Sugar &; spice

"Congratulations, mate," he said into the mobile, whilst waiting for
his Thai whore to be ready. "Congratulations, that's great news. You'll
be fine, mate, you'll love it. You'll be a great dad. Listen, gotta go.
And Happy Christmas to you, too. Cheers mate."
He thought he'd seen the door handle turn, but it was just a
reflection. He slumped back into his seat, picking idly at the edge of
a chewed thumbnail.
His own baby daughter was thousands of miles away in the UK with her
mum. He was going to try to get back for her birthday next year. She'd
be two in June. Her name was Daisy, and she was beautiful and cute,
like the flower that was her namesake. His little Princess Petal. It
had been his idea, that name. Her mum wanted her to be called Alisha.
But he'd won in the end, saying that she could choose the names of all
their other children, if he could name their first born. She'd agreed.
Of course there would be no more children, but they didn't know that
then. They talked about having a big family. He joked about having his
own five-a-side family footie team. And now here he was in the Golden
Curtain at 2am, and back home Daisy May would probably be watching the
Lion King at her grandparents' house. At least, he thought that's where
they were spending the day. Or was that Boxing Day? Whatever. Daisy's
mum was bound to have something special planned. Daisy's mum.
He took another Marlborough from the packet and rummaged in his pocket
for a lighter. Only three fags left. He'd have to remember to get some
more before he left or he'd be gasping in the morning. Maybe this New
Year he'd give up. Again.
Daisy's mum had been the original Princess Petal, before Daisy came
along. He'd even called her Petal, saying she was his English Rose. But
she was an English Rose who could down pints and knew the rules of
rugby and had a pair of tits to make your eyes water. It didn't matter
that she was 10 years younger than him, still a student. She wasn't a
virgin (which would have been frankly tedious anyway, all that patient
foreplay and tender expectation was a right pain in the arse). But she
was young enough not to have had anyone like him before. Her boyfriends
were all classmates, or her brother's friends, mere boys. They didn't
know...well, clearly there were a few tricks that hadn't been tried on
her before, and she was suitably impressed. It had been so much more
satisfying than shagging any of the women his own age, who were either
desperate Bridget Jones-types from work or divorcee-slappers picked up
at an over-28s night in the local club. And none of them had
gravity-defying nipples, either. And she'd seemed almost overwhelmed,
bless her. There was none of this "Where do we take it from here?" or
"I just want to know where I stand" analytical shit. She was such a
sweetheart. All she wanted to do was drink and fuck and she was just so
gorgeously, unwittingly sexy.
He inhaled deeply, and blew a couple of smoke rings, watching their
reflection falter and disappear in the mirrors above the bar.
She'd got a bit jealous if he chatted other women up in front of her.
But even her petulance was sweet, and made him fall in love with her
all over again. And anyway, she was easy to placate; understanding that
networking was crucial for his work, happy to keep quiet for the sake
of his career contacts. Those first few weeks were amazing. He thought,
"This is it. I've found the perfect girl for me. Sugar and spice!" and
he asked her to marry him practically every day, until it had become a
bit of a joke. She'd check her watch and say, "Blimey, I must be
looking a bit ropey today! 10 am and still no proposal?" And he'd roll
her over and say "I tell you what, I propose to fuck you until you
scream," or something along those lines. You know, something sort of
dirty but not really, not too much to cope with. She was still a
teenager, after all.
He sighed as he stubbed his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and
glanced up at the clock. He didn't usually have to wait this long.
Still, maybe Christmas was their busiest time of year here, too.
It had been Christmas time when she told him. He'd had no idea; just
thought she'd been a bit moody lately, and noticed that her boobs had
been getting bigger. But he just thought that girls sometimes are
moody, aren't they, and that at her age she was probably still growing,
too.
It was Christmas Eve and they were in the pub with her mates. Her
mates. They were all a bit screechy and clueless, the way that
18-year-olds are, but he loved the way they'd hang around him,
stumbling over their words as they asked him what it was like to be on
the telly. They'd ask him what the other presenters were really like,
was so-and-so really gay, was it difficult to talk and listen to the
producer in your ear at the same time, standard questions, easily
answered. And they had bloody gorgeous figures, looked as if they'd
been ironed into their Clingfilm clothes. So he never minded going out
with her mates. That night one of them, the redhead, started asking him
all of those 'deep' pseudo-philosophical questions that adolescents
love, you know: "Why are we here?" "Do you really believe in love?" all
that stuff. And he gave her the answers she wanted, about the
importance of family and honesty and trust, whilst he wondered vaguely
if it would ever be worth trying it on with her, or whether she'd be
the prissy type with morals about shagging a mate's boyfriend. Later on
she went off to the loo with Petal - girls do that, don't they, piss in
pairs - and Petal had come back alone. He thought that maybe she was
going to apologise for being so silent and sullen all night and was
looking forward to a bit of a conciliatory grope in the alley.
But she didn't say sorry. She told him she was three months gone. He
didn't react well ("Why weren't you more careful, you stupid cow?" were
his exact words) and ran off crying. He went on to another bar and
drank doubles until chucking out time.
