‘That’s my girl.’
I finish my tea and kiss Gubba goodbye. I understand where she’s coming from. She doesn’t want me to settle. And neither do I.
Boxing Day
Kate
‘So what did you say to Tom to make him perk up?’ I ask Ed, as we drive out of Hope. I always get a little melancholy when I leave, like I’m leaving a part of me behind.
‘I just told him to check his Fortnite skins,’ he replies. ‘There were some new DLCs he was going on about.’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, pretending I understand a word of that. He might as well be speaking Russian. My knowledge of gaming is limited to Candy Crush and Words With Friends.
‘He’s growing up so fast,’ Ed remarks. ‘Like, he’s grown at least an inch and he’s got a proper little-dude haircut.’
I laugh. ‘I noticed that! It’s cute and also terrifying. Before we know it, he’ll be sprouting facial hair and asking us to buy him booze. . . Speaking of booze. . .’
We pull up outside my dad’s flat on the outskirts of Sheffield and park next to a car that’s been clamped, stripped for parts and spray-painted with the word Scum. Ed looks around nervously.
‘This place has got worse,’ he remarks. ‘That flat wasn’t boarded up last time, was it?’
‘No,’ I reply, feeling uneasy. ‘Pretty sure that old fella with the angry cat lived there. Wonder what happened. . .’
We get out and enter the courtyard, climbing the steps to thefirst floor, then along the landing. I hate this place. It should have been condemned years ago but the council decided it would be the perfect place to house the most vulnerable, most desperate and most likely to re-offend if given half the chance.
I love my dad but he’s emotionally draining. He’s a forty-five-year-old man, who still thinks he’s thirty and is more than partial to an afternoon tipple– or at any time, really.
When he left Mum, he was working for a furniture company in Sheffield and, unsurprisingly, had the gift of the gab when it came to selling beds, sofas and mirrored wardrobes, especially to women. I’m certain his charm and banter were what attracted Mum in the first place, as it certainly wasn’t his academic prowess or his hedge fund. Rather quickly, he was promoted to store manager, and within three years, he’d developed relationships, negotiated with suppliers and opened his own store near Bakewell, which people flocked to. Most men would have started laying down some roots at forty, but my dad always wanted more. Wanted better. Better car, better house, better girlfriend, always convinced that there was something more around the corner, waiting for him.
But then Ikea came to town. Ikea with its delicious meatballs and huge car park, its creche and its ability to quickly price my dad right out of the market. He sold the store three years ago but continued to live like he was still the king of occasional tables. It was embarrassing. Last Christmas, we had the pleasure of meeting his current girlfriend, Danielle, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five but even Dad wasn’t sure. I’m not sure he bothered to ask.
I got the news in March that he’d been evicted after drinking and partying away six months’ worth of mortgage payments. Homeless, he reached out to the council, and they placed him here.
We find number 9 and I knock on the door. Last time wevisited, it took him fifteen minutes to open the door as he’d got so pissed the night before, he’d lost his keys. He found them eventually, in the freezer. Thankfully, this time, he opens right away.
‘Katie, my love! Eddie! Merry Christmas! Come in, come in!’
I almost take a step back and check I have the right flat. Standing at the door is a clean-shaven, fully suited man who resembles my dad but isn’t holding a beer can and wearing a tiger-print robe and one sock.
‘Dad?’ I say, looking him up and down. ‘What the hell happened? I mean you look great but. . . oh shit, are you due in court or something?’
‘No,’ he replies, with a smirk. ‘I just haven’t had a drink in eight weeks, is all. Tidied myself up a bit, y’know; clean on the inside, clean on the outside.’
‘OK. Sure,’ I reply, stepping inside. Ed follows me in and shuts the door behind him, wishing my dad a Merry Christmas. He looks just as confused as I am.
Sadly, the new look doesn’t apply to his flat, but I keep my mouth shut as I try to navigate around piles of books, boxes and bin bags in the hallway. God, the air is thick with dust. . . and dog hair. Last time I checked, my dad didn’t own a dog.
‘Sounds like you’re going to meetings again,’ I reply, trying not to touch whatever sticky shit is on the living-room door handle. ‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Three times a week down the West Church. It’s been good for me.’
We step into the living room, which is marginally cleaner than the hall but not by much. His sofa looks like it’s on its last legs, and again, it’s covered in dog hair. I choose to sit at the small table near the window, first removing a pair of stained trousers which look like they wouldn’t even survive a wash if offered one.
‘No Danielle today?’ I ask, already knowing the answer. There’sno way her designer shoes would tread anywhere near these carpets. She’ll have dumped his arse the moment he lost the penthouse flat with the jacuzzi bath.
‘Ah, y’know,’ he responds. ‘Time to move on.’
‘Whose car is that outside, Brian?’ Ed asks, peering out the living-room window. ‘The burnt-out one?’
