will.’
‘No she won’t.’
She looks over the desk at me in dull surprise, probably unused to being contradicted.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What I mean is, Lily won’t be able to track down her father.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not with you.’
‘She won’t be able to find out who he is or where he is, because I couldn’t even tell you that myself. I was never in a relationship with him. That is, I don’t know his name or where he is or … In fact the truth is … I don’t know anything about him at all.’
Then I suddenly backpedal and have an urge to clamp my hand over my mouth, realising that makes me sound like some spray-tanned, bleach-headed tarts who got up the duff after a one night stand with a bloke whose name they now can’t even remember.
And now Miss Pettifer is peering curiously at me over the rims of her glasses, and I can practically read her thoughts. God almighty, never would have had this one down as someone who’d be a bit of a goer of a Friday night on the town, after a few shots of vodka and Red Bull. Hard to imagine Miss Prissy newspaper editor in a pair of leather trousers and a cropped-top bra, falling drunk out of some nightclub at five a.m., draped round some unknown fella she’s only just met and is about to drag home for a quickie one night stand.
‘And no, I promise, it’s not what you’re thinking either,’ I tell her with a heartfelt sigh, knowing I can’t circle around this any longer.
The time has come for the truth.
Hard to blurt it out though; this is not something I ever talk about, barely even think about most of the time. Aside from my family, no one really knows the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, which is exactly how I like to keep it.
But seeing Miss Pettifer looking expectantly at me, waiting for my answer, I know I’ve no choice but to tell her.
‘I had Lily by artificial insemination.’
I try my best to say it evenly and without embarrassment. For God’s sake, haven’t I been putting up with all sorts of rumours and sly stories circulating round the office about Lily’s parentage, ever since the day I first announced my pregnancy? All widely exaggerated and laughably wide of the mark.
Because the truth was this; almost three years ago now, dating right back to that dismal night when I turned thirty, I made one life-altering decision. Not to rush into marriage, or find a significant other to share my life with and take away the loneliness; I didn’t mind being on my own and was never particularly bothered about being single. Unlike a lot of my contemporaries at work, I was never emotionally double-parked and in a mad, tearing rush to meet someone. Singledom held out no threat for me whatsoever.
As far as I was concerned, the road to love was far too full of potholes and roadblocks to be even worth the hassle. And on the rare occasions when I did date, I’d pretty much been able to see the end of every single love affair right from its very beginning. I was someone who actively preferred my own company to that of any guy brave enough to ask me out, and who didn’t want the mess of relationships, thanks; that was my sister Helen’s department and not mine. In fact, my heart was so untroubled by emotion that it might as well have had a big ‘do not disturb’ sign permanently hanging from it.
I’d dated in the past, of course, and like everyone else could boast of having my heart smashed to smithereens back in college by ‘the one that got away’. Who’s married with two kids now and who recently rang me up out of the blue, saying he’d just been made redundant then asking me for a job. In spite of no experience whatsoever in the paper business; this guy was a chemical engineer. Mortifying, for us both, on so many levels. And certainly before I had Lily, from time to time I’d go out on the odd date. But they always seemed to me to end up like a job interview where no one ever got hired. My overall verdict on my chances of ever finding a life partner? Meh.
No, it wasn’t that I was ever lonely … Besides, how could anyone who worked a sixteen-hour day ever call themselves lonely? But dating back to that night of my miserable, pathetic thirtieth birthday, I was filled with a dark and inexplicable horror of ending up alone. Because there’s a world of difference between the epic loneliness I was so frightened of and being alone, as I was terrifyingly beginning to see.
And that’s when I absolutely knew for certain. Whatever else the future might hold for me, and even though there were times when I felt crushed under the sheer weight of it, there was one thing that I didn’t want the chance to miss out on, and that was to become a mother. That was without a doubt, the one, personal thing that I wanted out of life for myself more than anything else. A child of my own. No head space for the inconvenience of a man in my life, thank you very much, I just wanted a baby, full stop. And once I’d made the decision, it was like a tight iron band had been lifted from round my heart. No question about it, this wasn’t just the right thing to do, it was the only thing.
And okay, so I might not exactly have had close female friends to confide in – or indeed, any mates at all – but believe me, I’d heard enough horror stories circulating round the office to know precisely the best plan of action open to someone like me. I’d overheard bloodcurdling tales told in whispered conversations by the watercoolers, heartrending sagas about women who’d had kids with partners who suddenly became ex-partners and then spent years dragging the mother of their child through the family law courts demanding access rights. Which always and inevitably seemed to be granted.
Overnight access seemed to be the first step, followed by weekend access … Quite enough to send a shiver down my spine. Shared parentage, I just knew, would never be an option for someone like me, so instead I just went for the next preferable option.
Namely, a sperm bank, where I was successfully inseminated and successfully managed to conceive on my very first go, astonishing just about everyone at the clinic. To this day I can still remember my mother quipping at the time that even my ovaries, like the rest of me, were high-performing and anxious to get on with it.
And now here she was, my little Lily Elizabeth Emily, representing the one single personal thing I actively wanted out of life for myself and for no one else. And not for one second do I ever regret the decision I made. Lily’s the single best thing ever to have happened to me and as far as I’m concerned, let people gossip about who her dad is all they shagging well like. Because she’s my soulmate, the real love of my life. Lily’s my reason for running home every night and our precious Sundays together are what I live for, the highlight of my whole week.
There’s a long, long pause as Miss Pettifer digests this, nodding thoughtfully.
‘I see. Well, thank you for telling me. And does Lily know this?’
‘Well, no … But then she’s not even three yet. Hardly an appropriate conversation to have with the child, is it?’
‘You might just be very surprised at what they’re able to understand at that age. The regrettable incident which happened here earlier being a case in point. Miss Simpson was doing a little exercise with the class where each child had to tell the others what they’d all done at the weekend. So of course, they all spoke about going to visit grandparents with Mum and Dad, or else going to feed the ducks in the park, again with either Mum or Dad. Miss Simpson told me that Lily became agitated at all the other children talking so openly about their fathers. The poor child didn’t seem to understand what was going on. Then things became exacerbated when Tim O’Connor quite rudely accused Lily of not having any dad at all and asked her why; was
