From Here To Paternity Page 7

  Or maybe not. Half an hour later, I’m still staring at the blank screen in front of me. What on earth do I put? I’ve typed and deleted several attempts in the ‘What do you want others to know about you?’ box, because what do I want them to know about me? That I’m desperate to be a dad? That I love kids? But assuming anyone ever gets to read this, how on earth will I differentiate myself from the thousands of other guys here?

  But then it hits me. That is my differentiator. Surely the kind of women I’m after must be bored of all the guys on here just crowing about how great they are. Let’s face it, most women must use these sites because they’re fed up of the normal dating channels, and of wasting time on men who don’t want to commit, or don’t want to settle down yet, or don’t even want to think about having kids. And that’s my USP. I’m not scared of commitment. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time–especially my own. And more than all that, I’m as desperate to have children as they hopefully are.

  And it’s at this point I decide that I’m not going to try and be smart with any of my answers. I’m just going to tell it like it is. Be honest with myself, and them. I delete my ‘Ideal date? Heaven and back’ answer, and to ‘Where will you be three years from now?’ I simply reply, ‘Living happily with my wife and child.’ And after a few moments’ deliberation, I have it: ‘Fit, solvent, not bad-looking, no convictions–spiritual or criminal. Looking to settle down and start a family. If you’re the same (but female, obviously) why not get in touch?’

  There. Finished. I take a deep breath, stand up, press ‘submit’, and walk over to the window to stretch my legs. But when I get back to my desk, instead of a list of potential partners, there’s a screen asking me whether I want to upload a photo. After the briefest of hesitations, I click on ‘yes’. It’s only fair, I suppose, that they can see what they’re getting.

  But for this, of course, I need a decent photograph of myself. At first, I try to take one with my camera phone, but evidently my arm isn’t long enough, because despite lining up my face in the little convex mirror next to the lens on the back, I can’t seem to get a photo that doesn’t make my nose look twice the size it actually is. I try the same thing with the digital camera I keep in my desk for reference photos of my clients–well, the pretty ones–but just end up with a better-quality version of the same picture, and my distended-looking arm clearly visible.

  After ten or so shots, each as bad as the other, I think about calling Jen in to ask for her help, but I don’t really want her to know what I’m up to. Instead, I root through the drawer, find the instruction booklet, and flick through it for the first time–despite having owned the camera for the best part of a year. And on page fifty-one, I learn that there’s a ‘timer’ function.

  I assemble a pile of books roughly equivalent to head height on my desk, then balance the camera precariously on the top, and aim it at the space on the wall where my Picasso print is, then set the timer, go and stand in front of the print, and smile. And smile. And just when I’m wondering how long I can keep smiling for, the camera clicks. I head towards it, blinking from the flash, but when I check the photo on the screen on the back, I realize I’ve forgotten to turn on the anti-red-eye, so I look like the devil. I reset the camera and try again, but this time I’ve obviously forgotten to turn on the anti-gormless, and the Picasso print behind me makes me look like I’ve got some sort of nineteen-seventies-style perm.

  I delete both photos, and remove the print from the wall before pressing the timer button again and getting back into position. I’m ready for it, and manage to put on my best mean and moody look by the time the camera flashes. But this time when I look at the picture, mean and moody turns out to actually resemble constipated.

  I sit down to try several other shots, looking up at the camera from my chair, in turn happy, moody, and even surprised, but instead of the sexy, enigmatic look I was hoping for, they just make me look like a retarded version of the seven dwarfs. Eventually, after I’ve taken about twenty shots, I start to think that maybe the photos are actually okay, but that I can’t really tell what they’re like from the small screen on the back of the camera itself. After a further ten minutes reading through the instruction manual, I manage to download them to my PC; but even viewed on the monitor, there’s not one that wouldn’t look out of place on Crimewatch. In desperation, I click on Photoshop, but there doesn’t seem to be a ‘miracle makeover’ among the edit options. With a sigh, I set up the camera again.

