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26
Jack
My dad was waiting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. He’d fitted me in between meetings, he’d said. I’d been half tempted not to show up because I had a bad feeling about what he wanted to see me about. I didn’t imagine he wanted a cosy chat; I could count on one hand the number of times Dad and I had voluntarily been out for lunch or a drink together.
He was on the phone when I arrived, barking something about court dates and missing papers to some poor person on the other end of the line. I sat down and poured myself a glass of water, knocking it back.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Dad, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘No worries,’ I replied, trying to hide my surprise. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him apologise for anything before.
‘Drink?’ asked Dad.
I nodded, scanning the menu. A waiter wearing a pressed white shirt and a smart, black apron appeared beside me. It was the sort of trendy, stylistic place my dad liked to conduct his work-related meetings – I suspected it was probably because he thought it made him look relevant and interesting, which maybe it did. I ordered a cappuccino and a sparkling water; Dad went for a double espresso.
‘So,’ I said, putting the menu down and looking at Dad. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
Dad laughed softly. ‘What, can’t I meet my own son for coffee, now?’
I looked at him, frowning. I was pretty sure he hadn’t been overcome by a sudden desire to spend time with me. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?’ I asked, determined to get it out of him.
There would be something – there always was. I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong this time; nothing I could think of, anyway. As far as I knew, everyone was well. Although Mum had mentioned that Dom seemed very stressed, but surely that was par for the course when you were earning a six-figure salary? That was probably it: Dad was going to ask me to talk to my brother, to subtly find out if everything was all right. The thing was, though, I wouldn’t really know, would I? It wasn’t like we ever confided in each other, and if I had a problem, he’d be the last person I’d want to talk to about it. In fact, that was probably about the only similarity between us, the fact that we liked to keep our feelings to ourselves. I couldn’t speak for Dom, but personally I channelled all my emotion through my characters – I could express anything, then. At times, it was very cathartic. I had the feeling Dom’s emotions were all pent up and waiting to explode.
Dad shifted in his seat. ‘One of my clients is a governor at a boarding school in Surrey,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah?’ I had no idea where he was going with this. ‘What does he need a lawyer for, then?’
‘Obviously I can’t say,’ replied Dad.
‘Oh go on,’ I teased.
He gave me a look.
‘He said they’re looking to recruit a drama teacher,’ continued Dad.
‘Ah,’ I said.
The waiter brought our drinks. I stirred a spoon around and around in the froth at the top of my coffee.
‘How did you get onto that subject? Small talk at the vending machine in court, was it?’
Dad downed his espresso in three short, sharp mouthfuls. I heard his throat contracting and opening again. ‘I can’t remember how it came up,’ he replied.
I looked around the restaurant, which was just off Covent Garden piazza and had a sister restaurant in New York. I didn’t know, because I’d never been, but I didn’t imagine the Manhattan branch was full of middle-aged suits wooing clients over too-early bottles of expensive wine and eggs Benedict. I was surprised Dad wasn’t drinking, actually, he didn’t usually hold back.
‘What are you thinking, then?’ I asked him, although I was pretty sure by now where this conversation was going.
‘I was telling him that you’re a decent actor, by all accounts, but that you can’t catch a break. Like you said, all the jobs are going to a handful of actors, aren’t they? You lot aren’t getting a look in.’
I wrenched open the top of my water and it promptly fizzed out like a volcano, dripping down my hands and soaking the poncy white tablecloth. I tutted, wiping my hands on a carefully folded linen napkin.
‘That’s going to change, though,’ I said. ‘I just need to keep going.’
‘For how long, though, Jack?’ asked Dad.
He took off his jacket and hung it carefully over the back of his chair. The massive sweat rings under his arms indicated that he was finding this conversation as difficult as I was.
‘As long as it takes, I suppose,’ I said.
