The Daughter's Choice

by S. D. Robertson

  ‘What exactly are you asking me, Dad?’ I said, feeling the heat of my cheeks flushing. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I wondered who Ryan was, that’s all. No need to get worked up about it. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  Dad started talking about the weather; I couldn’t stop thinking about where he might have got Ryan’s name from. It niggled away at me until I finally broke. ‘Fine. I’ll tell you who Ryan is, but only if you tell me first where you heard of him.’

  Dad nodded towards my school bag. It was hanging over the back of an unoccupied chair next to him at the kitchen table, unzipped so the contents were on display from where he was sitting but out of my view.

  ‘What?’ I snapped to my feet and reached over to grab the bag. As soon as it was in my hands and I could see inside, the answer was obvious – and mortifying. My blue rough work book was sitting there on top of all my other stuff, covered in doodles, some scribbled on by me; others by my friends and classmates. It was hard to miss the one Cara had added, in bright red felt-tip pen, when we’d been hanging out at her house after school the day before: Ryan’s name inside a heart, slap bang in the middle of the front cover. I’d forgotten she’d done it. I hadn’t been impressed at the time and, having told her not to do so again, I’d intended to cover it over with a sticker. Frustratingly, it had slipped my mind.

  I looked up from the offending exercise book and saw Dad digging into his bowl of muesli, avoiding my eye. Sighing, I said: ‘He’s my boyfriend. I’ve got a boyfriend. I probably should have told you before, but … I don’t know … it never felt like the right time.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dad said, nodding once and continuing to focus on eating his breakfast.

  ‘What does that mean? Are you mad at me?’

  He placed his spoon in his bowl and finally looked up. ‘Mad at you? For what? No, of course not. It’s not unusual to have a boyfriend at your age, Rose. And I don’t expect you to tell me everything.’ He paused for a few seconds before adding: ‘That said, I hope you don’t feel embarrassed or awkward to mention such things to me. I was a teenager too once, believe it or not.’

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ I said.

  ‘Good. If you’d like to invite this Ryan over for tea after school one day, he’d be very welcome. No rush. Whenever you’re ready.’

  It took me a few weeks, but eventually I did invite Ryan over. Dad didn’t say much to him initially, other than introducing himself. He spent most of the afternoon crafting his latest creation in the workshop, leaving us to our own devices in the house. There was some snogging in my room, but not too much, as I found it weird having an actual boyfriend in my home for the first time. Plus I appreciated the fact that Dad trusted me enough not to watch over us, so I didn’t want to take advantage.

  We mainly talked, about all sorts, in the kind of leisurely way that’s not possible when you’re constantly surrounded by other pupils and teachers at school. I’d briefly mentioned to Ryan before about my mum dying when I was a baby and he brought it up that afternoon.

  ‘So it’s just you and your dad?’ he said.

  ‘I have other family too.’ I listed Nana and so on. ‘But yeah, it’s just the two of us living here.’

  ‘It’s a big house,’ he added, eyes gazing up at the high ceiling above my bed. ‘Your room is twice the size of mine.’

  ‘I guess so. Yours is lovely. Just different.’

  ‘Does it ever bother you, not having a mum?’

  ‘I do have one, Ryan. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. She’s just not alive any more.’

  ‘Sorry, um, I meant do you wish that she was still … alive?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. I don’t remember her, though, being so young when she passed away. I’m not sure if that makes it harder or easier. I’ve only ever known life with one parent. Dad’s great. I can’t complain. How did you find him?’

  Ryan looked a bit taken aback by this question. ‘Yeah, he seems nice. What do you reckon he makes of me? I feel like we haven’t, um—’

  ‘You’ll get to chat more when we have tea. He’s left you alone here with me, which means he must think you’re reasonably trustworthy.’

  It was more awkward than I’d hoped when the three of us sat down together to eat. Dad had made lasagne, which is one of what he likes to call his ‘signature dishes’, served with salad and garlic bread.

