She mimes zipping up her lips. I guess there’s no harm in letting her think I’m away with a guy this weekend. Better than her knowing the truth. Ignoring her, I raise my glass.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” I say cheerily, clinking my glass with his.
“Thank you, Soph,” he says, and starts tucking into the Indian takeaway he specifically requested for his special dinner.
Mum’s pretending not to be annoyed by it. She wanted to make a big fuss over him and take him out somewhere, but he was adamant that all he wanted was a “takeaway and a night in with my girls.” Dad’s never been one for a lot of fuss. He’s the sort of person who would rather stay in than go out, sitting cozily on the sofa, reading glasses on, enraptured by the latest thriller. Since he retired from his teaching job at the local comprehensive, he’s got into walking and attempted to learn golf, but his favorite pastimes are still reading and writing.
I can tell he misses his job. He was a brilliant teacher, fascinated by history and desperate for all his students to be just as passionate. He’s naturally warm, gentle and enthusiastic. The kids and the staff loved him. He was never tempted to go to another school or move into a more senior position. Money wasn’t a motivation—Mum has always been the breadwinner—and he didn’t like the idea of getting involved in school politics. He’s much too disorganized and laid-back for any of that. He simply wanted to teach.
When it was time for him to retire, it was difficult for everyone—we were all unsure of what he was going to do with himself. On his last day at school, he gave a wonderful farewell speech at the prize-giving, which moved everyone in the audience to tears. You could tell his heart was breaking a little.
But, as it turns out, he’s settled into retirement nicely. He doesn’t miss the marking side of things, he always says, and even thoughhe misses the kids, he’s focusing most of his energy on writing his book, a historical murder mystery. He won’t tell us any more about it, though. When I ask about the plot, he says, “Now, that would be spoiling the mystery,” and taps the side of his nose. The few times I’ve been at home and he’s done some writing, I’ve found plenty of entertainment in his “writing process.” He goes into the study and does some stretching, then sits at the computer, inhaling deeply, saying, “Here we go,” and tapping slowly at the keyboard, pausing now and then to read back the sentence and exclaim “Good!” or “Needs work!” as though he’s speaking to his class.
“Now,” he says, spooning mango chutney onto his plate, “tell me about work, Sophie. How’s it all going?”
“It’s fine,” I lie, taking a sip of wine and avoiding eye contact with Mum.
“I hope now the summer’s over, things have calmed down,” she says, cracking a popadum and offering me a piece. “You were much too busy the past few months. You need to make sure you give yourself some time off so you’re well rested.”
“It’s good to be busy in my line of work,” I remind them. “If things ever calm down, I’ll be worried.”
“Any Bride- or Groomzillas?” Dad asks, chuckling. “I hope so. Always makes for an interesting story.”
“I do have one particularly demanding bride at the moment. In fact—” I pause, planning my words carefully so I don’t give anything away. “—I’m not entirely sure how to handle her.”
I thought that breaking into the studio was the bonding moment Cordelia and I needed. But it’s as though it never happened.
I got a message from her on my way home from seeing Jonathan, but instead of a thank-you for putting my neck on the line, it was instructions to pick up her dry cleaning. Again. Hadn’t I proved that I was worth having around bycommitting a crime on her behalf? How had that not won her over? How were wenot going for drinks, laughing about the success of our daring mission?! I’d even just come up with theperfectgift for her—Jonathan couldn’t have been happier—and, yes, fine, she didn’t know anything about that, butstill.
I picked up her dry cleaning as requested and the only other message I got from her was a reply of “OK” when I told her the time my train would be getting in on Saturday so she could arrange a local taxi as she’d offered.
I wonder if she’ll ever get over the fact that I’ve been hired to help her. It’s as though she’s purposely putting on all these airs and graces, pretending to be the demanding diva socialite the world has painted. But Jonathan has convinced me that’s not who she really is at all. How do I get her to drop the act?
“Perhaps we can help with this bride,” Mum says, sitting up, already set to find a solution to the problem, whatever it may be.
“She’s difficult. She hates me.”
“No one could hate you,” Dad says.
“She does. She thinks I’m weird.”
“You’re not weird!” Mum declares, insulted.
“Define weird,” Dad says, with a smile, then yelps when Mum kicks him under the table. “I’m only joking! You’re not weird, Sophie. You’re very normal.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem. I’m too ‘normal.’” I move my food around my plate. “I thought we’d started to bond, but I’m pretty sure I was wrong. Her mum was the one who got in touch in the first place and she really wants me to help. She’s under the impression her daughter needs me. But this client makes it very clear that she doesn’t want me around at all.”
“Working with a reluctant client is never easy.” Mum nods. “I remember when I had to work with—well, I won’t name him, so let’s just say averydemanding presenter. There had been some headlines about his past relations with a married model. He’d just landed a prominent job on a family-friendly show. Of course,he was fired as soon as the story broke. Could have been the end of his career. I was hired by his agent to sort it all out. Did he want me around? No. Did he thank me when I transformed his image and set him out on a path much more suited to his personality? No. He thought he could do it better his way, as though I had no experience whatsoever. I saved his bacon and he couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t the most fulfilling of jobs.”
“How did you cope with being made to feel you weren’t wanted, and not letting it get in the way?” I ask, putting my fork down.
“I suppose I simply reminded myself that I was doing a job. You can’t let personal feelings intrude. Would a doctor say no to treating a patient because they weren’t very nice to them? Of course they wouldn’t. They’re there to do a job and that’s what they’re going to do.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it, I guess. I can’t understand how anyone can be so unpleasant. So determined to dislike me. I swear, the other day we were on the same page. But it’s like she won’t let herself be friendly. And I know she can be. It’s so infuriating.”
“Maybe you’re not seeing the whole story,” Dad suggests, leaning back in his chair. “She sounds like a complicated person. An interesting character. There might be more to her than you think.”
“I don’t know. I’ve yet to see one redeeming quality shine through the layers and layers of meanness.”
