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As I approach the front door, I notice that all of the ground floor lights are on, meaning my dad’s awake. With frozen hands, I let myself in, drop my bags and kick off my shoes in the hall. Then I head straight for the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. As I down it greedily, I hear my father calling, so I finish up quick and go the living room.
Peering round the door, I find him slouching on the sofa with his laptop cradled between his knees. On the table sits a half-finished cup of tea with the bag still in it. The living room is big and bright, filled with dusty furniture and burgundy window drapes that haven’t been touched since the 80s. The mantelpiece is teeming with replica Egyptian carvings and South American trinkets. All around, the sweet scent of patchouli permeates the air.
Dad takes off his glasses and grins, showing a row of wonky, discoloured teeth. He’s tall and thin with high cheekbones, a nose like a beak and locks of lank, grey hair swept back in a ponytail. He’s wearing his favourite ensemble: a paint-spatteredRolling StonesT-shirt with stonewashed jeans.
“Hello, my dear. Did you have a good day?”
“Yeah, it was okay.” I crash out in the armchair opposite and ask him how the writing’s going.
“Great! I’ve done two thousand words already.”
“That’s brilliant, Dad. You’ve finally gotten over your writer’s block?”
“Yes, for the moment,” he laughs. “Fingers crossed; if I keep this up, I’ll have the first draft done by Christmas.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. He’s been on Chapter One since spring.
My father’s Steve Singleton, a writer and something of a minor celebrity on the New Age book scene. In the mid-90s, he spent ten months in India, and on his return wrote the bestsellingPath toEnlightenment: Six Ways to Change Your Life.This was followed by a succession of lacklustre sequels that have earned him a small but loyal fan base who ensure his twice-yearly royalty cheques keep coming.
“Something arrived for you from Amazon today,” Dad says through pursed lips.
“Really?”
“Yeah. A big, brown parcel. I left it on your bed.”
My face brightens; it must be theMuppet Showbox set I ordered.
Dad sips his tea and winces when he realises it’s stone cold.
I sniff the air. Beneath the scent of patchouli is a definite undercurrent of marijuana. I eye my father suspiciously. “Dad, have you been smoking pot again?”
“Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I can smell it.”
“Must be your imagination.” I lean forward and he cowers back with a sheepish grin.
“Okay, okay,” he admits. “I had one little joint at lunchtime, just to get my creative juices flowing. One joint, and that’s it.”
“Dad, you promised. Remember what we agreed? No more pot.”
“I know, I know. It won’t happen again.” His shoulders sag. “Sometimes I just need that extra little kick to get me through my mental blockage. We writers have a history of working better under the influence. For God’s sake, even Lewis Carroll was high as a kite when he wroteAlice in Wonderland.”
“Lewis Carroll didn’t have hypertension.”
“He might have. Did you check historical records?”
“Dad, this isn’t funny. You have to start taking what the doctor said seriously. I bet you didn’t even remember to take your tablets.”
“Oh, yes, I did. You think I’m stupid?”
My eyes narrow as I try to gauge if he’s telling the truth.
“What?” he says innocently.
“Are you sure you definitely took them?”
“Cross my heart, Carly, I did.”
