Rubbish Boyfriends Page 6

  ‘Four?’ I very nearly scream. ‘But I was four an hour ago!’

  She peers at my chart. ‘Oh, yes, so you were. Sorry, I’m getting you mixed up with the lady next door. She only came in ten minutes ago. She’ll be having hers soon, I should think …’

  I am so happy for her.

  ‘… I’d better go see how she’s doing, actually. Back in a mo.’

  And out she wafts.

  Leaving me feeling utterly disheartened. Not only has my body stopped feeling anything, it has also stopped doing anything. I’m going to be here for days, aren’t I? Weeks stretching into months, with no sign of a baby. I spy Emily’s food bag, which all of a sudden doesn’t seem such a bad idea. Maybe some raisins or a banana might lift my spirits …

  But I can’t move my legs. Stupid floppy-haired anaesthetist with his stupid magic needle. It was supposed to be a mobile epidural – the sort that lets you walk about, go down the shops and stuff – but I feel about as mobile as the phone that’s sitting motionless in Emily’s handbag. The phone that is now ringing.

  ‘Emily, your phone. Emily, wake up!’ I yell.

  She jolts upright. ‘What … ? Oh yeah … mobile … Hang on, hang on.’ She fumbles through her bag, spilling most of its contents before getting to the phone just as it stops ringing. ‘Don’t panic,’ she says. ‘It’s not a call. It’s a text.’

  At last! Word from the outside world.

  ‘Who’s it from? Is it for me? Is it him?’ I babble frantically.

  She rubs her eyes, fiddles with the buttons and squints at the tiny display.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I urge.

  ‘Give me a break, Dayna. It’s three in the bloody morning.’ But then she smiles. ‘Ah, that’s so sweet. It says, “stuk arport plne dlayd b wiv u asap let ne no …”’ She breaks off to look at me. ‘I think he means “me know”,’ she explains.

  ‘Yes, yes, I got that.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Go on, finish it off.’

  ‘Nothing much. Just “let ne no woss hapnin”.’

  Damn my stupid paralysed-below-the-waist situation. If I could kick myself, I would. Foolishly I’ve been imagining that somehow he would have found a way to teleport himself home in the blink of an eye and I’d have my proper birthing partner and everything would be wonderful …

  But of course, it isn’t going to happen. It looks as if I’m doing this without him.

  ‘Oh, Dayna, don’t be upset,’ Emily says, wide awake suddenly and sensing my oncoming tears. ‘You’ve still got me.’

  I feel so bad that I let her give my hand one of her bone-crushing squeezes again. ‘I know. I’m sorry. And I am so grateful to you for being here. Ignore me. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.’

  ‘Well don’t. You’ve got nothing to feel bad about. Remember what you said. You’re having this baby for you. You’re not doing it for anyone else and you don’t need a bloke. You said that. Remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say after a moment. And I really mean it. A man – husband, boyfriend, whatever – was never part of the plan. All I wanted was a baby, and now, finally, it’s happening (well, at the current rate it will be in about a week). Nothing else matters.

  I think of my dad. He did it, didn’t he? All those years ago, he raised me by himself and I turned out OK – well, I’m not too neurotic. And he was a bloke, for God’s sake. If he could do it …

  The death of my mum left a huge gaping hole in my life. One about the size of – well, I had no idea, but with each passing year that something-missing feeling has grown bigger and bigger and it was only a short while ago that I realised exactly what it was I had to do. Or maybe I’d known all my life? Whatever, nine months ago (minus two weeks) I put the plan into action and now it’s happening. I might not have a mum (or a midwife. Where the hell is she?) but I’m going to have a baby.

  And I so do not need a man.

  No. 2

  ‘I haven’t seen you at the library lately,’ Chris said at the other end of the phone.

  ‘No, I’ve been busy,’ I replied. ‘Really, really busy.’

  ‘Right, well, I was wondering if you fancied going for a bite to eat sometime, that is, if you’ve stopped being busy.’

