The muscles in his arms flex again as I take it from him and I’m suddenly struggling to respond. Oh God! I really must stop fancying Rob so much. It’s not good for anybody.
‘I can do that,’ I say confidently, gripping the guitar and focusing on the task at hand. I picture myself as Laura Marling . . . Courtney Love . . . Susanna Hoffs. I imagine how amazing it’d feel if I could play in a way that even approaches that by my birthday. I could cavort round the stage, owning it, lapping up applause as I swing my hips and—
‘Emma?’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
I play only four notes, but my efforts are perfectly horrible. I’ve never felt like such an underachiever. The lesson lasts half an hour after that and Rob looks mentally exhausted when he shows me out.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?’ I ask, as I drink in one last look of his face. ‘You know, getting together when we’re not still . . . together.’
He hesitates then nods. ‘I’m sure we can both be grown-up about it, can’t we? It’s absolutely fine,’ he smiles, holding my gaze. My heart skips a beat.
‘Well, I’m really grateful,’ I whisper.
He nods again, failing to remove his eyes from my face. I suddenly want to kiss him, to hold his face in my hands and press my lips against his. But I know how catastrophic submitting to my temporary lust for him would be when, ultimately, I can’t give him what he wants.
‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend,’ I manage, forcing myself to turn and head down the stairs.
‘You too. And keep practising, won’t you?’
Chapter 20
I stop at the supermarket to pick up supplies for lunch with Dad. He offered take me out, go for a drive in the country, but as I know this would involve a Little Chef and a technicolour array of money-off coupons, I take matters into my own hands.
The house hasn’t altered much since Marianne and I moved out, and even then the only bits that were updated after Mum died were the bedroom walls and the posters on them, which we once revised bi-monthly.
I’ve offered to redecorate for him, to put my tendency to mentally interior-design everyone else’s house into practice, but he declined. It’s not that Dad’s incapable of DIY; in truth, it’s one of his few obsessions, but all he does is repaint the walls in variations of the same shade (Dulux, Nutmeg) that Mum chose twenty-five years ago.
Technically, it’s not ‘my kind of house’; I love period properties, anything pre-twentieth century, with history and charm. This house has no history pre-us to speak of, no original features or listed status. It’s simply a quiet, mid-sized semi with achingly suburban brickwork and equidistant bedding plants in the front garden.
That doesn’t change the fact that it’s home and always will be. I always knew that wherever I ended up in life – five minutes away or close to the Arctic Circle – this was my shelter, a place of memories, happiness and excellent biscuits.
‘That you, Emma?’ Dad cries from upstairs as I enter the hall and am assaulted by a waft of Air Wick.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I reply, heading to the kitchen to unpack my bags.
‘Won’t be a sec!’
I’m preparing a chicken salad, with Classic FM in the background, when I hear Dad in the doorway.
‘Ta-da!’ I turn round. ‘What do you think?’
It is immediately evident that my father has been clothes shopping. This I know because every time he does so – on average once every two years – he does the ‘Ta-da!’ thing. At which point, Marianne or I tell him that he mustn’t, simply mustn’t, leave the house in daylight.
What I’m confronted with today, however, is different from the usual terrible jumper/too-big slacks combo. It’s different and it scares me. The problem with this outfit is not that it’s unfashionable. It’s so on trend, I start hiccupping in shock.
‘What in God’s name are you wearing?’ I splutter.
He frowns. ‘Do you think it’s a bit groovy for my age?’
I look him up and down, taking in the Superdry T-shirt straining across his generous belly. He looks like Father Christmas going surfing. I take in the jeans – the twisted jeans, no less – and, just before my head spins round, I focus on the bag. It’s . . . it’s . . . a man bag! My father owns a man bag!
This situation could not be more wrong if it had a giant ‘F’ and ‘See me after class’ stamped on it.
‘It’s definitely erring on the groovy side, Dad.’