  ‘This is delicious, Mr Hughes,’ Ryan told him. ‘Really, really nice.’ It was decent of him to say so, and such a comment would usually have put him straight into Dad’s good books. It might even have led to a ‘call me Dave’, which hadn’t happened so far. Unfortunately, Ryan said these flattering words without first having swallowed the food in his mouth – and people talking with their mouths full has always been one of Dad’s pet hates. He’s drummed it into me not to do this for as long as I can remember; as soon as I spotted Ryan doing so, I looked over at Dad to see if he’d noticed. To my dismay, he most certainly had and was already frowning.

  I cleared my throat to get Dad’s attention and, when he looked at me, I shook my head ever so subtly, in the hope that he’d get the message not to say anything, while Ryan would be oblivious.

  Amazingly, it seemed to work. Dad replied: ‘Thank you, Ryan. It’s one of my specialities.’

  ‘My dad can’t cook at all,’ Ryan said, thankfully in between mouthfuls this time. ‘My mum’s always moaning at him that he should learn, but I think he deliberately messes it up whenever she makes him have a go.’

  ‘What about you?’ Dad asked. He’d been teaching me the basics of cooking for years, being a firm believer in key life skills being passed on to children from a young age.

  ‘Me?’ Ryan replied, wide-eyed. ‘Oh, er, I’ve never really tried, apart from the little bit we had to do at school. I made a pizza then and it tasted like cardboard. I think I probably take after my father when it comes to cooking.’

  I didn’t even need to look at Dad to know that he was frowning again. It was evident enough from the tone of his voice. ‘That’s a rather defeatist attitude, don’t you think, Ryan? Cooking is a skill that needs to be learned. Please don’t tell me that you think of it as women’s work.’

  Ryan seemed to almost choke on his food at this point, throwing a ‘help me’ look in my direction before adding: ‘No, no. Not at all. I wouldn’t—’

  ‘It’s okay, Ryan,’ I said, shooting daggers at my father while kicking his foot under the table. ‘He’s only messing with you. Aren’t you, Dad?’

  ‘Um, sure,’ Dad said. ‘But I do think it’s important that everyone learns the basics of cooking as early as possible. It’s not hard. Anyone can do it with a little focus and dedication.’ Staring intently at me, he added: ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Rose?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Dad redirected his gaze at Ryan. ‘Rose is downplaying her knowledge and experience. She’s already very accomplished in the kitchen.’

  ‘Really?’ Ryan looked first at Dad and then me. ‘You never said. What can you make?’

  I shrugged. ‘Bits and bobs. I’m hardly the budding chef Dad suggests.’

  ‘Nonsense. She made us a delicious shepherd’s pie the other week. And her cheesecake is to die for.’

  ‘Wow, I love both of those,’ Ryan said, having stuffed his mouth with more lasagne only a few seconds earlier. My heart sank.

  ‘Ryan, please!’ Dad said before I could stop him.

  ‘Sorry?’ Ryan replied, his mouth still not clear of food. ‘What do—’

  ‘Please stop talking with your mouth full,’ Dad said. I hoped he would leave it at that, but – to my dismay – he continued. ‘It’s a pet hate of mine. I can’t bear it when people do that. I find it disgusting.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, I didn’t realise I was doing it. I’ll, er, try not to, um, do it again. Sorry.’ Ryan’s face turned an increasingly deep red colour as he spoke; I felt so mortified, I wished I could shrink myself to the size of an ant and sc
uttle away from this awkward scene.

  Instead, I was stuck there, piggy in the middle, no idea what to do. Part of me was tempted to rip into Dad, but I had a feeling that if I did this, he’d hate Ryan forevermore, thinking of him as the boy who turned me against him. Equally, if I defended Ryan’s actions, this would probably only result in Dad further emphasising his point, thus dragging out the cringy situation. I did the only other thing I could think of and changed the subject. ‘Did I tell you, Dad, that Ryan and I are in the same maths class? That’s actually how we got to know each other, because the teacher sat us together.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit distracting?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No, not at all. Ryan’s really good at maths. Much better than me. He’s been a big help.’

  Dad nodded. ‘Good to hear. It’s important to stay focused.’

