatever she looks like. After all, I’ve got to fancy her enough to get her pregnant in the first place, don’t forget.’

  ‘And have you thought about how you’re going to do that?’

  ‘Sleep with her? That, I believe, is the usual tried and trusted procedure? Though, thinking about it, I suppose I’d only have to do it the once, wouldn’t I?’

  Tom looks at me condescendingly. ‘Will, that’s like expecting to win the lottery the first time you buy a ticket.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He folds his arms and leans on the table. ‘Well, for one thing, timing is critical.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I always, ahem, aim for simultaneous, you know…’

  Tom makes a face. ‘Thanks for the imagery yourself, Casanova. I forgot that you skipped most of biology class. I don’t mean that sort of timing. You have to plan it around her time of the month.’

  ‘What, if she’s got PMT she won’t want me anywhere near her, you mean?’

  ‘No–her fertility cycle. There’re only a few days when she’s actually capable of getting pregnant, and you have to make sure that you strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak. Especially because you’ve only got a small—’

  ‘Window of opportunity?’ I interrupt. ‘And please keep your voice down.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Tom gestures towards me with his pint glass, spilling some lager onto his plate of nachos. He picks up one of the beer-soaked chips, puts it into his mouth and chews it appreciatively. ‘And don’t forget, you have to be sure that you’re both actually fertile in the first place. In fact, that’s a very important factor to consider. If I were you, I’d start wearing boxer shorts, watching your diet…’

  I nod towards Tom’s half-eaten pile of nachos. ‘That’s rich, coming from a man whose idea of health food is a bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut.’

  ‘I’m serious. In fact, before you head off on this wild goose chase, I’d get yourself checked out.’

  I frown at Tom. ‘Why on earth would I need to do that?’

  He stands up and leans across the table towards me. ‘Because apart from anything else, if you’re firing blanks and you don’t know it, you might end up sleeping with an ugly woman for nothing.’

  As Tom heads off to the bar to get us both another beer, I sit and stare out of the window thinking about what he’s just said. It’s all very well me trying to anticipate problems with my potential partner, but it’s never even occurred to me that there might be a spanner in my works.

  I’m still preoccupied with it when he sits back down at the table. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m okay.’

  ‘How do you know?’ says Tom, dipping a nacho straight into his beer glass then into the sour cream, chewing on it as if he’s conducting some sort of taste-test.

  ‘Well, I don’t, um, have any problems.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to hear this.’

  ‘You know, on the’–I clear my throat–‘volume front. Every time I, you know…’

  Tom pushes the sour cream away from him. ‘Thanks for sharing that, Will, but it’s not about quantity.’

  ‘Of course it is. Like everything, it’s a numbers game. Only one of the little blighters has got to get through, surely, so by statistical analysis, the more I produce, the higher the chance that one of them is going to make it.’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘I think you need to do a little more research, Will. It’s about quality. All that, er, stuff, isn’t just the little folk, you know. It’s just like their transport medium.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, think of it like the London Underground. Look at it at rush hour, and then again at eleven o’clock at night. The tubes are still the same size, but there are fewer passengers.’

  ‘Huh? So it’s about the size of the tubes? Well, in that case…’

  ‘Okay. Bad example.’ Tom taps his pint glass. ‘Think of lager.’

  ‘Lager?’

  ‘Yup. If someone handed you a glass of beer and you drank it, do you think you’d be able to tell straight away if it was normal lager or low-alcohol lager? You’d still be drinking the same amount, it would still, if you excuse the thought, taste the same, but, and here’s the important part, it wouldn’t be as potent.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘If it was low-alcohol lager, you’d need to drink an awful lot more to increase your chances of getting drunk.’

  ‘Or pregnant.’

  ‘And it’s possible that no matter how much lager you drank, if it turned out to be alcohol-free…’

  ‘Then I’d be wasting my time.’

  ‘Exactly. And even then, it’s not just about the alcohol content of the lager.’

  ‘What? Now you’re going to tell me it’s down to the quality of the glass.’

  ‘More like the way you get her to drink out of it. It’s actually quite a complicated biological process, this pregnancy stuff. Not just like making a bowl of porridge, where all you have to do is add the hot milk.’ Tom grimaces. ‘Yuk. Sorry.’

  ‘So it’s nothing to do with technique, then?’

  ‘Nope. You can be the most skilful footballer in the world, but you’re never going to score unless you’ve actually got the ball at your feet.’

  Football. Finally, Tom is talking a language that I understand. ‘But how do you know all this? You obviously have no problem in front of goal, judging by Jack and Ellie.’

  Tom smiles, and lowers his voice. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. It was taking us ages to get pregnant, and Barbara is, as you know, a little older than me, so we decided to go and do something about it.’

  ‘Don’t tell me the twins are adopted? I saw Barbara get very fat. Or was that just a pillow up her jumper for those nine months?’

