Chapter 5: Different class

Peter hastily wrapped a towel around his waist and hurried, the water still dripping off his body from the shower he had just exited, to the intercom that was buzzing incessantly.

"What?" Peter barked into the microphone.

"It's me," came the crackled reply.

"Carla?"

"Can I come up?"

"Yes," he quickly pressed the door release button. "Of course, please, come up."

He waited as patiently as he could, listening in eager anticipation to the sound of Carla's footsteps on the stairs and was delighted when she appeared, not on her own but with their daughter in her arms.

"Hi," he greeted her giddily, a daft smile plastered on his face.

"Peter," she responded brusquely, looking pointedly at both the towel and his bare chest, her eyebrow raised. "Do you wanna…?"

"Won't be a minute."

Peter was true to his word; he rushed from the room and threw on the first set of clean clothes he could lay his hands on. When he returned, Carla was standing in front of the cabinet, looking over the half-empty shelves where her possessions, her photos, her knick knacks and works of art, were once displayed alongside Peter's. She ran her finger along the dusty surface and muttered, "I haven't been here since… a long time."

"I'm glad you came."

"Hmm… I swore I'd never set foot in this place again."

"So, why did you come here, Carla?"

"What are your plans?" Carla turned abruptly to face Peter, her eyes fixed on his, searching them for the truth.

"My plans?"

"Yeah," Carla nodded. "I mean, sure, you're back here in your flat, but what about work? Are you planning on getting a job?"

"Why do you care if I've got a job? Are you wanting child support? Is that it?"

"Child support?" Carla laughed at the suggestion. "No, Peter, I don't want your money. I want to know if you're sticking around. Because, if you're not, I don't want my daughter to get too attached."

"Our daughter," Peter corrected her. "And, yes, I am sticking around."

"Good," she replied tersely.

"Does that mean you'll let me see her?" Peter asked hopefully.

"When you were gone, it was easy for me to pretend that you weren't her father, that you were nothing to her. I thought that's what you wanted, to be nothing to her. Why else would you have gone?"

"That's not what I wanted."

"But now you're back and, as much as I wish things were different, that I could go on ignoring your existence, I know I can't. For her sake. Because she deserves a father. And, for better or worse, that's you. So, if you're genuine–"

"I am."

"Okay, then."

"Okay, then?" Peter pressed her for clarity. "What?"

"We'll play it by ear at first. You can have her for a couple of hours, once or twice a week to start with. And, if that goes well, maybe you can have her overnight."

"Thank you," Peter let out a deep sigh, the relief and joy in his voice and on his face palpable. "Really, Carla, thank you."

"I don't need your thanks, Peter, I just need you to be a good dad."

"Can I…?" Peter nodded at his daughter.

"Of course."

Carla gently placed the baby into Peter's waiting arms, trying hard to ignore the charge that flowed through her body when her arm brushed lightly against his.

"You never did tell me her name," Peter said, his eyes fixed lovingly on the baby that was staring up at him placidly with her big brown eyes.

"None of the names I liked really suited her," Carla sighed. "Maybe… I dunno, maybe you can help me pick a name? Honestly, I'm at a loss."

"Okay," Peter said thoughtfully, secretly thrilled that Carla had asked for his help. "How about… I mean, we could always name her after someone. A family member. My sis–"

"Oh no," Carla shook her head. "I'm not into naming kids after their ancestors. Especially with my family, no no no. Can you imagine? Sharon? Ha!"

"Well, if not family, what then? I suppose you wanna name her after your favourite actor or singer or summat?"

"What am I? Twelve?" Carla laughed. "But, now that you mention it… Let me see… If we're gonna go for the classics, it'd have to be… Billie."

"Billie Holiday," Peter nodded in approval. "Very nice. Or Ella Fitzgerald?"

"Dolly Parton if we're going with legends."

"Kylie? Britney? Christina?"

"Tina?" Carla watched intently for Peter's reaction, and noted him struggling to conceal his visible confusion. "Turner," she added with an innocent shrug.

"No," Peter said firmly. "Next."

"Madonna."

"Which one?" Peter laughed. "Mother of Christ or queen of pop? Either way, that's a lot of pressure on a wee baby. How about Joni… as in Joni Mitchell?"

