She didn’t have to come…but I’m glad she did.
When Bea arrives, she’s a whirlwind. The doors fly open ahead of her and she strides in, handbag under her arm and those bangles rattling with every step – and I’ve never been so happy to hear them. Instead of walking right past me to the desk like I expect her to, she comes straight over.
“Are you all right?” she asks. It’s the first thing she says – not “How is he?”, but am I okay. I nod.
“I don’t know how Dad’s doing. The doctors—”
“I’ve already spoken to them,” she says, setting her handbag on the floor. “He’s fine. I can’t believe they wouldn’t let you in with him – what nonsense. He’s your father.”
“Wait…you’ve spoken to them?”
“I called them from the train. After the eighth time, they decided it was probably a better use of their resources to put me through to the right room, rather than have me clogging up the switchboard.”
“And?”
“There’s still one or two tests they want to do, but everyone seems confident it was angina.”
“That’s what the paramedic said.”
“Well then. They should have just asked him, shouldn’t they? Instead of keeping poor Max stuck in here all afternoon and taking up a bed that could be used by someone who actually needs it.”
“So…can I see him?” A vision of my dad strapped to the trolley in the ambulance and looking thin and grey – and, yes, old – flashes before my eyes.
“Better than that,” says Bea, rubbing my arm. “We’re going to break him out.”
“But you said there were more tests?”
“And there’s no reason they can’t be done at home. There are perfectly good hospitals there, after all.” She stands up and brushes imaginary dust from her hands. “Right. I’m going in.”
She strides towards Desk Nurse – who looks up. From where we’re sitting, I can’t hear what either of them are saying – but I can still tell that Desk Nurse is losing. If Sam was right and Bea genuinely was scared, she’s either really good at getting past it or her Game Face is second to none. Poor old Desk Nurse doesn’t know what’s hit her – as I could have told her, Bea has a habit of getting what she wants and it’s impressively terrifying (or terrifyingly impressive – I’m not sure which) watching her at work. After a couple of minutes of heated debate – in which Desk Nurse valiantly stands her ground but Bea swings round to flank her, before surprising her with a brutal axe swing to the head and beheading her (I have spent too much time around LARPers), Bea walks back over.
“We can take him as soon as the paperwork’s ready. They’re bringing some medication over from the pharmacy and I’ll go and find him now. Do you want to call a taxi for us all?”
“No need.” Sam’s dad turns away from studying the subtitles on the television. “We came in our car, so there’s plenty of room for everyone.”
“Yes,” mutters Sam, shaking her head. “Come ride in the minivan of despair. And pray he turns the radio off, or your brain’ll be dribbling out of your ears before we even leave the car park.”
“Your dad’s taste in music’s not that bad…” I whisper as Bea nods and vanishes through the brown door.
“No, sure. If you like the 1970s. And not the good bit of it.” Sam snorts.
“There was a good bit to the 1970s?”
“I heard that,” says her dad, raising an eyebrow at me.
Sam snorts again. “See? Lexi thinks the same.”
“Then you can both walk back to the hotel, can’t you?” But he says it with a smile.
Desk Nurse clears her throat a little too loudly. “Prescription for Max Angelo?” She’s waving a small paper bag.
“I’ll take it,” I say, and bound over to the desk. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I should ring my mum,” I tell Sam. “I’ll just be outside, okay?” I consider asking Sam to hold the medicine, but as I still haven’t forgotten what happened when I asked her to look after the key to the storage cupboard where we were holding all the membership lanyards in Glasgow last year, I think better of it. (Personally, I thought everyone looked lovely walking around with their handwritten labels on ribbons we managed to source from the art shop down the street from the hotel…) Instead, I tuck it into my pocket as best I can and dial.
Mum answers on the second ring. “Any news?”
“They’re letting him out.”
“Thank heavens for that. And you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I think. Apparently there’s still a couple of tests or something, but everyone keeps saying it was angina.”
“Mmm.”
“What does that mean, anyway – was he having a heart attack?”
“Not quite, no. It’s…look at it as an early warning.”
“So he could have a heart attack?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe, if he doesn’t slow down a little – and almost certainly if he keeps eating those awful takeaways you two have…”
“Ummm.”
“Stop. Stop panicking, darling. He’ll be absolutely fine, I promise. Now, these tests…?”
“I’ll ask Bea when she comes out. She’s in with him now.”
“She’s there already? That’s good. Well, if she knows then it’s probably better I speak to her myself.”
“You want to talk to her? Won’t that be a bit…you know…weird?”
“Lexi, Bea and I have been speaking to each other regularly for months now. I thought you knew that?”
“You? You and Bea? You’re…friends?”
“It was your father’s idea, actually – for once, he thought of something sensible. And, yes, it was uncomfortable at first, but it turns out we get along quite well.”
“But…why?” I wonder if she can hear that distant BOOM sound down the phone. Because that’s the sound of my mind, blowing.
“You, mostly.”
“Me?”
