“Is my name at the gate?”
I don’t intend to turn up, only to be held at the gate by MPs for half an hour because my father didn’t think ahead and get me added to the list.
“All done. You’ll be met by my assistant and brought straight to the ship.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me suspicious.
“Pack a bag.”
There it is.
“Why on earth would I need to pack a bag?”
He clears his throat, and I know I’m about to get his military voice designed to make grown men quiver. Itdoesn’t work on me, as well he knows, but I’ll give him credit for trying.
“You’ll be joining the ship for a two-month exercise deployment. It’ll give you plenty of time to gather interviews and information for your piece. What better way for you to write about the Navy than by joining it temporarily.”
Scoffing, I slam back another espresso. “I know there’s no point arguing, but to make it clear. I’m not joining the Navy. I’ll be a passenger, and that’s it.”
He laughs. “I know, I know. My dream of you following in my footsteps died long ago, Cleo. It was just a figure of speech. Although, I think you’ll be surprised. Just keep an open mind.”
“Dad, I’ll do my job. Even if you could’ve found someone else who had an interest in the Navy to write this piece.”
He sighs, and I know he finds it frustrating. We’re not overly close, and I’ll admit that’s mainly my doing. I just dislike his way of life, and frankly, his sense of entitlement.
“Cleo, could we just try, for once? You’re my only daughter. Is it so bad I want us to share this?”
Scrunching my eyes closed, I take another ten seconds. “No, it’s not. But, Dad, you didn’t ask me untilafter you’d arranged it, taking away any opportunity for me to say yes on my own. It’s always the same. You order and expect everyone to comply, but I’m not a sailor under your leadership. I just wish you’d get that.”
The line is silent for several seconds. I check the screen to make sure he hasn’t hung up.
“I know, Cleo. I’m sorry.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, certain I’ve misheard. Dad doesn’t apologise. Not to subordinates, not to ex-wives, and certainly not to me. His leadership style is “my way or the motorway,” and emotions are for people with too much time on their hands.
“Dad?”
“I mean it, Cleo. I know I’m…difficult. But I’d like us to try.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.
Now it’s my turn to go silent. Dad isn’t the say-you’re-sorry type of guy. It’s not in his nature to show emotion. Maybe getting older is softening him. Either way, I have a decision to make. Shut him out as usual or meet him halfway for once.
“Maybe we can catch up before you leave?”
“I’d like that, kiddo.”
The lump in my throat tightens. It’s been a long time since he called me that.
We end the call, and I have to take a few moments to settle my emotions. I still have a job to do, and I need to reinforce my walls. I’m going to be surrounded by women in uniform, and I can’t afford to fuck up like last night.
The walk to the base is relatively quick and thankfully, uneventful. It’s been a while since I’ve strolled the streets of Portsmouth, I forgot how much I like it.
Two brooding MPs stand at the gate. I give them my name, half expecting them to have no clue who I am, but I’m pleasantly surprised when they wave me through to a waiting Rebecca Dickinson—Dad’s assistant.
I had a slight crush on her when she first took up the role—she’s damn good-looking in her uniform—but then I gave myself a stern talking to and forgot all about her.
Clearly I didn’t forget hard enough, because the sight of her in that crisp uniform does things to my pulse that are entirely inappropriate. This is exactly my problem: put a woman in Navy dress and my brain short-circuits, despite years of evidence that it’s a terrible idea.