‘How did your guitar lesson go?’ he asks gaily.
‘Hmm . . . I’ve got some way to go, but it was only my first lesson. I’m determined that by my birthday I’ll be playing “I Am the Resurrection” by the Stone Roses, or something of that standard.’
‘I’ve got great faith,’ he grins. ‘Anyway, come and sit down. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. I need your advice.’
I was six when we lost my mum. I wish I could say I remember her vividly but, to my enduring frustration, I don’t. Marianne, being a little older, has something I don’t: memories. Rich, plentiful reflections of the past.
I can recall only fragmented bits and pieces, a scrapbook of thoughts collected from anecdotes and photographs. Such as the one in which she’s painting my toenails pink, or laughing on the beach – or drawing pictures with Marianne at the kitchen table.
There’s one particular photo I love of all three of us, the women in the family. She’s wearing a silk shirt and a diamond necklace that I apparently loved to borrow, convinced that simply wearing it qualified me as a princess. I’ve no idea what happened to the necklace; it went missing somewhere along the way, like most of my memories.
You get different reactions when you tell people your mum passed away from cervical cancer at the age of thirty. Some are horrified to have asked, fearful that the mere mention will reduce me to tears. Others are awkward, some emotional, some just plain sad.
Except I’ve lived without a mum for seventy-five per cent of my life and my sense of loss isn’t acute; it’s not furious or all-encompassing. On some days, it barely feels like a loss. I hardly had her in the first place. But therein lies my sadness in those moments when I do think about her. A quiet, underlying sorrow for something – someone – I’ve been denied.
Mum was the love of Dad’s life, a woman who defined him as much as he defined himself. She was seven years younger than him and they couldn’t have been more different. She was soft-spoken, clever and beautiful; he was the outgoing but gentle soul who quietly adored her. Which was about the only thing Dad did quietly.
‘So, Emma,’ he says, twiddling with a Bourbon biscuit. ‘Have you heard of a thing called . . . Match. Dot. Com?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Well . . . you might not believe this. But I’ve got a date.’
No, no, no, no. And no.
Coping with the idea of my father in a skinny-fit T-shirt is one thing. Supplying him with dating advice is quite another. What the hell does he want me to say – ‘Make sure you use protection’?
‘It all stemmed from me joining that Facebook whatnot,’ he explains, filling the kettle. ‘It’s smashing that – isn’t it?’
I can’t bring myself to respond. I hyperventilated enough when I got the friend request from him. I couldn’t believe it. My father. On Facebook. With one hundred per cent access to every hen-night picture I’ve been tagged in, including my old university friend Sarah’s Amsterdam jaunt with the six-foot penis (and I’m not referring to the waiter).
‘Well, I told Deb and she started saying that now I’d gone all digital I should do some internet dating.’ He whispers the last two words behind his hand, as if he’s sharing his pin number with me at a football match.
Deb is assistant manageress at the shop my dad established thirty years ago. It’s a mobility shop, with every brand of scooter, stairlift and walking aid known to man. My dad can say more about battery charging and off-road capabilities than any unsuspecting customer thought they wanted to hear. Deb has bee
n his sidekick for sixteen years, an outspoken redhead he refers to as a ‘girl’, despite her being fifty-six.
‘She met her new man, Barry, on it,’ he continues. ‘I don’t think much of him, personally. A flashy sort – he goes line-dancing. Still, the principle obviously works. She’s been banging on about it for months and I finally thought: why not? I’m going to Doodle it.’
‘You mean Google.’
‘Absolutely.’ He puts down two teas and carefully tears off the lid of one of those little milk portions you get on flights. Given that it’s been two years since he last went abroad, I try not to think about this. ‘I’ve been a member for a month. I wasn’t impressed until I met Suzie – the lady I’m going out with.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she’s got all her own hair and teeth and—’
‘No, I mean, why weren’t you impressed with the others?’
‘Oh.’ He squirms. ‘Lots weren’t my type. They were a bit too . . .’