  An hour later, I’ve finally got three semi-decent options. But which one do I upload? When I check a few of the other male profiles, half of them seem to have just the one photo, some of the others have two–or sometimes even three–of the same shot, and a few have the person in different settings–at work, as the life and soul of a party, or being particularly sporty. There’s even the odd one of them on their latest holiday, enjoying one half of a romantic candle-lit dinner–but with their ex obviously scrubbed out. And although mine all seem to show an embarrassed thirty-year-old skulking in his office with the blinds drawn, I upload them anyway, and get a message in return telling me they’re now waiting for approval, which I imagine is in case I’ve submitted anything rude, rather than just plain ugly.

  As I sit there, I decide to have a quick browse through some of the female profiles. There’s a ‘match’ button on the toolbar, and when I click on it and select the option for profiles with photos, a list of my top-twenty matches appears in front of me. Even at first glance, there seem to be a couple of potentials including, interestingly, someone who’s the spitting image of Britney Spears. But I decide to hold off from sending any messages until my photos are up. There’s nothing worse than starting a dialogue and then being rejected because of your looks–although I’ve just rejected the majority of my ‘match’ list on that exact same basis.

  I’m just about to log off when there’s a pinging sound, and a flashing envelope appears at the top of the screen. When I roll the cursor over the bright-yellow icon, the words ‘you’ve got mail’ appear. Mail? Already? This is going to be easier than I thought. But when I click on it, my excitement soon evaporates because it’s just a mail from NewFlames, welcoming me to the site. ‘Your account is now active,’ it tells me. ‘You can send and receive messages, and even use our instant chat.’ There’s also a handy hints section, telling me the dos and don’ts of internet dating, including some basic ground rules; and with that in mind, I decide to draw up some ground rules of my own.

  I get a pad and pen from the desk, and start to make a list of what exactly it is I’m after, otherwise, I’m going to be looking for something when I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Normally, I don’t have a ‘type’–if I meet someone and find her attractive, I ask her out. It doesn’t matter if she’s blonde, brunette, black, white; anything goes, really. Anything apart from fat ankles, that is. But this is a different thing entirely. I’m looking for someone who’s perfect. Or rather, a perfect mother. Only thing is, I’m not exactly sure what that entails.

  There’re the physical characteristics, of course. She’s got to be good-looking. And I’m not being selfish here. I want the child–my child–to have the best life possible, and that includes not being aesthetically challenged, or growing up being teased for having the FA Cup sticky-out ears that he’s inherited from his mum. And when I say the child’s a ‘he’, it could be a ‘she’. I’m not that bothered, to tell the truth. It’d be like having to choose between Jack and Ellie, and they’re both great kids. And he–sorry, it–has got to be smart. And sporty. And after yesterday evening’s misunderstandings, not grow up with a strange accent.

  As I note these down, I start to think about other aspects. What about the convenience factor? Do I restrict my search to a geographical area? Just Richmond? West London? Or the whole of London? On reflection, it’s probably better if she’s local, and doesn’t have to relocate, and I certainly don’t want to. Though having said that, if Halle Berry decides she’s suddenly fee
ling broody but wants to stay in America, I reserve the right to change my mind.

  And do I tell her exactly what I’m after from day one? Or just start a normal relationship with her, see how it goes, then, if we get on, get her pregnant as soon as she agrees? By the time I’m on my third page, my head is beginning to hurt, and I realize one very important thing. I need a second opinion.

  When I hand the list over to Tom later that evening, I watch anxiously as he reads it. He grins at a couple of items before eventually passing it back to me.

  ‘Seems pretty…comprehensive.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ve left anything out? Anything important?’

  Tom takes it back and flicks through it again. ‘Have you got “fat ankles”?’

  I nod. ‘Number three.’

  He puts it down on the dining table. ‘Then it seems like you’ve got all your bases covered.’