  ‘That would be so nice,’ I gushed, giving Simon a sidelong glance. He was rubbing at a smudge on the windscreen, pretending he wasn’t interested. Or maybe he wasn’t interested.

  ‘Great … You doing anything on Wednesday?’

  ‘No, Wednesday’s good.’

  ‘OK … Do you know Govinda’s? It’s just off Soho Square …’

  Of course I knew it. You couldn’t miss it for the orange-robed Krishna nutters who clogged the pavement outside.

  ‘… It’s a vegetarian place. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘More than OK,’ I lied. ‘I love vegetarian restaurants.’

  God, was he a veggie? Was he a proper one or just a pretend one like Emily? I felt panic well up … I so love my meat.

  Simon was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, so I forced a smile and added, ‘Besides, who eats meat these days?’ I tried to hide the Peperami wrapper that was sticking out of my bag. Not that Chris could see it, obviously, but Simon could.

  ‘Great. Eight o’clock. See you there.’

  ‘Govinda’s, yes, see you there,’ I agreed happily.

  ‘So your boyfriend’s a lentil lover, then?’ Simon said, smirking, as I put my phone away.

  He had been listening. I looked at him for subtle signs of jealousy, but he was being his usual nothing-bothers-me self.

  ‘Oh, all that vegetarian stuff – it’s a private joke,’ I said mysteriously. ‘Anyway, thanks again for coming to get me tonight. You saved my life.’

  ‘Any time. You know I’ll always help you out.’

  I didn’t ask him in for a coffee in the end. It just didn’t seem appropriate any more.

  As I climbed out of the car, Simon said, ‘Give me a call sometime.’ Then he chucked the Peperami wrapper at me. ‘And don’t litter my car, yeah?’

  Chris waved as I walked into the restaurant and gave me his cute little smile as I sat down. ‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of times,’ I lied, trying not to breathe. I was dead excited about seeing him again, but the stench of cabbage that filled the air was making me feel slightly nauseous.

  ‘I love the curried cabbage,’ he said. He wasn’t the only one. They must have had a vat of it in the kitchen judging by the smell. He handed me a menu and asked, ‘What do you normally have?’

  ‘The, er …’

  The menu was written in a language I’d never seen before. I didn’t recognise any of the dishes and there were no handy explanations in italics for fakes like me.

  ‘… um … er, the curried cabbage always goes down a treat,’ I said at last.

  Excuse me? I hated cabbage, curried or otherwise. Why didn’t I just own up and tell him I was more a steak and chips sort of girl? Because you don’t, do you? Because at nineteen you want to appear worldly and knowledgeable and at ease in any situation. OK, more like you fancy someone and you want them to fancy you right back, so you pretend to like exactly the same things they do.

  ‘You’re into skinny-dipping in the North Sea? Hey, me too! I’m there every January!’

  ‘Oh, you like juggling knives? Blindfolded? It’s the only way!’

  That sort of thing. That’s why I ended up nearly choking on curried cabbage. I forced down every last disgusting bit of the stuff because, yes, I fancied him.

  ‘I notice you’ve had a hair cut since I saw you at the library,’ I chit-chatted between (vile) mouthfuls.

  ‘Oh yes, that,’ he replied, touching his head self-consciously. ‘I was going to grow it, but I was starting to look like Leo Sayer – I’m a bit curly, you see. Anyway, I figured that if I came out looking like that, this might be our one and only date, so I got my mate to shave it all off.’

  I smiled at that. He’d let slip that he entertained the possibility that
we might have a relationship. Foul food aside, things were looking good.

  We spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other. Actually, I fired so many questions at him that he must have felt as if he was being interrogated.

  Over the course of our interview, I mean date, I discovered that Chris and I couldn’t have been more different if he’d just flown in from Mars. For a start, unlike me (going to the local comprehensive), he had started his education at a public school in Dorset and was now at university here in London.

  Actually, all that education he’d had – and was still having – was most of the reason I spent the meal firing questions at him. I didn’t want to give him a chance to ask me any and find out about my pathetic GCSE results.

