‘I’ll be fine.’
‘But what about your tooth?’
‘Chuck it. There’s no bloody dentith anyway. I’ll get an implant once we’re home.’
I guide him to the nearest chair. ‘You sit here while I pay.’
He nods and I trot back to our table, scooping up the pile of notes Barney threw down earlier. It seems like several lifetimes ago. I count them quickly. Over four hundred euros. The bill comes to three hundred and fifty and I leave a fifty-euro note as a tip because I don’t want to wait for change.
‘Show’s over,’ I say to the English couple who’ve been glued to the shenanigans like it’s an episode of their favourite flippin’ soap. They look away, embarrassed. Good. I march over to Dad and offer him my arm.
‘Come on,’ I say, feeling like the grown-up, as per bloody normal. ‘Let’s get you home.’
It’s slow progress. Still drunk, he shuffles along the track towards the villa, swearing under his breath whenever he stumbles over a loose rock. My throat is scratchy with unshed tears. Turns out my dad, my strong, dependable father, isn’t invincible after all. Tonight, I’ve had a glimpse of the defenceless old man he’ll be one day, and it’s totally freaked me out. But I swallow back the tears and do my best to jolly him along, because he might not be perfect, but he’s my dad, and he’s the only one I’ve got.
The villa is in darkness when we eventually reach it, just after eleven. Everyone must be in bed. I sit Dad down on the sofa in the living room, turn on a side lamp and examine his face. His bottom lip is split and swollen, his cheeks are smeared with dried blood and, as for the missing tooth, well, it’s not a good look.
‘Want a glass of water?’
‘Please.’
I fetch a clean tea towel, run it under the warm tap and take it and the water back into the lounge. There’s probably a first-aid kit somewhere in the villa but I’m drooping with exhaustion. I’ll clean the cuts. The rest can wait till the morning.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dad says thickly, as I wipe the blood from his chin as gently as I can.
‘What for? Dom hit you.’
‘Can’t blame the guy. I shouldn’t have made a pass at his girlfriend.’
I look up sharply. ‘You hit on Amber?’
He nods, then hangs his head.
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘I know, chicken. I’m an idiot.’
He hasn’t called me chicken for years. This time I can’t stop the tears.
‘Why did you do it, Dad?’ I cry. And I’m not just talking about Amber. There’s so much more. Why did he have an affair with Simone? Why did he leave Mum? Me? Why is making money more important than his friends, his family? But I don’t, because what’s the point? He’s not going to change now.
‘What can I say? I was drunk. And you know what they say: there’s no fool like an old fool.’ He winces. ‘Get your old man a couple of paracetamol, would you? My head’s pounding.’
I trot back to the kitchen and scrabble around in the cupboards until I find a half-empty packet of painkillers. I press a couple out of the blister pack, scoot back and hand them to him.
‘Shall I help you to your room?’
‘Don’t think Simone’s going to welcome me with open arms. I might kip here tonight. Face the music in the morning.’
‘You’d better not drip blood over her precious white sofa because you might not get off so lightly next time. I’ll get a couple of towels.’
When I get back he’s already asleep. I lift his head as gently as I can and slide a clean towel underneath, then drop a kiss on his forehead.
‘Night, Dad.’
For a second I think about crashing on the armchair next to him, just in case. But I’m being ridiculous. He’s fine. I turn and leave the room. As I trudge upstairs to bed, I remember what he always used to say to me when I couldn’t sleep.
‘Things always look better in the morning, chicken.’