‘What?’
‘I hate to use the word floozy—’
‘I hope you avoided them,’ I interrupt, horrified.
‘Of course. Suzie’s nothing like that. We’ve been emailing for three weeks.’
My mind is awash with thoughts. I know I should be full of encouragement; after all, it’s twenty-three years since Mum died and Dad’s never gone out with anyone since, not properly.
He did have one ‘friendship’ a few years ago with a woman who ran the Neighbourhood Watch in the next road, but that ended abruptly when she suggested that all the photos of Mum should be put away as they were hurting her feelings.
Obviously, I don’t want Dad to grow old by himself. Obviously, I’d love him to hook up with a lovely woman who adores him and could persuade him to paint the hall a different colour.
At the same time, I feel an instinctive unease. Especially as one obvious question is nagging at me.
‘This Suzie isn’t eighteen, is she?’
He looks appalled. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘Because you’re dressed like one of the Inbetweeners.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘She’s fifty-eight. And the reason I’ve bought new clothes is simply because Suzie’s with it. She’s chic. At least, she looks it on Facebook. She used to be a dancer.’
‘She sounds nice,’ I reply, hoping that dancer doesn’t mean stripper. ‘So when’s your date?’
‘Lunchtime next Saturday. So: your advice. Where’s cool in town these days?’
I cross my arms. ‘Dad, you don’t need somewhere cool. You’re sixty-one years old. You need somewhere nice.’
‘If you say so,’ he mutters, clearly deciding to change the subject. ‘I believe you spoke to Brian on that Sky whatnot.’
‘Skype.’ Any technology created post-Sinclair Spectrum blows my dad’s brains. ‘I did, yes.’
‘Marianne seems very happy with him,’ he continues brightly. ‘What did you think?’
I hesitate. ‘Nice. And as you say, she’s happy.’
He stirs his tea as it becomes obvious we’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Not like Johnny, is he?’ Dad says quietly.
‘No, Dad,’ I reply, unable to deny it. ‘He’s not like Johnny at all.’
Chapter 21
My economy drive – despite the hiccup with the washing powder – is going surprisingly well. That’s the bright side of spending Saturday night in, the one benefit on which I’m trying to focus.
The downside is that I’m consumed by what Rob might be doing tonight; by whether he’s having a quiet night in, venturing out with friends, at a work event or – and I’m going to have to recognise this possibility – spending the night with another woman.
The thought makes me feel queasy and is followed by a wave of frustration. Do I just simply want what I can’t have? Why has he become so unbelievably desirable now we’re no longer an item?
The reality is, desire – in its simplest, physical form – was never a problem when it came to my feelings for Rob. It was (and is) absolutely clear that I fancied the pants off him. But there’s a big difference between wanting to constantly tear someone’s clothes off them and wanting to marry them.
Maybe, with time, I’d have wanted to do both.
It wasn’t as if it was only about sex with him. I genuinely enjoyed Rob’s company – whether it was during a simple trip to the cinema or one of the glitzy fund-raising events he was involved in.
I loved going to those with him. Part of that was about the razzle-dazzle – the champagne, the celebrity guests, the posh dresses. But they were also a reminder of how hard Rob must have worked to be as successful as he was; he didn’t just hover around the edges of that world like I did – he was right at the centre of it.
Sometimes I think that the only problem with the idea of getting married to Rob was that it came far too soon. Before the thought had ever even occurred to me – after only months together. Even he’d have to admit that was way too quick. Only, he never did admit that. I suspect, as far as Rob’s concerned, weeks wouldn’t have been too quick.
I drive home from Dad’s determined to put such thoughts out of my mind and focus on my evening of pure – albeit thrifty – indulgence. I’m going to have a Jo Malone bubble bath (a Christmas present, your honour), a box of Maltesers (they were on offer) and an evening of cinematic pleasure in front of The Notebook on DVD. I don’t know why weeping in front of a film cheers me up quite so much, but this one does it every time.
