by T F Lince
He bounced out of bed, his body not appreciating the movement – his body was not ready for any ‘doing’ words at the moment. Then he staggered across to the walk-in shower, stripping off on the four or five strides it took to get there.
A cold shower was what he needed right now. He washed his hair and splashed his face a few times, only allocating two minutes to the shower. He would have loved more, but every minute counted right now as he had under one hour thirty minutes to get home. It might be worth a couple of speeding tickets – he knew he could get one of the kids in the office to take his points at the going rate of £200 a point.
Dean felt like shit, but his body had an amazing way of letting him get away with it for a while – not forever, just for a while. All debts have to be paid eventually, but for now his body was giving him a pardon. He dressed and allowed himself a quick glance into the mirror. What he saw was worthy of another “Fuck!” He had a cut on his nose, a split lip, and looked like he was getting a black eye.
Dean cleaned his teeth, and put gel into his hair before splashing on some aftershave, which made him wince as it hit his split lip. Still in sped-up mode, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the lift.
Dean still felt wrong. His mind seemed to be a few seconds behind his body. What happened last night? he thought. He couldn’t even recall where he and the boys had gone. He remembered naked women and lots of alcohol. If that’s all I can remember and I’m going to see my wife, my memory could really do with bridging some of the gaps.
He pulled the cage for the lift to the side and headed down to the car park.
It was his pride and joy, a midnight blue Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, but today was not the day to admire it. He pressed the button, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat in more or less one movement, grimacing as his body reminded him of the kick in the ribs he’d got last night.
He sped out of the underground car park, his Porsche engine roaring and echoing under to the low roof, opened the gates and launched himself up the ramp into the East End of London. Setting the satnav’s touch screen to home, he negotiated the first few bends one-handed.
“Calculating.” After a few seconds, the satnav proudly announced, “Route is set. Your arrival time is 14.31pm.”
He had thirty-one minutes to gain on Little Miss Know-it-all inside his satnav to be there on time. Technically, he should arrive more than one minute before his daughter’s birthday party, but he knew how Sarah’s mind worked. If he was going to be late, there would be a world of difference between 13.59 and 14.01 – 13:59 meant Dad at least cared; 14.01 meant Dad didn’t give a shit.
The thing was, Dad did give a shit, and most of last night wasn’t his fault. His memory just hadn’t confirmed this fact to him yet.
London seemed to be in a rush. Dean’s car flew past the famous landmarks, upset about the lack of attention they were getting. On leaving the City, he thought he had better phone Sarah, then he decided he’d better listen to the seven voicemail messages first to get a feel of her mood. He never knew, she might just want him to bring some bread and milk in.
He listened. It didn’t help that Sarah’s tone, getting worse with each message, was being pumped by Bluetooth through some of the best car speakers money could buy. Yep, it was official: he was in the shit. Being late was no longer an option, so he put his foot down on the accelerator hard enough for fire to do a flaming dance out of the Porsche’s turbo, if that were possible.
While driving, he tried putting a story together, and after failing miserably to come up with a believable alibi for last night, he thought he would settle on the truth – or at least, what he remembered about the truth. His memory teased him with a few of snippets of information.
Falling over on a stripper – I might not use that one yet.
Feeling like he had been drugged – That’s a keeper. Use that one.
Getting told by Martin in the taxi that the bouncers had given him a good kicking – That’s in as well. It would explain the nose and busted lip.
He rang Sarah.
“Dean, where the fuck are you?” She sounded pissed off, and busy. “Yeah thanks, put them over there,” he could hear her add to a helper. “Well?”
Dean took a deep breath.
“Sorry, Sarah, I got beaten up last night in a club in London. I think my drink was spiked. I’ve just got up, but I’ll be there before two o’clock, promise.”
Busy though she was, Sarah still managed to land a blow.
“Dean, I’m so pissed off with you. You’re never here, and the one day you couldn’t miss, you’re going to miss.”
Dean forced his foot even closer to the floor of his Porsche.
