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“Guilt, maybe?” says Albie, still studying me.
“I think he wanted me to stay.”
He shifts in his chair. “But you didn’t.”
“Kallie landed a really good gig in London and needed a flatmate. Failing all else, I knew I could get bouncer work easily. I’d done it before, so…”
“What did he say? When you told him you were off?”
I turn my head and notice he’s taken off his shades, probably because the sky has turned black. Or maybe he’s trying to tease the truth from me because he doesn’t want me to have the same regret he does.
“Not much, really. That’s not how we are with one another.” I nibble my lip. “He did however ask me to not waste my education… and here I am, five years later, still wasting my education.”
Albie turns to face forward again. “Why does he still send you the money, though?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps to remind me he’s still there?” I wince at the admission. “But you know, some months I’ve really needed the extra cash.” I’m ashamed to admit I’ve only been back home a couple of times since I left for London—and that was only because Kallie forced me along to one of her family gatherings. Between her work trips, busy social life and multiple female partners over the years, she only gets home every so often herself. Whereas for me, what’s the point? Dad works and doesn’t have time for much else. We’ve barely had a decent conversation since Mum left.
Maybe he blames me. Maybe I blame him. My father used to be able to laugh about things and would ask me questions that demonstrated he took note of what Mum told him about my school/social/personal life. That all stopped once she was gone. He could no longer hide the apathy that had so clearly pushed her away.
Albie has gone deadly silent and I glance to see him frowning deeply.
“I knew she wasn’t paying you enough,” he growls low.
“No, not really.”
“So why do you stay?”
A weighted silence follows.
Then, brave enough suddenly, I say, “I guess I like you, Albie.”
“I like you, too.”
I’m definitely not brave enough to take a glance now, not when my cheeks feel pink.
“I would’ve taken poverty over security any day,” I admit. “Would’ve taken her, over him, no matter what. Even if she was broken, at least she always knew when I was in need of a hug. My dad isn’t a hugger. So I suppose that’s why the money keeps coming in.”
“By rights, he should up it in line with inflation.”
“Well, there’s that,” I chuckle, switching up the wipers as we pass a cavalcade of lorries.
“I know how you feel, you know? Having a cold father.”
“You do?” I grip the steering wheel harder.
“Yep.” He pauses. “Mum left him yonks ago and she was a great parent. Still hurts though.”
“It hurts like hell.”
Neither of us says anything else for the rest of the journey.
Chapter Four
It’s an absolute nightmare getting parked in Clerkenwell. My flat is near the Underground station so we end up having to park half a mile away in a long-stay. Kallie won’t be happy I’ve had to leave her baby unattended somewhere. By the time we’ve got him to mine (in his disguise), we’re both stressed out and I’m bursting for a wee.
After I’ve used the lavatory, I emerge to find him rifling through my record collection. There’s some good stuff in there—the result of many a Saturday afternoon spent sifting through charity shops, record dealers’ hoards and car boot sales. Mum started me off when she left her records behind. The Carpenters, Blondie, Abba, Steely Dan… an absolute mish-mash. I inherited her absolute need for music in my life, or else I’d go mad.
It seems like he’s content to be left alone for a minute, so I put the kettle on, take some deep breaths and pull my phone out of my back pocket. There are dozens of missed calls and messages. Sharon’s demanding to know where we are. She won’t be able to leave the festival because she came with the crew. Plus, she won’t know that Kallie drove us there in her car and therefore, we had the means to escape.