  Barbara walks in from the kitchen, where she’s been giving the twins their dinner, and picks up the clipboard.

  ‘What’s this? Your shopping list?’

  ‘In a way…’

  I try to grab it, but she’s too quick for me, and takes it over to the sofa to read. She scans through it a couple of times, frowning as she does so. ‘What’s all this about?’ she asks, staring accusingly at Tom.

  ‘It’s Will’s,’ he splutters defensively.

  As I give him a look like he’s just told on me at school, Barbara turns her attention to me. ‘You’ve made a list? What on earth for?’

  ‘It’s his ideal woman,’ says Tom. ‘Or rather, non-ideal.’

  ‘This should be good,’ she says, to no one in particular. ‘Make me a cup of tea, will you?’ But as Tom and I head for the kitchen, her ‘Not you, Will’ stops me in my tracks. Like a scolded child, I head back into the room, and slump down in the armchair.

  As Barbara reads carefully down the page, I can’t seem to detect whether she’s amused or annoyed, although I do spot her sneaking a glance at her own ankles.

  ‘And how many of these did you help him out with?’ she asks, as Tom heads back into the lounge carrying three mugs of tea. When he doesn’t answer immediately, Barbara just sits there, refusing to take the one he’s offered her, enjoying his growing discomfort from the hot mugs he’s holding.

  ‘All my own work,’ I say, after I’ve watched him suffer for a few more seconds. ‘Honest.’

  Barbara looks at Tom sceptically, before finally taking the mug with ‘World’s Greatest Mum’ printed on the side. With a sigh of relief, he puts the other two mugs down on the coffee table and blows on his fingers.

  I pick up my tea and take a sip, before making a face. ‘What’s this? Girl’s Grey?’

  ‘Sorry, Will,’ says Tom, swapping my mug for his. ‘Wrong one.’

  Tom heads back into the kitchen, reappearing a few moments later with a plate of biscuits, while I sit nervously sipping my tea, waiting for Barbara to explode. But, to my surprise, she just hands the list back to me in silence, then picks up a custard cream and shoves the whole thing into her mouth.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ I ask, watching her chew.

  Barbara swallows the biscuit, and takes a mouthful of tea before reaching for another. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Er…’ I put the list down on the coffee table and help myself to a chocolate finger before Tom can eat them all. ‘Like how shallow I am for writing a list?’

  Barbara shakes her head. ‘Doesn’t hurt to put things down on paper. Helps you get them clear in your own head.’

  I look across at Tom, then back to her. ‘But what about some of the more, er, sexist stuff? Like—’

  ‘Fat ankles?’ interrupts Barbara. ‘Even I don’t think you’d reject a chance of future happiness purely based on the diameter of some poor girl’s lower leg. It’s just…’

  ‘Just what?’

  Barbara puts her mug down on a coaster on the coffee table. ‘These lists are all very well, but when it comes down to it…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a factual thing, attraction, is it?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Hell, no. If I’d written a list about everything I was looking for in my ideal man, I’d have been single for a long, long time.’ She looks over to where Tom is poking around in his mug, trying to fish out the remains of the digestive that he’s dropped into his tea. ‘And I certainly wouldn’t have ended up with Tom.’

  Tom looks up, a miffed expression on his face. ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘I don’t mean that in a bad way. All I meant was that, at the time, I would have written down stuff that I thought was important then. Whereas Tom had other qualities.’

  ‘Better qualities,’ suggests Tom, putting his mug down next to Barbara’s.

  ‘Like I said,’ continues Barbara, picking Tom’s mug up from where he’s placed it directly on the table and sliding a coaster underneath it, ‘other qualities. And besides–he’s a different man now from the one I first met.’

  ‘Fatter, for one thing,’ I observe. ‘And with less hair.’

  She laughs. ‘All I’m saying, Will, is don’t exclude anyone. Because when it comes to love, you can find it in the most unlikely places.’