As I turn into my drive, I spot a removal van outside Rita’s old apartment.
‘Shit!’ I mutter, as my heartbeat triples in speed and I slam on the brakes and duck my head under the dashboard.
I cannot let my new neighbour see me. Not just because he has a detailed knowledge of my gynaecological bothers. Or because seeing him again would breach the terms of my one-night stand (which involve sleeping with someone you never see again, not someone with whom you share a council tax band). But also because I’m very aware that he has a wife. And I want to see her even less than I want to see him.
With my head in a brace position, I attempt to roll the car the final few feet into the drive, assuming that after two years of living here I can do it with my eyes shut.
It’s apparent this is an optimistic assumption when I smash a potted azalea and come alarmingly close to scraping the car against the wall in the manner of someone taking a potato peeler to it.
I turn off the engine and listen. There are voices outside Rita’s old flat, instructions to removal men about where to put pieces of furniture. I refuse to move until they die down, and even then it’s only to cautiously pop up my head to check the coast is clear.
Then I fling open the door, swing out my legs, slam it shut, and am about to race to the house, when I realise I’ve trapped my cardi. I manage one large stride before being catapulted, Laurel and Hardy-style, onto the side panel and almost rupturing a kidney on my wing mirror. Muttering expletives, I stumble up the five steps to the main door, then I hear something that nearly melts my brain.
‘Hey!’
Matt Taylor, my One-Night Stand, is walking towards me – waving, smiling, clearly counting on a pleasant introduction to his new neighbour.
Well, screw that.
Stacey might have been straight round there with a basket of her home-made satsuma jam, but not me. I stumble up the steps, holding my hand against my face, like Lady Gaga avoiding the paps, before racing into the house and slamming the door.
I storm along the hall, feeling stress fall away from me the second I’m in the refuge of my flat. I open the Maltesers immediately, the ready meal now surplus to requirements.
For the remainder of the night, I feel like a prisoner in my own home. No matter how many Maltesers I pop, how many times I rewind the snog-on-the-lake bit in The Notebook, my mind is firmly focused on two issues.
The first is the unsustainability of this. No matter how much I try to convince myself that perhaps he’s only rent
ing and might move out in a week, I know that meeting Matt Taylor – and his wife and children – is inevitable.
The removal van doesn’t leave until gone eight and, for an hour afterwards, my new neighbour is striding between his car and the house. Not that I’m looking. Oh, okay, yes I am. And thinking about the night we spent together, and my knickers, and my hangover, and Marianne’s warnings – basically, my kaleidoscope of regrets.
Which brings me to the second object of tonight’s obsession. Rob. And how I wish with all of my heart that he was here with me tonight.
Chapter 22
Despite my determination to have a restorative lie-in, I wake the next morning at 7.05 a.m. with an odd combination of grogginess and agitation. I throw off the covers, slip on my flip-flops and pad to the kitchen to make tea and tidy up a bit.
I don’t know when de-cluttering became fashionable. I suspect it was courtesy of those House Doctor programmes that advocate removing all evidence of human life, leaving all the ambience of a Travelodge room.
I open one of the cupboards in the kitchen and am shocked to discover a recyclables crate I completely forgot to empty after a girls’ night in a few weeks ago. I pick it up, avoiding stale dregs of booze dribbling on the Cookie Monster PJs Dad bought me for Christmas, and stagger to the door.
I head straight to the back of the house, but when I reach the recycling bins I realise that something’s amiss. My wheelie bin isn’t there. Somebody has nicked it.
As soon as this thought flashes into my head I dismiss it. It’s hardly high value and wouldn’t be easy to pinch, even for a career criminal.
I tiptoe round the house, surveying the area – then glance next door and narrow my eyes. I don’t know that my new neighbour is responsible for this wrong-doing – but I do know that it never happened before he moved in.
The Wish List Page 8