“Right, okay, this is what’s gonna happen. You’re going to go downstairs and get me some snacks and wine—good wine not the shit wine, this isn’t a shit wine moment—and we’re going to stay here and thrash this out until we’re both on the same fucking wavelength, because I’ve been arguing with you in my head for almost a year now and I have a lot to say.”
“Take a seat, then.” I point to the bed, where his faded-green hoodie hangs half off. For some reason, that makes me smile.
I’ve missed finding random items of his clothing in unexpected places. I pop down to the kitchen and load up a tray with Harry-coded snacks. Charcuterie meats and the leftover chicken carcass from yesterday’s Sunday roast, and high-fat, high-sugar products, namely chocolate Rice Krispie Squares and Jaffa Cakes, because I may have stopped by Waitrose on the way back from work today for . . . emergency reasons, and definitely not because I’ve been thinking about Harry all weekend.
Dad came home this afternoon. His flight from Zurich landed in Bristol at four o’clock, and he’s been holed up in his office since ten to five. The door iswide open, and he glances up from his paperwork as I pass on my way to the wine cellar.
“Don’t worry, I know to only take bottles from the right shelf,” I say out of habit, despite it rarely being the case. Tonight I definitely won’t be choosing a bottle from his value range.
“Orlando?” he calls out, and my innards both panic at being addressed, and prickle with something akin to excitement.
Why? Every time he speaks to me my body simultaneously prepares for the best and the worst, like this could be the moment he tells me he’s proud of me. More than likely, he’s going to scream at me for wasting money on essential Diptyque candles again.
Please sir, may I have a crumb of affection . . .
Wait a minute.
Oh, shit. I think I need to write this down for my therapy session with Lisa next week.
There is a remote possibility, a teeny weeny outside chance my reckless spending, my philandering, my general everything in life is a . . .
A cry for help?
Urgh, I hate this newfound self-awareness.
“Dad?”
He moves out of his office and comes to stand beside me in the grand entrance of Hooke Manor. I instinctively hunch my shoulders, holding the tray between us like a shield.
My father assesses the food, his brow curving into an S shape. “He’s a curious young lad, isn’t he?”
“Harry?”
“Are you fellas working it out, then?” His eyes linger on the exposed chicken bones.
I shrug. Dad hums to himself.
“How’s the job going? Has Vicky given you a title yet?” he asks.
“Vicky? Do you mean Amy?” How does he not remember their names?
“Ah, yes. That’s the one. How are you settling in?”
“Uh . . .” I hate it.
“You realise why I had to do it, don’t you?”
“Well . . .”
“When you’re my age, and in my position, you’ll be grateful you started your career this early. You’ll have built up a nice pension, have a lovely wife, or . . . husband, have a little place in Polzeath, one in Cannes. It’ll all be worth it in the end.”
“What about kids?”
“Exactly. Work hard and you’ll be able to afford the best nannies in the business.” He says it without any trace of irony. Child rearing is a commodity to him.
I guess I should already have known he views me as an investment rather than a living, breathing, needing, feeling human. I force a smile for him. He’s never managed to distinguish between the real and fake ones. Why bother switching things up now?
“You can take a bottle from the middle shelves if you like.” Dad places a hand on my shoulder. “Now, I’ve got an early flight tomorrow morning, so I need to catch up on a few tasks.”