  ‘Nope. IVF.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘IVF. In vitro fertilization. We got ourselves checked out, and while we both seemed to be okay, it just wasn’t happening. So…’

  I stare at him for a few seconds, before realization dawns. ‘So you gave yourselves a helping hand. As it were.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Hence the twins.’

  ‘Yup. Which was a blessing, in a way. Barbara didn’t have to go through the trauma of childbirth twice and, from their point of view, they’ve always got someone to play with.’ He clinks his beer glass against mine. ‘Result.’

  ‘And it didn’t seem…weird?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘No, not at all. Still Barbara’s eggs, and my, you know, sperm. We just needed a little help getting them to meet.’

  ‘What, like a dating agency?’

  Tom nods. ‘Precisely,’ he says, draining the last of his beer. ‘A dating agency.’

  And that gives me an idea.

  Chapter 4

  But first, I’ve decided that I ought at least to follow Tom’s advice and get myself ‘checked out’, as he’s so succinctly described it. So, after I’ve dro
pped the Toyota back at the garage, and following a somewhat nervous phone call, I find myself driving along Chiswick High Road, trying to find the family planning clinic.

  Tom’s recommended this place, although that’s probably because it’s the only one he knows, rather than because it’s particularly good–it’s not the sort of establishment you’d normally find yourself recommending, I suppose, like a restaurant, or a good dentist. The building itself is quite innocuous, in between a kebab shop and a branch of Barclays. ‘There’s a bank next door,’ Tom said, ‘just in case you need to make any other kind of deposit,’ before collapsing with laughter.

  I’m a little early, and there’s a parking space right outside, so I sit in the TVR for a few minutes while I try and work out how long I need to put money in the meter for. Eventually, when I’ve looked at my watch for approximately the seventeenth time, I get out and stand on the pavement, and after a couple of minutes of pretending to be fascinated by a poster in the bank window advertising Unit Trusts while actually checking no one I know is actually walking by, I do a final scan up and down the street, then duck into the nondescript doorway and climb the stairs. As I walk towards the reception desk, I can’t help noticing a couple of doors on either side of the lobby. They’ve both got the word ‘occupied’ on a sliding sign above the handle, and when I listen carefully, strange music seems to be coming out from behind one of them.

  The receptionist looks up from her copy of Hello! and gives me a bored smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I…’ I clear my throat. ‘I’ve got an appointment to, well, you know…’ Bloody hell. Why does it have to be a female receptionist? ‘To have my…’

  After I’ve finally stopped spluttering, she consults her appointments diary.

  ‘Mr Jackson, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Take a seat in the waiting room, will you?’ She nods over to one side of the reception area, where there are a couple of plastic chairs next to a water cooler. ‘And if you could just fill out this form?’

  I take the clipboard and pen she’s handed me, sit down and start to fill in my details as requested. It seems straightforward enough, until I get to the section marked ‘partner’s name’, where for a second I consider writing ‘don’t know yet’, but end up leaving it blank. After a couple of minutes I walk over and hand it back to the receptionist, who stares at it for a few seconds, then gives me a strange look before picking up the phone.

  ‘Dr Scott, Mr Jackson’s here,’ she says, followed by, ‘No, on his own.’

  She tells me to sit down again, and so I head back and sit on my chair and flick through a leaflet on family planning–which is, after all, what I’m trying to do–that I find on the coffee table. My mouth is dry, and I’m hoping the rest of me won’t be, but as I’m helping myself to a drink from the water cooler, the music I’d heard earlier suddenly stops, and a red-faced man comes out through the door. Rather worryingly, he’s carrying a toolbox, and as the door swings shut behind him, I catch a glimpse of a bed with what appear to be a pile of pornographic magazines on the pillow.

  ‘Success?’ asks the receptionist.

  The man nods. ‘Yes. Just needed a few tweaks and out it came.’

  ‘It’s always the way,’ says the receptionist. She reaches for the petty-cash tin and hands a wad of notes over. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘Any time,’ replies the man, before winking at me and heading out through the door. As I watch him go, the receptionist notices my bewildered expression.

  ‘Something wrong, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘No, it’s just, I, I mean…Was he a, you know, sperm donor?’ For some reason, when I say those words, I can’t help thinking of the kebab shop next door.

  The receptionist looks puzzled for a second, before bursting out laughing. ‘No,’ she says, between gasps. ‘Repair man. The video player in one of the cubicles had a cassette stuck.’

  ‘Ah. Oh. Right.’

  I’m just processing this piece of information and trying hard not to blush when Dr Scott comes out to meet me. She–and she would be, wouldn’t she?–is a rather attractive and stereotypically sexy forty-something doctor–the kind you used to see in those cheesy old BBC comedies; her hair up, a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, and dressed in a long white coat.

  ‘Mr Jackson? Come this way, please.’

