I hope I don’t give off those vibes anymore, but he has no real clue what my world has looked like since then. Yes, I still like a drink on a night out. Yes, I still like to party – but the party isusually held in our local pub, which is hardly a den of iniquity. I’m guessing that last night, he had similar thoughts to mine – wondering what I’d been up to for all these years. Wondering, perhaps, if I was still that same woman – a self-destructive lunatic who should have been checking into rehab, not running a restaurant and building a media career. And if I was, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so happy to let his baby girl come and spend the next few weeks with me.
I suspect the Champagne was a test, and the look of relief suggests that I passed. Go me. I’d like to be annoyed, but I’d be exactly the same in his shoes. And as Simon died in a car crash, the last person likely to drive while drunk is me.
I help myself to a plate of food and wonder if I should just talk to him about it, honestly. Assure him that all will be well. I decide that I will, once the girls are out of earshot – they will undoubtedly disappear up to Marcy’s room at some point.
Bear stares at me soulfully as I slice some chilled Brie, and I can totally understand how he got to be so fat. He’s too cute. Plus, I’d guess he’s an older dog, still energetic but with greying fur around his muzzle – it’s likely that Bear arrived as a puppy after their mum died. He’s undoubtedly been spoiled rotten.
“Sorry, pal,” I say, carefully keeping my plate high. “It’s for your own good, honest.”
He lets out a little whine and slides to his belly, his tail making one sad thump against the tiled floor.
As I’m pouring a coffee, I hear Marcy giving Sophie a verbal tour of the room. That’s the yucca plant that Bear once peed on, she tells us. That’s the hob where she made her first French onion soup. That’s the chair she used to stand on so she could reach the high cupboard, where the chocolate biscuits were kept. That’s the skylight that once had to be replaced when her sister Amy was practising hockey indoors on a snowy day and rocketed the ball right through the glass.
I smile as she does it and notice that Zack looks similarly amused. It’s nice – a run-through of family memories, the legends we build, the stories we tell. You’d never guess from all of this that Marcy has spent years without her mum, and I hope the same is true of Sophie about her dad. Me and Zack? Probably we’re just a whole lot better at hiding the pain.
She skitters around to a cork notice board on the wall, and I see Zack grimace.
“Marcy,” he says firmly. “There’s no need for that!”
“Oh but there is, Daddy dearest,” she says, looking devilish. I look at the board to see what all the fuss is about, and I see several photos of women, clearly printed off at home, possibly from social media profiles. They’re all young, but not super-young – like maybe in their thirties. They all look different but the same – totally gorgeous.
“This,” Marcy announces with some glee, “is my dad’s wall of shame! I know he wants to take it down, but I’ve told him he mustn’t. He needs to face up to his mistakes, like he always told me when I was little. Like he told Amy when she smashed that skylight. So, these are the women he’s dated in the last, what, two years?”
Zack swipes his hands across his face, then shrugs in resignation.
“About that, yeah,” he says.
“So, after Mum died, he stayed single for ages,” Marcy continues. “Understandable, especially with us two hanging around. Then when Amy went to France, and I was eighteen, he went on his first date for… how long was it, Dad?”
“It was my first date since I met your mother. So, since the first of October, twenty-three years ago.”
He looks mortified, but all I can think is that it’s sweet he remembers the exact day they went on their first date. After all this time, it’s still embedded in his mind.
“That was Francesca,” Marcy says, pointing at a glossy brunette with perfect teeth. “He dumped her because she’d never heard ofTiswas, whatever that is.”
I have a brief image of Saturday morning chaos – the kids’ TV show that dunked celebs in goo and smashed people in the face with custard pies. It makes me smile just thinking about it.
“That’s fair,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“This,” Marcy continues, showing us a pretty blonde, “is Lola. Her crime was that she thought the musicalWickedwas better than the original version ofThe Wizard of Oz.”
“Not quite,” Zack interrupts. “It was because she decided that was the case even though she’d never evenseenthe originalWizard of Oz. I mean, who hasn’t seenThe Wizard of Oz?”
“Lola, apparently,” I reply, leaning against the counter and enjoying his discomfort. It doesn’t come as a surprise that Zack has dated beautiful women who are younger than him, given the world he works and moves in, but it is fun to see him skewered by his daughter.
“What about her?” I ask Marcy, gesturing at a stunning redhead with glittering green eyes. “What was wrong with her?”
“She didn’t know the Lord of the Rings films were based on books.”
“Right – and this one, with the dimples?”
“That was Elodie. That was going okay until he went to her flat and discovered she had a Pokémon collection.”
“This one?” I say, looking at an athletic woman in a yoga pose, hating her already. Bet she doesn’t have to clamber onto all fours to get off the floor.
“Simone. Actually, I think she dumped you didn’t she, Dad?”
“Yes. She pitched me a concept for a show where overweight people did yoga, and wanted to call itThe Biggest Poser. I wasn’t keen, and she lost interest in me pretty soon after that. To be fairI was relieved – she was a weird combination of way too limber and supremely competitive. It wasn’t good for my back.”