“Look. Your father and I didn’t work. We tried, and in the end we just didn’t, but there’s a very good chance he and Bea will. They seem like a much better fit than we ever were. And she’s very fond of you. We all have you in common. Whatever I feel about Max – your father – you’re still our daughter. We’re all family, however messy that is – and Bea’s a part of it too.”
Mind. Blown.
Bits of me, littering the entrance to the hospital. Just…scattered all over the place.
Wow.
Thankfully, before I have to get any further into this earth-shattering, mind-blowing (and not-a-little awkward, if I’m honest) conversation, Sam calls my name – and when I look round, through the big windows I can see Dad, coming through the brown door. He looks wobbly and tired, and he’s still so very, very pale except for the bruise on his head which is now turning a fine shade of purple, but it’s him and he’s walking and he’s there.
“I have to go – Dad’s out.”
“Give him my love, would you? He can give me a call himself when he’s feeling up to it.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“And Lexi?”
“Mmm?”
“Don’t let him work too hard.”
“I don’t think Bea’ll let him…”
“When it comes to conventions, both you and I know that there’s only one person he’ll listen to…and it’s not his wife.”
There’s a faint click as she cuts the connection, and I’m already back through the entrance doors and throwing my arms around Dad – who almost does a convincing job of pretending he hates the fuss…but not quite.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I mumble, not really meaning for him to hear – but he does.
“Language,” he says sternly…then laughs and adds: “I scared the shit out of me too.”
Bea smiles and picks up her handbag, bracelets jangling, and Sam trails after her dad, arguing about why she can’t pick the music in the car, while her mum goes off to pay for the parkin
g…and before I quite know I’ve done it, I’ve dialled another number on my phone. There’s a funny ringing tone, and then a click.
“Hello?” says the voice on the other end.
“Aidan. It’s me.”
Despite the fact that there is nothing whatsoever wrong with his legs, and every sign that the medication the hospital gave him after his angina attack is working, my father has taken to walking with a cane.
My father being my father, of course, this is not just any old walking stick. Oh no. This…monstrosity is a glossy black thing, topped with a solid silver dragon whose tail winds down and round the top half of the cane. (“Custom-made by an old artist friend,” he tells anyone who stands still long enough to hear.) This is equal parts blessing and curse: on the hard floors of a hotel lobby, the brisk click of his cane hitting the ground is a useful warning that we all need to look busy before he comes around the corner and actually sees any of us; however, it has also given him something with which to gesture.
“That picture needs moving…” POINT.
“If we move this table over here…” SWOOSH.
“Right down the end of that corridor…” JAB.
After an hour yesterday helping him supervise the traders’ room set-up, Bede came back muttering about giving him a whole new place to keep his cane.
“That’s my dad you’re talking about, you know.”
“And the fact he’s your dad is the only reason I haven’t snapped already and broken the fecking thing in half over his head.”
“Not because he’s your boss, then?”
“Shut up, Lexi.”
So here we are. Last convention of the year, and it’s the big one. Halloween.
(Except that because Halloween has inconveniently chosen to happen midweek, it’s an almost-Halloween convention this year. But as long as we’re all pretending – which we are – it’ll be fine.)
October has always been Dad’s favourite convention – growing up I used to think that was because it meant everything was in place and winding down, and he even got a holiday afterwards; a couple of weeks to just…stop. (He never did, of course – hence: angina!) And I know he’s still excited about it this year, but things are suddenly different, and not necessarily in a bad way. And it’s all because of Bea. I was afraid she would interfere, that she would take my place in some weird way – but that’s not it at all. She’s still away a lot, but when she’s around Dad laughs, and they cook actual meals together (no more reheated takeaways) and she rolls her eyes when Dad interrupts dinner with yet another convention idea, and somehow it’s okay. It feels right. It feels almost like she’s just filling the space that was always there for her and we never knew it.
That’s not to say there’s any less work – not for this convention anyway. I thought I knew tired. I did – but now I think Tired and I might just have been waving at each other from opposite ends of the street. Three days a week, I’ve been getting up and checking the convention emails, having a shower, having breakfast, answering yesterday’s emails on the bus to college, trying not to fall asleep in my classes, answering my morning’s emails on the bus on the way home, doing my coursework, eating dinner (or pretending to, if Bea’s away and Dad’s taken it upon himself to make something), and then going through everything with Dad to make sure I’m not doing something horrendous which will stain the family’s name and honour for the next seven generations, before I fall into bed.
On the other four days it’s pretty much exactly the same – except there’s no college and I don’t have to try and type on a bumpy bus. (My spelling is much better those days.)
And best of all, it works – better than it has done before.
With one small problem: I can’t stop thinking about Aidan.