  I look at her face to see whether that’s meant as a joke, but then realize that she’s probably heard them all, so just do as instructed, and follow her into her office. There’s a bed at one end with a screen behind it, and a desk with a chair where, fortunately, she tells me to sit. She scans through my form and makes a couple of notes, before putting the clipboard down on the desk.

  ‘So, what seems to be the problem?’

  This time, I can’t stop the reddening of my cheeks. ‘It’s, er, a little embarrassing, really.’

  Dr Scott takes off her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose wearily. ‘Mr Jackson, I can assure you that after ten years of treating fertility problems, nothing embarrasses me any more.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have a problem. Not really. As far as I’m aware, that is. I just wanted to check that I was, you know…’

  Dr Scott smiles at me. ‘I don’t know, actually. I’m not a mind-reader. In fact, my particular area of specialism is quite a bit further down than that.’

  I smile back at her, pretty sure that her last comment was meant to put me at my ease. ‘Sorry. It’s just…’ She really is very attractive, and I just can’t seem to bring myself to start talking about my sperm in front of her.

  ‘Are you having erectile problems? Because if so, I can give you a leaflet, and—’

  ‘No. Nothing like that,’ I say, perhaps a little too quickly.

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to most men at some point in their lives.’

  ‘Well, it’s never happened to me,’ I say, and not to any men who have ever been in bed with you, I’ll bet, I think, trying not to fixate on the way Dr Scott is absent-mindedly sucking on the arm of her glasses. ‘It’s just that, well, I’m trying to have a baby, and I just wanted to check that I wasn’t, you know, firing blanks, so to speak.’

  Dr Scott leans back in her chair, puts on her glasses, picks up the clipboard again and uncaps her pen. ‘How about your wife? Many fertility problems can be down to the woman and not the man.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ I say, before realizing that probably sounds a bit harsh. ‘I mean, a shame. But I’m not married.’

  ‘Well, your partner, then,’ says Dr Scott, a little testily.

  ‘I don’t have one. Currently, that is. I mean, I’m looking for someone. I just want to check I can, you know, procreate, before I go to the trouble of—’ I stop talking, because Dr Scott is looking at me in a rather strange way.

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ she says, all traces of a bedside manner evaporating rapidly. ‘You don’t actually have anyone to have a baby with, but you basically want to find out if you’re fertile?’

  I nod. ‘That’s about the size of it. If that’s something you do?’

  Dr Scott re-caps her pen and puts the clipboard back down. ‘It’s your money.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, before shifting awkwardly in my seat. ‘So, what happens now?’

  By now, Dr Scott seems to be enjoying my discomfort. ‘Well, we’ll require a sample, of course,’ she says, reaching into one of her desk drawers and handing me a plastic pot. ‘As soon as you can.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right.’

  ‘So.’ She smiles at me. ‘Off you go, then.’

  I’m not sure if I’ve heard her right, but when she makes no move to get up, I can’t help but ask.

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Is there some problem?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to leave me to it?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  I nod towards the bed in the corner. ‘I just thought it’d be a bit more private, you
know? That I’d get my own room.’

  ‘Mr Jackson, I don’t mean right here. You can use one of the cubicles out by reception. Or take the container home with you and bring it back later, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ I stand up, and take a closer look at the pot. It seems rather, well, large. ‘How, er, much do you need? I mean…’

  Dr Scott shakes her head. ‘It’s not a competition, Mr Jackson. Don’t feel you need to do any training. But I’m assuming you’ve gone without any emission for a day or two, so we can expect a decent volume?’

  I look suspiciously at the plastic pot, suddenly anxious. ‘A decent volume? Which is what, exactly? I mean, do you expect me to’–I swallow hard–‘fill it?’

  She half-smiles at me. ‘If you could fill it, Mr Jackson, you probably wouldn’t be here in the first place.’

  I laugh, though more from nerves. ‘No. Sure. And when do I get my results?’

  ‘We can do it for you in forty-eight hours,’ she says, standing up and leading me towards the door. ‘Depending on how quickly we get the sample back, of course.’

  As I walk back out through reception, I glance at the cubicle door, but decide immediately that this isn’t the route I want to take, despite the variety of artificial stimulation on offer. Besides, I’m worried that these places might have hidden cameras, and I don’t fancy the tape appearing on some strange Japanese television programme some day. I don’t want to produce my sample under pressure, either–it might affect the results, plus, I can’t quite face walking back out again after however long and the receptionist judging me on the time I’ve taken. I realize that if I’m going to do this properly, then a, ahem, homecoming is the only way.

  Half an hour later, I’m back, clutching my precious cargo. Miraculously, the same parking space is available outside the clinic, although I don’t know whether to be happy or depressed with the realization that I’ve been able to perform so quickly that there’s still some time left on the meter. I’ve driven extra carefully on the way here so as not to risk spilling, and when I head back up the stairs and into the waiting room, where there’s now a young couple sitting, the receptionist does a double take.