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‘That was a birthday present, but it’s a good example. I know most people don’t get brand new cars for their twenty-first birthdays, okay? I get that bit. But it didn’t come without conditions. He taxed and insured it for the first year but made it very clear the costs of running it were down to me after that. He always expected me to get a job and be financially independent from him. Why on earth would we have lived in that shitty flat if he’d been bankrolling me?’
Di and I shared a flat with two other girls for a couple of years before I got married and moved down to the country. It was a really happy time in my life; I had a job I loved and that paid enough to allow me to cover my part of the rent, put petrol in the car on the rare occasions that I used it, and enjoy nights out and the occasional shopping trip. The flat itself was tiny and very run down, but we filled it with odd things that we picked up at markets and junk shops, and it had a kind of shabby chic feel to it. We loved it, but it was a bit of a shithole, especially compared to the immaculate house that Di lives in now. Even our little cottage on the farm is a considerable step up from that flat.
I can see Di processing what I’ve told her. On one hand, it would be easy to dismiss my dad as cruel for allowing his only daughter to live in relative poverty when he has so much, but I don’t blame him at all, particularly as he did give me a pretty impressive wedding gift and I’ve never had the courage to tell him where it ended up. In a funny way, I’m pleased that he didn’t just give me handouts whenever I needed them; it made me work harder, and I still remember the sense of achievement I felt when my first month’s salary landed in my bank account.
‘Have you heard from him?’ she asks, suddenly.
‘Who, Dad?’
‘No, James.’
‘He tried to call while I was on my way to the station. I turned my phone off.’
‘Nice. He’s probably going round the bend. Serves him right. Shall we see?’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready.’
‘Don’t answer it if it rings. Let’s turn it on, see whether he’s left any voicemails or texts, and then turn it off again. You don’t have to listen to anything or read anything until you’re ready. Okay? Would you prefer me to do it?’
I reach into my handbag, pull out my phone, and hand it to her.
‘What’s the code?’ she asks, after she’s powered it up.
‘Two five oh nine,’ I reply.
‘Your wedding date. Nice.’ She enters the code and the phone immediately starts to ping with notifications.
‘I think we can assume he’s panicking,’ she tells me when the phone eventually falls silent. ‘Twelve calls, three voicemails and five text messages. Good.’
She turns the phone off and hands it back to me. ‘Let’s give him a little bit more time to stew, shall we?’
4
I wake the next morning with a belter of a hangover. I’m not surprised, really. As well as the prosecco, Di and I polished off two bottles of white wine while we sifted through the debris of my marriage to see if there was anything worth saving. My memories of where we ended up are a little hazy, but I think she was still very much of the opinion that I should do him some sort of permanent injury and then get the hell out of there. I crawl out of bed and pad down the corridor to the bathroom, where I spend much longer than usual under a shower as hot as I can bear. Once I’ve washed and dressed, I head downstairs to find Di devouring the largest slice of toast I think I’ve ever seen. The kitchen smells of fresh coffee, which is normally one of my favourite aromas, but today makes my stomach heave queasily.
‘How come you’re not hungover?’ I ask her.
‘Oh, I am. Carbs and coffee are my go-to hangover cure. Do you want some?’ She indicates the coffee machine and a loaf of bread on the side.
‘I’m not sure I can face food yet,’ I reply.
‘It’ll be a lot worse if you don’t eat anything. Sit yourself down and I’ll fix you a piece of toast. You’ll be right as rain in no time, I promise. I thought we’d go into town for some retail therapy today. That always used to cheer you up in the old days. We’ll do all our greatest hits: Harvey Nics, Selfridges, the lot. What do you think?’
‘It’s a great idea, apart from the fact that I can’t afford to buy anything.’
‘You can’t literally have nothing. You must have an overdraft facility or something, surely? If it means that James can’t eat for a week or two, well, he should have thought of that, shouldn’t he?’
I can’t help smiling, despite my pounding head. ‘I guess I could try a few things on,’ I tell her.
‘That’s the spirit. We’ll get them to spray us with some lovely perfumes too. Who knows, we might even be able to wangle some make-up samples.’
Her coffee and carbs hangover cure doesn’t exactly work, but I am feeling a little more human when we leave the house an hour or so later. We meander back into the centre of London on a series of buses, and I enjoy watching the world go by through the windows. Everything is busy, and people are hurrying from one place to the next with an urgency you just don’t find in the country. There’s such variety here too: restaurants featuring cuisines from all around the world, shops catering to every need, and even the occasional glimpse of a bustling outdoor market down a side street. I feel like a dormant part of me is waking up, and the energy of the capital city is working its magic on me.
Di is right; the retail therapy improves my mood no end. We spend the morning wandering happily around Selfridges, pulling clothes off the racks, matching them into combinations and trying them on. I’m very tempted by a gorgeous pair of Stella McCartney jeans that feel as soft as butter and do wonders for my figure, before coming to my senses and realising that, apart from the fact that there’s no way I could afford them, they’d be covered in mud and dog hair within five minutes on the farm. It’s still fun though and, by the time we emerge (empty-handed, thankfully), my hangover has gone and I’m actually quite hungry. We settle ourselves in a Vietnamese restaurant and order two bowls of pho.
‘Is your phone still off?’ Di asks, as we’re making steady progress through the delicious spicy broth and trying not to slurp the noodles.
‘Yup.’ I feel a pang of sadness and wish she hadn’t mentioned it. I’ve had such a nice morning pretending that everything is okay, but I suppose I can’t hide from it for ever.