  I almost kicked him under the table again, but I managed to resist. He was doing my head in, not being himself at all. I’d never seen him behave this way towards any female friends I’d brought home; it was weird to see him so stern and protective.

  After we’d finished the main course, Ryan politely asked if he could be excused to go to the toilet. As soon as he was out of earshot, I asked Dad in hushed but angry tones what on earth he was playing at. ‘Why are you being like this? No wonder he’s escaped to the loo. He probably needs to splash cold water over his face to cool down, thanks to you. I thought you were going to be nice to him? I can’t believe you picked him up on his table manners. Couldn’t you have let it slide for once?’

  ‘I did let it slide once. Then he spoke with his mouth full for a second time. Sorry, but he needs to be told. It’s for his own good. Maybe that’s considered normal behaviour in his house, but it’s definitely not acceptable in polite company. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it’s unacceptable in any circumstances.’

  ‘Most people aren’t as obsessed about it as you, Dad. Put yourself in Ryan’s shoes. He must be so humiliated. Is this why you asked me to invite him over: so you could make him look stupid and not want to come back? Well, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Thanks a bunch.’

  We heard the toilet flush, signalling Ryan’s imminent return, so we curtailed our private chat. When he got back to the table, Dad didn’t explicitly apologise to him, but there was a notable change in his manner. For instance, when he was divvying up dessert – apple pie – he said to Ryan: ‘This is unlikely to be quite as delicious as Rose’s cheesecake. It’s shop-bought, I must confess, but the local bakery I got it from is good. I’ll give you a nice big piece and I hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hughes,’ he said in a quiet voice. It broke a piece of my heart to hear the difference, the reduction in confidence and enthusiasm, from how he’d spoken to Dad before. It reminded me, although I never told Ryan this, of a nervy dog being fed by an owner who’d previously hurt it.

  ‘Please,’ Dad said, finally. ‘There’s no need for such formalities. Call me Dave.’

  ‘Right,’ Ryan said, a perplexed but relieved look in his eyes. ‘Thanks. I’ll try to remember.’

  He ate his pie slowly and carefully, clearly aware of potential scrutiny, and didn’t utter another word while his mouth was full, thank goodness. Meanwhile, Dad played nice, restricting further chat to light-hearted small talk and even giving Ryan a few encouraging nods and smiles.

  Later that evening, he drove Ryan home. I went along too, both of us sitting on the back seat. Although Dad asked questions about school and his family on the way, it was all very amicable. When we arrived, Dad complimented the appearance of his house before reaching across to offer him a handshake. ‘It’s been very nice to meet you, Ryan. I do hope you’ll come to visit again. You’ll be most welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr, um … sorry, Dave, I mean. Thank you very much for having me and for the ride home.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Ryan stepped out of the car, having squeezed my hand to say goodbye rather than kissing me, which felt like a good decision. He started to close the door, only to open it again and lower his head to address Dad. ‘Sorry, I forgot. Mum made me promise that I’d give her a chance to pop out and meet you. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Kelly appeared and Dad got out of the car to shake her hand and say hello. She seemed nervous, her voice jerky and a bit giggly, although when after a few minutes she brought up Dad’s novel, it made sense. ‘I apologise. You must get this all the time, but I have to tell you I’m a big fan of your writing. A Child’s Scream: what a powerful book!’

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ Dad said with a gracious smile. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  As the two of us drove home afterwards, Dad having also briefly met Ryan’s father, Jeremy, he told me: ‘His parents seem very nice. And despite what you may think, I like Ryan too. Sorry about being a bit hard on him initially. I don’t know why I did that. It won’t happen again.’

  True to his word, it didn’t. Not for a long while, anyway. Not until Ryan brought it on himself.

  CHAPTER 12

  CASSIE

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘Relationships aren’t always easy,’ Rose replies.

  Cassie nods, shifting herself into an upright position on her tiled lounger and swinging her feet to the side, so she’s facing Rose. ‘It feels like we’ve been in here for ages. Do you think we should move on?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rose says. Cassie thinks she spots a look of relief flash across the younger woman’s face, like the next bit of the story is something she’d rather not talk about. Cassie knows why. It wouldn’t be too hard to guess, even if she wasn’t already privy to key information about Rose’s backstory before they started talking.