“I won’t miss it, I’ll be there. Can’t wait to see you, honey.”
There was a pause. She was thinking, and that was never a good thing.
“‘Don’t ‘honey’ me, Dean. Fuck off; save it for your girlfriend.”
Dean pulled an ouch face.
“Girlfriend…?”
Beeeeeeeeeeep.
Apart from the girlfriend thing at the end, Dean actually thought that went better than expected.
Dean headed towards Sunbury to pick up the M3 where he could really open up the Porsche. There was a temporary 50 mile per hour zone due to roadworks for 10 miles on the M3, which was where he played his trump card and put the hammer down – 95mph all the way, and give the penalty points to one of the kids in the office. He saw a couple of speed cameras flash but didn’t care. As a trader for nearly twenty years, he’d learned that money is power. People crumple to money. The morals and values he’d been taught by his dad had been sucked into the false life of the City, and when in Rome…
His satnav had been recalculating every second, scratching her metaphorical head and wondering how he’d managed to gain time on such a difficult route. He was now due to get in at 14.22pm and the roadworks were over. At 120 miles an hour, he was gaining a minute per minute, his mathematical brain telling him an ETA of 13.56. For the first time today, he felt in control.
His body then let up on his ‘how he should be feeling after last night’ clause and evoked a ‘feeling even shitter’ legislation that he was due from earlier. He had to stop on the hard shoulder and throw up. He then had to endure five minutes of getting rid of the unwanted liquids on the roadside, his body apologising to his mind like a cheap lawyer.
“I held them off as long as I could…”
Having been ill, Dean started feeling better. He was on his way again, the satnav smugly announcing he was going to be late. Not if I can help it, thought Dean. He was doing over a ton before moving on to more responsible roads where only an idiot would go mad. Dean was a lot of things, but no idiot – it could be his daughter crossing the road, so he slowed down.
As he pulled into his home village, he could see kids heading to his house for Jodie’s party. He pulled into the drive at 13.58pm, and as he turned the engine off, he gave the satnav a couple of taps as if to say, “I told you so.”
His wife ran out to meet him. “Welcome home, Dean,” she said, giving him a big kiss and a hug. Dean did not think he really deserved this, but saw it as a bonus until he noticed five or six of the kids’ mothers looking on. He recognised them as the Friday Gym Mafia from the Body Pump Russian Roulette that always followed Sarah’s workout. Sarah was not stupid; she could put on a show so she would not be the talk of the town.
She kissed his neck and whispered in his ear, “You are in so much trouble, Dean, and what the fuck has happened to your face?” before she turned to the girls and smiled. “Dean thought he wouldn’t make it. He’s been working so hard in the City. Isn’t that right, Dean?”
The Stepford Wives were watching their every move. Doreen gave Sarah a ‘you might fool them, but you’re not fooling me’ smile before replying, “It’s really good you could make it, Dean. Jodie will be so happy you’ve found time in your busy schedule.”
Dean looked at Doreen. She was prickly, always
had been, but he normally managed to get her on side and blunt her prickly spikes.
“Doreen, can I just say how beautiful you look today? Have you got a new hairdresser?”
That did the trick.
“Oh, thank you, Dean. Yes – do you like it?”
Dean took Sarah’s hand.
“Sorry, girls, it’s Jodie’s day. If you can excuse me, where is she?’
Jodie left her friends, who were talking on the lawn, and walked over to her dad’s waiting arms. Dean picked her up and spun her round, even though she was too old for spinning round. She saw so little of her dad at the moment, she didn’t mind.
‘Thanks, Dad, glad you could make it. Where have you been?”
Ouch! Dean thought, but he probably didn’t deserve a full on welcoming committee. Jodie would have let him get away with it a few years back, but she was fast becoming a young woman. She was growing up right in front of his eyes, and Dean had been too blind to see it. Although she wouldn’t let it show, he could tell she was pissed off with him. Sarah and Jodie had obviously had words.