  I don’t think I’d ever met anyone who’d been to boarding school before and I’m afraid I imagined that they’d all fit the stereotype. You know, stuck-up rich kids who voted Tory and went fox-hunting and were quite comfortable with the idea of being caned on a regular basis. Chris couldn’t have been further from that if he actually had come from Mars. He was the most caring person I’d ever met. He was passionate about human rights and he cared about world poverty and world peace. The only world issue every bloke I knew cared about was the one that happened every four years that England were definitely going to win for the first time since 1966.

  The funny thing was that the more different he turned out to be, the more I liked him. He was clever and deep and, yes, sensitive. In my limited experience, there was only one type of man. Simon, basically. Chris was so not Simon.

  What a result!

  And as I forced down the last tiny scrap of cabbage and made a big display of licking my lips appreciatively, I decided that I definitely had to see more of him.

  We stood outside the restaurant, ready to go our separate ways. I was getting the tube home, Chris the bus.

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed myself tonight,’ he told me, and I wondered if he really had. What did he see in me? Just as he wasn’t my usual type, I could hardly have been his.

  ‘Me too,’ I replied. ‘Very much. I can’t wait to try that other restaurant you told me about,’ I added, subtly reminding him what he’d said earlier, which, in my opinion, was a contractually binding agreement to see me again.

  ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days, sort something out,’ he said, and inside I was glowing. ‘Wel l … goodnight … I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah … I suppose … goodnight.’

  He bobbed his head forward clumsily, directing his lips at my cheek, but I twisted slightly so his mouth hit mine. He lingered there for a moment; for just long enough for it to count as a proper kiss. It was a gorgeous moment.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ I said before he turned to leave. I had to make something clear from the outset. I didn’t want to make the same fatal mistake I’d made with Simon.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Just so you know, I hate cuddly toys.’

  The next day I got a bank statement. The balance on my account was £46,321. Which for a nineteen-year-old student/part-time waitress was very good. But which, on the other hand, wasn’t very good at all. Dad had given me fifty grand of his winnings. I couldn’t believe that in the few weeks since, I’d got through over three grand.

  What had I spent it on? I had no vast new wardrobe of designer gear or nights drinking Cristal and snorting coke at exclusive nightclubs to show for it. All the stuff that groovy young people were supposed to do in their spare time. The money had gone on living in London, I suppose. Rent, bills, tube fares and a car that was now lying dead in a scrap yard.

  I stared at the statement, thinking that in a matter of weeks I’d got through nearly ten per cent of my inheritance because, let’s face it, that’s what it was. Dad wouldn’t be leaving anything else behind when he died. With his love of a social life and a brand-new floozy to help him spend his hard-won cash, he was on a fast track to nowhere.

  And he’d probably be blowing the last of it on his engagement party. If there was one thing that could be guaranteed to take my mind off my dwindling windfall, it was the thought of that party, which was horribly imminent.

  Though it wasn’t quite as imminent as I’d thought. They postponed it, and all because of me. Their original date – Mitzy’s birthday – coincided with my first exam.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Dad,’ I said on the phone, ‘but I’m going to be up to my neck in revision. You go ahead though.’

  ‘Without you? No way, sweetheart. You’re the guest of honour. What about the following Wednesday?’

  ‘Another exam,’ I lied – I could see a way out now.

  ‘OK, when are your exams over?’

  ‘The end of June.’ I wanted to add ‘2020’, but I didn’t think he’d buy it.

  ‘That’s when we’ll have the party, then. We can drink to your graduation while we’re at it.’

  Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  Every time I thought about Dad and Mitzy I felt angry. Why? Was it because Mitzy was taking Mum’s place in Dad’s life? He’d left it fifteen years before he’d got serious about someone else, so I could hardly accuse him of indecent haste. More likely I was upset that she might be taking my place in his life. Did all that anger just boil down to pathetic jealousy? I didn’t want to believe that, obviously, so I put it down to her. I just didn’t trust her.

  Plus she had a stupid name.

