She knocks back the last of her champagne, cool as you like, then brushes my ankle with the toe of her kitten heel, raises a hand for the waiter. ‘Why do you think I suggested it?’
62.
Rachel
May 2014
Oliver and I have just bought our first house together, and we moved in yesterday. He had to go straight back to work this morning, so my dad has come over to help unpack boxes.
When we break for tea in the kitchen, he tells me he bumped into Josh the other day. ‘He was with a young woman. Red hair. She’s a famous writer, apparently.’
‘Andrea,’ I say, as I de-foil a chocolate teacake. I don’t mention that when I tried to read a sample of Andrea’s work on Amazon it was so convoluted I couldn’t get more than a few paragraphs in.
Eight years my junior, Andrea is beautiful in an immeasurably elegant way. Pale-limbed, red-haired perfection. I didn’t instantly warm to her, though. She speaks over people a fair bit, and has one of those laughs that makes other people turn and stare, and not necessarily in an appreciative way. Oliver, of course, thinks the sun shines out of her arse, though I’m pretty sure that’s only because he’s relieved to see the cold, hard evidence that Josh has moved on.
Josh seemed enraptured, the first time I met her. As if he couldn’t believe Andrea was his – or he was hers. The smile didn’t leave his face the whole night. His eyes tracked her everywhere she went. But I found myself a little afraid to talk to her, partly due to her booming voice, and also because I’d already heard her use several words I didn’t understand.
‘You don’t like her?’ Dad says.
I sigh, draw a finger along the gleaming granite worktop. Since we moved in, I have been feeling a strange urge to rough thisvast, pristine house up a bit, spill some stuff or smear a surface or two, to make it feel lived-in at least.
‘When we met, Andrea told me she couldn’t imagine anything worse than having kids.’
Dad finishes his biscuit then sets down his tea, begins to unwind the bubble wrap from a picture by his feet. ‘Well. That’s her prerogative, I suppose.’
‘Absolutely. But I had Emma with me at the time.’
‘Ah.’
‘And afterwards, Emma asked me what Andrea meant, and it opened up a whole conversation about where babies come from, and... it just really pissed me off. It was a completely inappropriate thing for her to say in front of a child. Three gins or not.’
‘Your mother loved a gin,’ Dad says thoughtfully. He lifts the picture from its wrapping. It is a painting I did of Emma, laughing into sunlight. ‘Oh, yes. This is beautiful.’
I brush a few chocolatey crumbs from my fingers. ‘Anyway. I’m in the minority. Everyone else adores her.’ I try not to sound too petulant as I say this.
‘Even Ingrid?’ Dad says with a smile.
I smile back at him, but it stings a bit. Last week, Ingrid announced she’s relocating to LA permanently with Sean, at the end of the year. I’m ecstatic for her, and faintly awestruck too, because she built that company pretty much solo, from nothing but hard graft, leaps and risks. But I can’t help being terrified as well. Of losing her. Of missing her. Of how it will feel, when there are five thousand miles between us.
I change the subject, try to lift the mood. ‘Can you believe Emma’s going to be ten next week?’
Dad’s eyes warm instantly. ‘Not in the least. My little poppet, hitting double figures.’
It is still one of my favourite things, to watch the two of them together. Dad making her dissolve into giggles with tickles and winks. The way she runs full-pelt into his outstretched arms after any time apart. How often she seeks him out, just for a hug. That he still offers to read her stories at bedtime, and she always says yes.
Next week, she will be the age I was when my own mother left. An odd, unimaginable milestone.
‘Thank you, Dad,’ I say suddenly.
He hesitates, teacup halfway to his mouth. ‘For what?’
‘Holding it together, when Mum left. For not ever letting me think it was my fault.’
‘Actually, you did think that for a while, as I recall.’ He frowns. ‘You asked me, once.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember.’
‘Ah. Well, that’s a relief. Must have done something right, then.’ He clears his throat. ‘Anyway, my darling. It really isn’t a thank-you thing.’