Dean ran the BBQ outside and took care of the music and karaoke, which was set up in the marquee. Sarah looked after the rest of the food and all the parents, apart from the husbands who occasionally escaped their wives to join Dean outside for a beer or two.
Sarah’s mum and dad were doing their grandparents thing. Jodie’s granddad even had a go on the karaoke, until he realised that the kids had never heard of Frank Sinatra or ‘My Way’. It wasn’t quite X Factor, but they gave him a cheer anyway before the next budding Katy Perry was up strutting and doing her thing.
Sarah was determined to make sure it was the best party Jodie had ever had, and so was her dad, but neither of them spoke to each other all day apart from through necessity. They were mostly occupied doing independent jobs to make sure their daughter’s day went without a hitch.
Jack turned up and helped Dean on BBQ duty for the afternoon while Holly, his wife, helped Sarah inside.
“I think you’ve done it this time, Yorkie, what the hell happened last night?”
Dean started to flip a row of burgers that were neatly lined up along the length of the gas-powered BBQ.
“That’s the thing, Jack, I can’t remember much. That Oliver had something to do with it, though – he couldn’t stop smirking at me, the little prick.”
Dean started on the second row of burgers which were sizzling away nicely.
“Well, all I know, Yorkie, is that you’re in the shit. Sarah called Holly this morning, and although I only heard one side of the conversation, I got the impression that you are not flavour of the month.” Dean looked at Jack. “Are they ready yet?” Jack asked.
“No, you’ve just seen me turn them over, Jack!” Dean threatened to rap Jack’s knuckles with his flipper. “Well, Sarah and I will be fine, but you know what? I’m sick of this life. Last night made me realise what I have and what I’ve been neglecting.” Dean pointed to the baskets of buns. “Go on, then, I have to test they’re ready.”
Jack took an already split bun and lined it with ketchup and mustard.
“I don’t know how you do mustard, Jack, makes you breathe out.”
“What?” Jack replied.
“Makes you breathe out, like…never mind.”
Jack accepted the burger which looked the most done and loaded it into his pre-prepared bun before taking a bite out of it as it got comfortable in its new home.
“I’ve got a big trade going down next week, Jack, and if it goes well, that’s me out. No more London. Going to spend time with Sarah and Jodie, try and prove to them I’m not a complete dick.”
Jack looked at Dean while he munched his burger.
“So, Yorkie, you’re admitting you’re a dick, then? Just not a complete one.”
“Name a trader who isn’t, Jack. Self-centred pricks, the lot of us, and the worst thing is, we all know it.”
Jack tilted his head to one side but thought better of putting up a defence.
“Don’t get me wrong, Jack, it’s hard work to get on the merry-go-round and you enjoy the ride, but the hardest thing will be getting off. It’s like a drug. But if all goes well, next week, that’s me done.”
Dean was looking for a comforting nod or maybe a few words of wisdom from his best friend. He had to settle for, “Have you got any more burgers ready, Yorkie? Bloody gorgeous, them.”
Chapter 5 – The Aftermath
Dean was finishing loading the dishwasher as Sarah entered the kitchen.
“You’d better go and see Jodie before she falls asleep, Dean.”
Dean headed upstairs, trying to peck Sarah on the cheek on the way past, but she was having none of it.
Jodie was already in bed.
“Did you have a good party, JoJo?’
“Best ever.” She paused. “Mum could have done with you here this morning, Dad.”
Dean had words, lies and excuses all lined up, but decided to stay silent. Jodie was right and they both knew it.
“Can we have a game of chess on my new chess set, Dad?” They both looked at the antique Jacques Staunton chess set dating from the early 1900s that Dean had got Jodie for her birthday, along with a new iPad. Even Dean realised that a £1,200 chess set, complete with an English mahogany-framed board and beautifully inlaid squares of alternating rosewood and boxwood, was a bit of an unusual present for a fifteen-year-old girl, but Jodie loved chess and was already one of the best at chess club at school. Dean knew she would cherish the gift and look after it with loving care. She deserved it.