"Joni?" Carla screwed up her nose at the suggestion. "Oh, no… she doesn't look like a Joni."

"Janis Joplin?"

"Janis!" Carla cried out in horror. "I'm not naming my daughter after a flaming Battersby! Your ex-mother-in-law and all!"

"You've got a point there," Peter chuckled.

"Hmm…" Carla ran through her memory, searching for that perfect, elusive name. "J… J… Jarvis Cocker!"

"Jarvis Cocker?"

"You know," Carla explained. "From that band, what where they called again? They had that song… Pulp! That's it, Jarvis Cocker from Pulp."

"I know who Jarvis Cocker is, only thing is, Jarvis is a boy's name."

"It can be a girl's name as well," Carla cried indignantly.

"No it can't."

"It– okay, I'm gonna google it."

Carla quickly pulled her phone out of her handbag and typed into the search engine: "'Is… Jar-vis… a… girl's… name?' … Okay, what do we have here?" she scrolled through the search results. "A-ha! Jarvis, girl's name meaning, origin and popularity. It says here that, in twenty-thirteen, Jarvis was ranked at eighteen thousand, seven hundred and thirty-one for most popular girl's name."

"Eighteen thousand– You're hardly selling it with those stats," Peter said. "What does it mean?"

"Umm… it means 'spearman, driver, with honour, servant of the spear, spear servant'."

"Sounds violent."

"Sounds strong."

"You really wanna call her Jarvis?"

"I don't know." Carla sat down on the arm of the chair on which Peter was sitting and gazed down at the as yet unnamed baby. "What do you say, darlin'?" she cooed, tickling her stomach softly. "Are you a Jarvis?"

The baby rewarded Carla's question with a gurgling smile and a wave of her chubby little fists.

"There's your answer," Peter proclaimed, leaning in a little to the side of the chair on which Carla was perched, wanting to be close to her by whatever means available to him. "Hello, little Jarvis… Jarvis what? What's her last name going to be?"

"Oh…" Carla hesitated. "The thing is, when you were gone, I always thought of her as a Connor."

"But I'm back now."

"I know."

"Let's not worry about that for now," Peter suggested, wanting desperately to return to the good humour of mere moments ago. "We don't have to decide straight away. Not until we register her, right?"

"Right."

"We'll figure summat out, don't worry."

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you came around today," Peter said. "It was like old times."

"No, Peter," Carla rebuked him, rising from the chair and stalking to the other side of the room before turning back to face him, her face hard now. "It wasn't like old times. It'll never be like old times."

"I only meant–"

"Peter, listen to me. I don't want you getting the wrong idea. I came here today because of Jarvis, because she needs her father in her life. As for you and me, we talk about Jarvis, we see each other when I drop her off and when I pick her up. That's it."

"That's it?" Peter asked. "Our one and only approved topic of conversation is Jarvis?"

"Yes."

"Can I… I dunno, can I comment on the weather?"

Carla lapsed into a thoughtful silence as she pondered Peter's request. "That is acceptable," she agreed.

"I'll take acceptable," Peter dared to smile at her again, cheekily adding, "Can I maybe observe that it's a nice day for a romantic stroll on the red rec?"

"Don't push it."

She stood just out of sight, in the shadows, around the corner, and watched. She didn't know for sure if it was him in there, but the light she'd spotted in the window the night before gave her hope. And so, she waited, she would wait, as long as it took.

Finally, she saw the front door open. But it wasn't him that she saw, not at first. First came the pram, then she came, pushing the pram, dressed as always in her designer gear, sporting her trademark stiletto boots, a black leather handbag slung over the handle of the pram. And then he stepped out, a baby in his arms.

She watched as he kissed the baby softly and then gently, ever so lovingly, he placed the baby in the pram, tucking in the blankets around its body, tickling its tummy.

But then she turned away, unable to watch as he faced her, his wife, the woman he'd left to run away with her, the woman he'd come back for. Tina couldn't bear to watch the still-married couple standing so close together, the electricity between them clear, even from this distance. She walked away, refusing to understand the truth, and began to make her plans.