I say nothing, but he doesn’t seem to expect an answer.
“Wow, eighteen,” he murmurs as he reaches for his glass again. “I was around that age when I dropped out of school.”
“Why did you do that?” I ask, because I have to ask something. I can’t just sit here in silence the whole time. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for too long.
“Why did I chuck it? Dunno. I couldn’t be arsed with the whole thing. That school, it’s a ridiculous place. I had a deal with this band, I could play for people. It was what I wanted.”
“Don’t you regret it?” I ask. “Not getting your A levels?”
Walking out on Mum?
Barely knowing me?
Turning intothis?
“A levels, everyone always wants A levels... To do what? Go to university? God, no.I don’t regret it. There’s more to life than that, Biscuit.”
My fingers grip the cold, full glass and feel the condensation trickle beneath them.
“But tell me something about yourself. What kind of stuff d’you listen to?”
“Music, you mean?” I ask.
He laughs. “Yeah, what else?”
“I listen to pretty much anything.” I swallow. “I like indie and alternative, and more mainstream stuff too. Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, you know...”
He’s not even listening. I’m sure of that when he starts humming a tune. I fall silent as he shuts his eyes, and his head sways to and fro.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, but can you feel that?” He digs his phone out of his jacket pocket apparently to record what he’s been humming. “This city does something to me,” he declares, pocketing the mobile again. “I reckon my next record’s going to be my big break, I can feel it. God knows where it’s coming from, but I’ve never written this many songs this fast. You have to give thema listen. I can give you my number, then I’ll send you stuff, just let me know.”
My chest seems laced up, but I nod. His number. I don’t know if I want it. Fortunately, I don’t have to answer because the bartender puts two plates of fish and chips in front of us. My dad starts eating.
I have absolutely zero appetite, but I force myself to take a chip.
“Seriously, though,” he continues, looking up at me. “What are you doing at that school? Morning assembly and study hour.” He laughs out loud. “Is that still a thing?”
I nod.
“Such a heap of conservative bullshit. Just obey the rules and keep your mouth shut. You won’t learn anything you need for real life there. Oh, God, your mother will kill me. Don’t listen to your old man, don’t do what I did. I mean, look at me. I’ve got nothing, no proper job, nothing but the wrong women... But I have to make music. I have no other option. The fucking States did me over. Godawful country—everything’s superficial, everything’s fake, but maybe it has to be that way. My next album’s gonna be about that. The songs are more honest than anything I’ve written before.”
He’s just talking about himself, Emma.
I want to scream at the voice in my head to shut up. But I can’t because it’s right. He hardly asks any questions, and when he does, it’s apparently only to dump on everything. Mum, Dunbridge Academy. It makes me so angry.
I just interrupt him. “Do you remember that song you wrote for me?”
My father actually falls quiet, and when he looks at me, I know he’s got no idea what I’m talking about.
“‘For Emma,’” I say. “I found this tape. It was in a box, in the cellar.”
“‘For Emma,’” he repeats slowly. “Yeah, yeah, I do, now you mention it. Shit, that was a long time ago. Back then, I thought the song would make it onto the album. But somehow... It didn’t fit. An album has to tell a story, you know. But it might work on the new one. Aye, I remember. It really could...”
“You’d do it again, wouldn’t you?” I interrupt him a second time. “You’d leave Mum again and just walk out, right? You’d promise me that you’d come back and take me on tour with you, and then I’d never hear from you again.”
“Emma, you just don’t get it. Laura suffocated me—she drove me crazy. You just don’t know your mother. She’s totally obsessed...”
I stand up, and he trails off.
