But when Emma and I reach Cowcaddens, none of that is the case. A couple of guys are hanging around outside the pub for a smoke; they eye us, then pay us no more attention. A few flyers are stuck to the dark wooden door, but none of them mentions anything about a Jacob Wiley concert this evening. If Maeve hadn’t forwarded me that photo her friend took, I’d have been convinced we were in the wrong place. But I can hear muffled music coming from inside the pub.
Emma gives me a quick sideways glance. We’ve barely spoken a word to each other since we met at the bus stop outside the gates after study hour. I can feel how tense she is, as if her nerves were my own, and I can’t bear it. The way she sat next to me on the bus to Edinburgh, then the train to Glasgow, shoulders hunched. I wish we’d come to the city for some other reason.One that didn’t cause her to sink into helpless silence or make my stomach ache.
“Want me to wait here somewhere?” I ask as Emma’s eyes dart from me to the pub.
“No.” She turns back to me right away. “I mean... unless you’d rather.”
I shake my head and reach for her hand. I do it simply because I think it’s what she needs. I’m sure of that as her ice-cold fingers wrap around mine.
It’s only a moment or two. Then she pulls her hand away and walks up the couple of steps to the entrance.
We step inside the gloomy pub. The first thing I notice is the stale air. This isn’t one of the fancy bars you find in posh parts of town. This is all dark wood, sticky floorboards, and the smell of old smoke and beer. Beside the bar is a stage, so small it’s not really worthy of the name. It’s more of a small platform in the corner, slightly raised and with just enough room for a couple of speakers, lights, and the microphone. The space in front of it is practically empty. There are just a few people standing there, mostly with drinks in hand, leaning against the bar or a stand-up table. The music is loud, but you can still hear people’s voices as they chat.
I almost stumble into Emma as she stops abruptly in front of me. Her eyes freeze on the man with the guitar standing behind the microphone. He’s got his eyes shut as he sings and plays along to the backing track. I know nothing about music—maybe this is some kind of amazing indie rock—but all I can say is that I’d probably have skipped it on Spotify. There’s no “skip” buttonhere, though. There’s just Emma and me in the pub, and this guy who’s apparently her father.
It’s dark and I can’t see much, but immediately I’m looking for a resemblance. He’s tall, slim, and his hair, which he’s got tied up in a messy man bun, is strikingly blond. Not as pale as Emma’s, but maybe that’s just the bad light in here.
He must be about the same age as my parents but looks like he’s lived way harder. His face is kind of sunken. He’s like my image of an artist—kind of obsessed and out of touch with reality.
His voice through the speakers is deep and smoky, and when the song ends, I notice an unlit cigarette jammed into the mic stand. Emma crosses her arms, still staring straight ahead. I want to ask her if everything’s OK. I want to know what she’s thinking, if he’s the way she remembered him, what all this is doing to her. But I can’t, because the next song’s starting. So I stand beside her because it’s the only thing I can do.
I’ve no idea how long this performance goes on. A few people leave the pub, a few more come in, but they seem less interested in the music than in cheap drinks. It’s kind of sad that some of them don’t even clap after the songs. In each brief gap between numbers, he turns away to grab a glass. My stomach clenches. I don’t like any of this.
I’ve entirely lost track of time by the time he announces his final song. Emma hasn’t moved from her spot the entire time. We clap when the others clap, he puts down his guitar, and the bar staff switch the recorded music back on again. It’s all so sad, and none of it’s anything special. And Emma’s still transfixed, still staring in his direction.
Emma
He climbs off that stage. It’s pretty dark in here but I’m afraid that isn’t the only reason why he misses his footing. Glass shatters, he catches himself on the bar and sways.
Nobody seems to have noticed; most people are deep in conversation again. I hear the voices, the laughter, then take a step in his direction.
I feel Henry’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks quietly. He looks worried, and somehow, that makes me furious. Because I’m worried. Because it hadn’t occurred to me that my dad might be this much of a drunken wreck. But I didn’t come all this way for nothing.
“I have to speak to him,” I mutter. And find out if there’s anything left. “Can you...?”
“I’ll wait outside, yeah? You can call me if... if you need me.”
Why should I need you?The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. Because I’m angry and scared. Scared of being disappointed and regretting all this. And none of that is Henry’s fault. Quite the reverse. He’s here with me when he didn’t have to come.
So I say, “Sure,” and for a split second, I feel the crappy emotions trying to overwhelm me, my suppressed shivering rising inside me, and I want to ask Henry if he’d give me a hug. Like he did in my room the other night. But I don’t, because that would make me cry, and I don’t want my dad to see me like that.
“See you in a bit,” Henry says quietly, turning away. It’s surprisingly painful when he lets go of my shoulder. He glancesback at me, then digs his hands into his jacket pockets and walks out of the pub.
And I’m alone. I’m in a strange country, in a strange city, in a filthy pub with a drunken stranger who’s no father to me. I’m reasonably certain that Mum wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t have the faintest idea that I’m doing this. The realization hits me like an electric shock, and for a moment, I regret not discussing it with her first. Asking her if she thought it was a good idea to go to Glasgow to meet him. But I know what she’d have said. And then I’d have had to do this in secret.
My dad lifts his head as two women walk toward him. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying. But I see one pull out her phone. When she looks around, her eyes meet mine. She waves to me, and my blood runs cold.
“Would you mind taking a photo of us?” she asks, and I nod my head, on autopilot.
I take her phone and my dad glances in my direction. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. For something to happen in his face? For his eyes to widen in surprise, for him to come over and put his arms around me? But he doesn’t. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at the phone, and I remember what I’m meant to be doing with it.
I take three photos. My fingers are trembling, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Fortunately, the women seem too drunk to notice. I give them back the phone, force myself to smile as they say thanks and turn away. My dad is still standing at the bar, and now his eyes wander over to me.
“Want a selfie too?” he asks.
He doesn’t recognize me. I can see it in his eyes. There’s nothing. And I hadn’t thought about what I’d do in this situation. I just didn’t think this through at all.
“I wanted to ask you if you’d have time for us to talk somewhere quiet,” I stammer. It’s not a polished English sentence, I’m just too overwhelmed. And then his eyes light up with surprise.