The next day - Christmas Day, traditionally a hangover day - he'd known
what he had to do. He was nearly 30, after all. It was time to settle
down. And the thought of a son, a little boy to play footie with in the
back garden was quite appealing. And to have her to come back to every
night, someone to cook and make the place a bit more homely. And he did
love her. And it was Christmas Day, for fuck's sake. So he showered,
shaved, popped in the Seven Eleven for fags, Paracetamol and a bunch of
carnations, and walked over to her parents' house. He threw pebbles at
her window until she answered, still red-nosed and red-eyed from
crying. He got down on one knee and, lifting the flowers in her
direction said, "Will you marry me?" At first she hadn't answered, so
he'd stood up, looked straight into her eyes and said, "I've never been
more serious. I love you." She nodded and her face disappeared. The
next thing he knew she was running down the front path, a pajama'd
blur, hurling herself at him, all salty kisses, like an abandoned puppy
finding it's owner.
Of course her parents hadn't been exactly over the moon. But he went
inside with her and did the decent thing, asked her dad's permission
over a glass of sherry. He let her tell them about the baby. They asked
him to stay for Christmas dinner and he agreed. He hadn't had any plans
anyway. He overheard their muttered conversations from the kitchen:
"...too late to get rid of it now..." "...she could do a lot worse..."
"...there's always the Open University, I suppose..." wafting over the
rattle of the dishwasher. Then came the clincher "...but surely what's
most important, Gordon, is that she's happy." And he was home and
dry.
Her mum organised it. Her dad paid for it. All he had to do was go for
a fitting for the morning suit and get someone to sort out a stag
night. It was an Easter wedding, with her just into her seventh month,
in a cream stretchy dress. He'd never understood why people made such a
big fuss about weddings, all that flowers and tears and expensive
kitchenware stuff. But he'd had a lump in his throat when he promised
to love and protect her.
He drummed his fingers on the glass-topped table. He might as well get
another beer. Perhaps that was the point. Make the punters wait so they
fill up with overpriced booze and they won't be able to get it up
anyway. The whores get an easy session and the bar makes a mint, too.
Only the customers lose out. All the same, he couldn't be arsed to go
anywhere else at this time of night, and he could do with a drink. He
nodded at the greasy-haired barman.
It was after the wedding that things started to go wrong. He'd gone off
sex ages before that. After he saw the scan and her belly started to
grow, he just couldn't do it any more. But for a while, they'd still
had a laugh, cuddling up and thinking about names and choosing colours
for the nursery.
She'd stopped college before the wedding, and moved in with him
afterwards. She always asked him how his day was when he came home from
work. Sometimes she cooked; sometimes they ordered a takeout. She
bought a laundry basket for his dirty clothes. She bought those funny
pink rubber gloves to do the washing up in. The problem was, it just
got a bit boring, all those nights in poring over Mothercare
catalogues. Even if she couldn't drink, he didn't understand why she
couldn't just come out to the pub anyway, for a laugh. So he'd suggest
going out, and she'd say she didn't feel like it, and he'd say he
didn't see why their lives had to end just because she was having a
baby, and she'd say she didn't want him going spending all the money
for the baby on beer, and he'd say who's bloody money was it anyway? So
he started going out on his own. Sometimes he phoned her up on the way
home, and brought her a kebab and chips midnight feast by way of an
apology.
And then along came Daisy, wonderful, awful Daisy, with her nighttime
wailing and enchanting smile. He hadn't even minded that she wasn't a
boy. She made him feel like God. He was suddenly the centre of the
universe. And he went round telling everyone how great it was to be a
dad. He even took her into work to show everyone how beautiful she was.
"Fatherhood suits you," said the new receptionist, touching him lightly
on the arm. "I've always thought there was something attractive about
new dads," she added, playing with a strand of loose hair. "And I've
always thought there was something attractive about green-eyed
brunettes with an impeccable telephone manner," he replied, holding her
gaze. She laughed and looked away, and then glanced back. That was when
he knew he'd have to start working late again.
He'd been good about it though. He never let his wife know about his
affairs, and never let them get serious. He respected her. At weekends
he even did the nappy changing and Sunday lunches with the in-laws.
There'd been no reason for her ever to suspect.
Until that silly cow mate of hers with the red hair came along to do
work experience and had to mouth it off and ruin everything.
So with the divorce coming through, and the flat on the market, it
would have been stupid not to take the job in Penang, all things
considered. A fresh start was just what he needed.
The label on the front of the beer bottle was wet with condensation. He
peeled it off and rolled it up before taking another swig.
It was his second Christmas out here now. The money was good. The
lifestyle was good. Of course he missed Daisy. He got sent photos
sometimes. She was going to grow up to look like her mum. He'd been
back for her first birthday and she cried when she saw him. How was she
to know who he was? To her he was just some smoky stranger. She wasn't
old enough to associate him with the giant pink teddy in her bedroom,
or the brand new DVD and wide-screen telly she watched her cartoons on.
So he hadn't stayed long. Made up some excuse about a deadline being
put forward and changed his flight back. Maybe this year would be
different. She'd be older, able to talk to him. They could have a
little chat. Maybe he could take her to the zoo or buy her a Barbie or
something. Wasn't that the kind of thing little girls liked?
The door opened slightly and a slim brown arm with a gold chain
beckoned.
Who knew what girls wanted, anyway?
He switched off his mobile, took a last swig and eased himself out of
the chair.
Sugar &; spice 1