  Rose looks up at the clock on the wall of the chillout room, still echoing with gentle, ambient sounds, and does a double take. ‘Wow. We have been in here a while, haven’t we? I lost track of time. They’re so comfy, these loungers. I’m surprised no one else has come in here after us.’ Sliding off her lounger and up on to her feet in one smooth motion, she adds: ‘We definitely need to get on with our tour. It’ll be time for my treatments before I know it. Where to next? Any suggestions?’

  Also standing up and having a good stretch, resisting the temptation to yawn, Cassie shakes her head. ‘Not really. Whatever you fancy, Rose. Or if you’re not sure, we can always follow the signs and see where they take us.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ she replies, ‘but first I need another drink.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘There’s a water dispenser in the corridor, I think.’

  Cassie nods, not letting on that she thought Rose was talking about alcohol until she qualified her statement. She’ll certainly need some more booze inside her before she starts to tell her story. But water will do for now.

  They end up in a steam room with moody green lighting and a menthol aroma. It’s not dissimilar from the one in which she and Rose first encountered each other, earlier in the tour. However, the temperature here is higher and the steam seems thicker.

  The smell takes Cassie back to her younger days, when she used to enjoy smoking menthol cigarettes. Apart from the fact they tasted better to her – much smoother than harsh regular cigarettes – they also looked better, more elegant, thanks to having a white rather than a brown filter. Or so she thought at the time. Nowadays, like most people, she finds all cigarettes disgusting, full stop. She hasn’t had one for years. But still she finds herself inhaling and exhaling, secretly imagining she’s puffing on a ciggie.

  Rose’s story is temporarily on hold, due to the fact there’s an undesirably chatty man in there with them: a skinny bald chap in his early sixties with a silly, thin-lined white goatee beard, groomed to within an inch of its life. It reminds Cassie of when she lived in Amsterdam for a while in her twenties. She worked in a bar in the heart of the city, close to Rembrandtplein, where one of her Dutch colleagues told her the local nickname for such a beard was pratende kut, or talking v
agina, to apply the politest translation. She struggled to take anyone with a goatee seriously after hearing that; thinking about it now makes her giggle.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Rose whispers.

  ‘Nothing.’ Cassie bites the inside of her cheek in a bid to stop laughing; it doesn’t work. She lets out a loud, involuntary snort, which sounds so ridiculous, it makes her laugh more.

  ‘A joke is best shared,’ the man says from across the room. Cassie does her utmost not to look at his face, for fear of picturing a talking vagina again, and says: ‘There’s no joke to repeat, I’m afraid. I think the heat went to my head for a minute.’

  ‘That can happen,’ he says. ‘Maybe you should try the ice bucket around the corner. I’ve seen other people using it, although I’ve not had a go myself. It’s not actually ice in there, just very cold water. You stand underneath and pull a chain – if you dare.’

  ‘Right.’ Cassie says no more for fear of encouraging him. In the short time they’ve spent in his company, he’s already launched into diatribes against the government, the police and, bizarrely, Wellington boots. It’s clear he loves the sound of his own voice and she can’t bear much more. Not to mention he has something of a wandering eye that is particularly focused on Rose, which is all kinds of wrong and creepy, considering he’s old enough to be her grandfather.

  Turning to face Rose at an angle where her expression is out of his view, she says: ‘I’m going to head to the ladies. Are you coming?’ What she doesn’t say but conveys with facial expressions, is: ‘Let’s get out of here and as far away from this weirdo as possible.’

  ‘Yes, I need to go too,’ Rose replies, thankfully.

  ‘Do you really need the loo?’ Rose asks her as they wander away from the steam room.

  ‘A little,’ Cassie says. ‘You?’

  ‘Same. That’s not really why we left, though, is it?’

  Cassie rolls her eyes. ‘I figured the last thing either of us needed was to get stuck with that annoying bloke for any longer. He could barely take his eyes off you.’