It feels like more than months since I saw him; it feels like years. Since Dad’s little…hiccup, I’ve had time – made time – to talk to Aidan again, to pick up the phone and call him and stop hiding behind my laptop keyboard. Even when I didn’t mean to, it was him I called, like he’s somehow taken up residence inside my brain and there’s no shifting him now. He’s moved in. And slowly, it’s started to feel like we’ve found our way back to where we were. But courage or not, I still haven’t been able to ask him about those photos Andy mentioned, and I definitely, definitely haven’t been brave enough to look for them. He hasn’t brought them up, and I just…can’t. Maybe if I leave it long enough, I won’t have to?
Baby steps.
Brave little baby steps.
“I think I’m jet-lagged.” I balance on the edge of the freebie table, holding one end of a long string of paper ghosts against the wall. “Where’s the Blu-Tack?”
“Sam took it to do the decorations in the lobby. Here – have mine.” Nadiya climbs out from behind the registration desk and half-passes, half-throws a large ball of it at me. “And you can’t be jet-lagged from flying to Edinburgh from London.”
“Only Dad and Bea flew. I got the train,” I groan.
“The train?” Nadiya’s voice rises in shock and she stares at me, totally ignoring the lovely couple in matching Star Wars T-shirts trying to pick up their membership lanyards. “Why?”
“Worked out better for college,” I say, pressing a wodge of tack against the wall. It falls straight off and lands on the carpet. “Naaaaadiyyyaaa…”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” She picks it up and gives it back to me. “But the train’s got to be, like…”
“Eight hours, forty-five minutes.”
“No! It can’t be that long?”
“It is when you get told the train you’re booked on suddenly won’t be going to Edinburgh any more and you get diverted and have to change at Leeds and get the super-packed slooooow train that stops everywhere. There’s fluff all over this tack now.”
“That’s all I’ve got.” She sits back down again behind the desk. “Eight hours. Wow. What did you do?”
“Mostly wish I was dead?”
That’s not entirely true; somewhere around Berwick-upon-Tweed, I was fairly sure I was already dead and in hell. Mostly because my seat was right next to the toilet. And it was a busy train.
The rest of the time…well, the rest of the time I was thinking. Thinking about being brave, and what a braver Lexi could do.
Thinking about who I am, what I want, what comes next. (And fine, sure; maybe who I want.)
Back in April, I wasn’t expecting to have an existential crisis by the end of the season; but then I wasn’t expecting my dad to get married – or to have a heart attack. Well, a nearly-heart-attack anyway. I wasn’t expecting to meet Aidan either. I wasn’t expecting anything. Everything in my life was laid out in neat little columns: conventions, college, Dad, friends…
And now?
Now I don’t know. I don’t know what comes after this. It’s a blank page, ready to be written on.
The surprises keep coming too: two days ago, Control Freak Dad passed me a pile of CVs and said, “Take a look.”
“Yes. This one’s used the word ‘passionate’ four times in eight lines. What am I now, a proofreader?”
“I’m hiring an assistant.”
“You have an assistant. His name’s Davey, remember? He works in the events office and you ring him up to shout at him a couple of times a day – which, by the way, makes you a terrible boss.” He glared at me, so I added, “Which I would know absolutely nothing about because personally I find working with you a complete joy.”
“Not for the main business. For the conventions.”
“You’re hiring a me?”
“Hopefully, I’m hiring someone who will give me significantly less backchat than you – but otherwise, yes.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know how I was meant to feel about that. “You’re replacing me?”
“Lexi.” He took the CV I was holding out of my hands. “As my daughter, you are irreplaceable. But I’ve been thinking. You need to have your own life. Your own space. You need to do what you want – not ju
st what I want.”
“Have you been talking to Mum?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” I tried not to laugh.
“You have your exams coming up, and then there’s your whole future. Have you thought some more about going to university?”
“Daaaaaaad…”
“Whatever decision you make, that needs to be your focus. I’ve been unfair and asked too much of you. So, I’ll get a convention assistant and you can dip in and out of the planning when you have time…and we’ll talk again. Maybe you could come back and work for the company full-time after you graduated?”
“But if I went to university, that’s” – I counted in my head – “four years away!”
He smiled and nudged me. “You’re my daughter, Lexi. I’ve seen what you can do in four days. Just imagine what you could do in four years.”
Four years.
That’s, like, 1,460 days.
That’s a lot of time.
That’s a lot of me to make up…
Still, whatever happens, we have one more convention to take care of this season and I’m going to enjoy it. Just as soon as I get these ridiculous ghosts stuck to the wall.
The walkie-talkie on the table squawks, and Nadiya picks it up. It’s Dad.
“Lexi, can you come over to the ops room, please?”
My table wobbles dangerously. “Tell him I’m busy,” I hiss at Nadiya.
She tries.
He doesn’t listen. “Nadiya, can you tell my daughter it’s about a pineapple?”
“Shit.”
The walkie goes dead, and Nadiya frowns at it – then at me. “Pineapple?”
“I’d better go,” I say. “We’ve probably got a ghost running amok or someone’s turned into a pumpkin or something.” My head feels like somebody stuffed it with soup. “Are you sure you can’t get jet lag from a train?”
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