‘Sorry to hear that,’ I say.
‘Oh, it’s fine. My university romances were always short-lived. The annoying thing is that I spent most of uni smitten with someone who was perfect for me. Sadly, I just wasn’t perfect for them.’
‘No?’
She shakes her head. ‘They preferred redheads.’
It takes a second for the penny to drop and when it does, I feel my entire face burst into flames. How did I not see this?
‘Carly, I—’
‘Don’t even sweat it,’ she laughs, bringing over the coffee. ‘I’m just not lucky in that way. I never have been. Kate seems lovely, she really does. You look happy. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply, not wanting to disclose any information about my situation with Kate. It would be disrespectful, given her insecurities about Carly. ‘Who knows what the future holds, right?’
‘Right,’ Carly agrees. ‘Onwards and upwards. Now where does Bethan keep the good biscuits?’
As she raids the cupboards I wonder if she’s right. Maybe I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, which, in about six hours, will be completely alone.
Kate
I flick the switch on the kettle and start pacing, my mind going into overdrive with a million questions. She has his number. . . he hashernumber. Do they text often? Do they share emojis and memes and funny little gifs and reminisce about fucking music camp and university and. . .
The kettle clicks off and I take a breath. It’s just a drink, Kate, get a hold of yourself.
I take the tea through to the living room where Dad has popped on the fire and cleared a space on the coffee table.
‘So, how’s things, Katie?’ he asks, breaking off some shortbread. ‘Have a good Christmas?’
When I was little my dad called me Katie bear, for reasons known only to him. As I got older, he dropped the bear, but I don’t think he’s ever called me just Kate in my entire life.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘It’s been lovely seeing everyone. Tom’s getting so big.’
‘That’s nice,’ he replies. Then there is silence, apart from the noise of him slurping his tea.
‘Been getting out much?’ I ask, knowing that he hasn’t. This isn’t the home of someone with a social life. There are no friends popping round for coffee or dinner. This house is a reflection of an unhappy life now spent alone. My dad is only forty-five and itbreaks my heart.
‘Just the meetings,’ he answers. ‘The shops. . . maybe the odd walk to the park, if it’s nice.’
This man used to hit the clubs every weekend and now suddenly he’s Gubba? This is too surreal.
The conversation is scarce and stilted. When my dad was drinking, he was hard work but at least he had something to say. I think this is the first visit I’ve had in years where he’s been sober and it’s almost like he’s disappeared. He hasn’t even bothered dying his greys.
‘Ed off to meet a friend, then?’ he asks. ‘Shame he couldn’t stay, though I don’t blame him. Place is a pigsty. It just gets away from me, you know?’
‘So let’s do something about it, then,’ I say, putting down my tea.
‘What?’
I march myself through to the kitchen and throw open the cupboards under the sink.
Bin bags, rubber gloves, bleach, polish, cloths, washing-up liquid. . . I collect it all and dump it on the kitchen table. For a man who never cleans, he has more cleaning products than anyone I know.
‘Right, I’m going to start in the kitchen, and you’re going to take all that shite in the hall down to the bins.’
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look ashamed until now. Funny thing is, I feel exactly the same. It was like this when we visited in April, and I just left him to wallow in it. Regardless of his faults, he’s still my dad. What kind of daughter does that make me?
I walk over and hug him. ‘Oh, I do have to do this, Dad,’ I say, trying not to cry. ‘I do because every year I come here, and you’re drunk or you’re cosying up to some idiot teenager in a pair of ugly Valentino’s. Every year I feel angry and reluctant to helpbecause that destructive lifestyle meant more to you than I did.’