“OK, but we might not be able to finish it tonight, though, Jodie. It’s late, and your mum and I need a quick chat. Black or white?”
“Black, Dad, please.” She smiled at him.
As Dean was white, he started. They played for thirty minutes, both having a few victories and losing a few pieces each, but more or less cancelling each other out, plotting their way back and forth on the chessboard like fencers looking for an opening.
Jodie looked at her dad, eyes wide. She knew she was only six or seven moves from beating him, and she had practised those moves. She knew where the pieces were right now. Her dad did not stand a chance as long as she concentrated. Dean knew he was in a bit of trouble, but not how much. He’d nearly lost to Jodie before, but had always found a way out.
“You’re getting better, Jodie, I’ll give you that, but remember what I always say: ‘There is always a way. When someone has got nowhere to run, it’s better to go down fighting, no matter how futile the fight’.”
Dean had a way of saying things. Sarah called them Deanisms. He smiled at Jodie; he had used this particular Deanism to make her feel sorry for him. All is fair in love and war, and Dean was not a ‘let her win’ type of dad. She would win when she deserved to.
“Right, Jodie, we’ll have to leave it where it is for now. I have to go and see your mum.”
Dean sat up.
“But, Dad…”
Jodie stopped. She could hardly tell him she was about to win.
“OK, Dad, night. Thanks for today, you’re the best.”
Jodie yawned and Dean gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Night-night, JoJo. Your mum and I love you very much.”
He had a last look at the chessboard, smiling as he did so before turning the light off in Jodie’s bedroom. He got a sleepy, “Night, Dad,” from Jodie as he half closed the bedroom door and went downstairs.
Sarah was tidying the kitchen. “Jodie loved it. ‘Best party ever,’ she said. Oh, and she’s about to beat me at chess.”
Sarah ignored all of what Dean had just said and dived straight in with what had been bothering her.
“Dean, are you seeing another woman?” There was a tone to her voice which implied that she didn’t care if he was.
“Of course I’m not. Don’t be daft,” he replied instantly without even looking at her.
“Dean, I’ve had enough. I don’t want to shout, I don’t want t
o fall out. It’s obvious you don’t want to be here anymore. The one day I asked you to be here, you let me down. It can’t always be everyone else’s fault, Dean.”
“Sarah, one – no, I’m not seeing anyone else. I don’t really know what happened last night. If I did, I would tell you.”
She stopped tidying away.
“Try me, Dean, I’m all ears.”
Dean thought talking bollocks would not be a good tactic right now. He’d not seen Sarah like this before and truth was the only way out.
“OK, I had a couple of drinks so couldn’t drive. That was a mistake. I should have come home last night…”
“Damn right you should.”
“OK, I know, but I only had five or six pints in Gino’s. Then it was my round and some of the younger lads were going to a club. Actually, Sarah, it was a crap strip club.”
“Really? That’s what you do to get your kicks now, is it, Dean?” Sarah was fighting off the tears.
“No! It was where the lads wanted to go and it was my round, so I bought everyone a drink, then I was going to leave after that. I’m not lying, Sarah, someone spiked my drink. All I can remember is the bouncers kicking the shit out of me outside.”
She shook her head at him. “They don’t kick the shit out of you for nothing, Dean. What the fuck has happened to the man I fell in love with?”
“I honestly can’t remember much of last night. All I do remember is Martin getting me home, and then I was out like a light, slept straight through my alarm.”
“I don’t believe you, Dean.” Sarah changed tack. “Where were you last weekend, then?”
“I told you, Sarah, had to work last weekend.”
“Really?” Sarah pulled out a credit card statement from behind the bread bin and slammed it on the table. It had Barcelona written all over it. The girls in the gym had put the idea into her head and they had been right.
Dean was cornered. Whatever he said was going to be a mistake, so he had to take this one on the chin. He looked apologetically at her.