  OK, I wasn’t so blind that I didn’t accept she had (some) attributes. She looked great for her age, she was

  bubbly and sociable and warm … So why didn’t I like her? Maybe it was just because she was called Mitzy. Come on, it is a bloody stupid name.

  They had hired the upstairs room at the Duke of Lancaster, Dad’s scuzzy local. I wasn’t impressed.

  My dad wasn’t the kind of guy who did things by halves. If you asked him for an ice cream, he’d buy you the van. On my twelfth birthday, he took me to Disneyland Paris. At thirteen – officially a teenager – he bought me my first mobile phone. At seventeen, to go with my provisional driving licence, he bought me my first Porsche … Not really, but you get the gist. He never had much money, but he’d stretch himself to snapping point to make sure I didn’t go without. I know what he was doing. He couldn’t do anything about me missing out on having a mum, but he could make damn sure I didn’t miss out on anything else. And his generosity didn’t stop when I left home. Remember my college fees? The fifty grand of his winnings?

  No, my dad was the most giving man I knew, so the fact that he was having a budget bash at the Lancaster confirmed the worst for me. Clearly, very obviously and without the faintest shadow of a doubt, the fluffy blonde had got through all his money in a matter of weeks. I was amazed, frankly, that having so efficiently bled him dry, she was still going through with the sham of an engagement. Because that’s what it was – clearly, very obviously and without the faintest shadow, etc.

  As I stood in the shabby upstairs room of the crummy Lancaster waiting for his guests to arrive, I decided to have it out with him. Great timing, eh? But that’s the trouble with rushing to judgement. Having reached a hasty verdict, you don’t waste a second pronouncing it.

  I waited until Mitzy was out of the room on a nose-powdering trip and collared him. ‘Dad, what have you done with all your winnings?’ I hissed.

  He laughed in my face. ‘You choose your moments, don’t you? Relax. This is a party. Have you got yourself a drink yet?’

  He was so in denial. Had she brainwashed as well as fleeced him?

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ I said. ‘This is hardly the Ritz. If you’ve still got the money, why are you having your party here?’

  ‘This is your dad’s local, Dayna,’ said a blonde voice behind me – clearly she didn’t dare leave us alone for a minute and had returned early from the loo. ‘And it’s where we met. It felt right to have our special night here, didn’t it, Michael?’

  I stared at Dad, deliberately ignoring the blonde vision th
at was now standing beside him. Believe me, it wasn’t easy. She was wearing a silver creation that threw off sparks of light with every shimmy and must have used up at least a grand of my dad’s fortune. But I had to admit, she looked stunning. If Liz Hurley had turned up to the same premiere in – horror of horrors – the same dress, she’d have been relegated to page ten because shots of Mitzy would have taken up pages one to nine.

  ‘Dayna, listen,’ she said gently. ‘Your dad and I are in love. We don’t need to spend loads on a glitzy party to show that. Besides, we want to save our money for later.’

  What’s with the ‘we’? I thought. You mean you want to save his money for later, you money-grabbing Ivana Trump type, you. What was it she’d said during the divorce of the century? ‘Don’t get mad, get everything.’ Clearly Mitzy had been paying attention and the only difference was, she wasn’t going to hang around for the divorce; she was getting everything now.

  ‘Why, what do you want to do with it later?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, we’re going to have some fun for a start. Neither of us have had much of that lately, have we, Michael?’

  Dad didn’t answer. He just put his arm around her and glared at me. I wanted to tell him that old men weren’t supposed to have fun. They were meant to be growing old gracefully, keeping the memory of their daughter’s mother alive by spending all their time with said motherless daughter. I glared back at him until he couldn’t stand it any more and turned for the bar.

  I may not have had the last word, but at least I’d had the final glare. I felt a faint glow of victory until I realised that he’d left me alone with Mitzy.

  ‘Dayna, I’m really sorry,’ she said, her sparkly eye-shadow twinkling at me in the disco lights. ‘I don’t feel as if we got off on the right foot. We should have had a proper talk, you and me. I’m never going to try to be your mother, you know.’

  As if! ‘Leave my mum out of this,’ I snapped.