  ‘But what about compatibility? Surely that’s important?’

  Barbara shrugs. ‘What is compatibility, exactly? Look.’ She picks up my list again. ‘You’ve written “must like old films”. But what if she doesn’t? That might simply be because she’s never seen any. Or any of the “right” ones. It’s all very well saying that you want to meet someone with the same interests as you, but the only problem with that is how are you then ever going to do anything different? So you liking old films and her liking new ones, for example, is an opportunity for you both to experience something new. Together. To introduce each other to something different. And trust me, when you’ve been with her for a few years, that’ll be a godsend.’

  Tom nods. ‘It’s true. You want someone who can teach you a few new things. And I don’t mean in the bedroom department. Although, thinking about it…’

  Barbara looks at him in a chance-would-be-a-fine-thing kind of way. ‘Why don’t you take a different approach?’

  ‘What sort of different approach?’

  ‘Well,’ says Barbara, in the tone of a patient schoolteacher trying to explain a particularly difficult maths problem, ‘instead of focusing on what you think you want or don’t want, why not try and learn from the women you’ve dated so far?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what was wrong with your last few girlfriends, for example? There were obviously reasons why you broke up with them, so all you have to do is avoid anyone with those same faults and attributes.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ agrees Tom.

  Barbara stands up and walks towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll just find a pen.’

  I look at her, horrified. ‘What–you mean, now?’

  She nods. ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘In front of you?’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I’d be embarrassed.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Will. There’s very little I don’t know about your love life, don’t forget.’

  I look accusingly across at Tom, who’s pretending to be fascinated by the pattern on the carpet.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Come on, Will,’ says Barbara, sitting back down and uncapping a Biro. ‘What’s the one thing that’s stopped you being able to commit to any of your girlfriends in the past?’

  I sit and think about this for a minute, just like I’ve sat and thought about it every single time I’ve broken up with any of them. And as Tom and Barbara watch me expectantly, I try and put my answer into words.

  ‘Well, it’s like…’ I put my tea down on the table, careful to place it on a coaster. ‘You know that feeling when someone’s trying to help you on with your coat, but you don’t realize one of the sleeves is inside out,
and so you start to panic a little bit because you can’t work out what’s wrong, and, no matter what you do, you can’t seem to find the hole…’

  ‘So that’s your problem–you’ve never been able to find the hole?’ smirks Tom, before Barbara shushes him by pinching him on the arm.

  ‘Well, that’s how I’ve felt with all of them. That awkwardness. The feeling that something’s just not right.’

  Barbara sits there, nodding in an understanding way, while Tom rubs his bicep.

  ‘And so you’re really just looking for someone who feels right? Despite,’ she points to the list again, ‘all this stuff?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ I say, picking up the last chocolate finger and popping it sideways into my mouth, much to Tom’s evident disgust.

  Barbara sits back in her chair and puffs out her cheeks. ‘Well, you’d better get a move on, then.’

  And later, as I head back home to my empty flat, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with her.

  Chapter 5

  I’m too busy with clients for the next couple of days to give it much more thought, and besides, for some reason which I’m hoping isn’t aesthetic, my photos haven’t been ‘approved’ yet on NewFlames. But this is fine, because until I get my results back from the clinic, I’m reluctant to go any further anyway.

  I don’t sleep very well on Thursday night, and by Friday morning I’m positively terrified. I decide that it’s a call best not made from the office, and it takes me two attempts to dial the clinic’s number, but when I do get through, I put the phone down the moment the receptionist answers. What if the news is bad, and my little swimmers turn out to be more Robert Maxwell than Duncan Goodhew? I feel like I’m waiting for my GCSE results all over again, except the consequences if I fail are much, much worse.

  After a very strong cup of coffee, I take a deep breath, pick the phone up, and dial again.

  ‘Chiswick Clinic,’ says the receptionist brightly. ‘Good morning.’