I watch Jason now, noting the tense set of his jaw. He’s definitely irked.
My father, seemingly oblivious and still standing in front of him like an immovable mountain, takes a leisurely swig of his whisky, and then, ‘You should overhaul your finances, take a look at income versus expenditure.’ He takes another swig and points his glass at him.
I’m only grateful smoking’s banned. In times past, he would have been taking a puff of his cigar and blowing smoke all over Jason, infuriatingly.
‘You could use my accountant,’ my father goes on, regardless of Jason’s now stony expression. ‘This guy’s on the ball. You’d be amazed at what he can chalk up to expenses. Why don’t I give him a—’
‘No.’ Jason cuts him short. ‘Thanks, Robert’ – he forces a smile – ‘but I’m happy with the accountant I have.’
My father arches an eyebrow dubiously, but doesn’t comment, thank God. ‘Well, if you change your mind…’ Shaking his head in that despairing way he does, he reaches into his inside jacket pocket. ‘Here, let me give you his card.’
Time to interrupt, I suspect. ‘Dad, it’s supposed to be a birthday party, for goodness’ sake, not a business meeting.’ Relieving Jason of my wine glass, I shoot my father a warning glance. I’ve made him promise not to mention that I’ve spoken to him about a loan. I’ll never forgive him if he does. ‘Stop talking shop,’ I urge him, ‘and get over there and keep Mum company – or she’ll be leaving tonight with her toy boy.’
Pushing the card back into his pocket, my father twizzles his neck, a scowl creasing his forehead as he glances to where Mum’s improvising a slow jive to ‘Under the Boardwalk’with the son of one of the band members, who’s apparently their roadie. Wearing her black off-the-shoulder Bardot dress, Mum’s a knockout. He’s in ripped jeans and a T-shirt, but I have to admit, he looks pretty hot too.
Narrowing his eyes, my father looks Mum over, looks the young man up and down, and then… ‘She should be so lucky,’ he says, raising both eyebrows in wry amusement as he turns back to the bar, where he immediately homes in on the daughter of one of my mother’s friends. He’s leering at her, invading her space. I see the girl’s discomfort, and feeling a rush of heat to my cheeks, I look away.
Jason has obviously noticed it too. ‘Are you sure you’re related to him?’ he asks, his expression contemptuous as his gaze travels over my embarrassing father.
Unfortunately, yes.I sigh inwardly, so wishing my father wouldn’t act this way. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that he’s doing it in front of me, his daughter. But then I’ve turned a blind eye to his deplorable behaviour before. Kept quiet about things I shouldn’t have. One of which I will regret for the rest of my life. My sister would still be here to celebrate our mother’s birthday with us, if I’d handled things differently.
Glancing again at my father, who’s now draped an arm over the shoulders of the girl at the bar, I wonder if he thinks about Sarah with each passing milestone. About what he did, the lies he told. Does he see her when he looks at me? We weren’t identical, physically or in nature. Sarah, with her freckles and rich auburn hair, was much prettier than me, I think. More extrovert, too – boisterous and confident where I was quiet and shy. He must be reminded of her though, surely, when he sees me? A sister robbed of her twin. If he does, he never shows it.
Shaking off the memory of the dark shadow that hangs over our family, I paint my smile in place and turn back to my husband. Sometimes, when the air needs to be lightened, I find the skills I learned at acting school come in quite handy. I’m not sure playing the role of peacekeeper helps my own frustrations, but it might keep my husband and father civil tonight.
‘Ignore him,’ I tell Jason. ‘We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves.’ Hooking an arm through his, I lead him away from the bar. I certainly don’t want to be sitting miserably at the table, watching everyone else having fun, while my mind wanders sadly down memory lane – which it’s bound to, now feelings of my rudely isolated childhood have surfaced.
We reach our table and I plonk my glass down, revving myself up to join the throng on the dance floor. Mum and the girls from the golf club are still ‘getting their groove on’. The band member’s son ought to be a little less keen, I can’t help thinking. Mum might well take up his invitation to ‘Come on Over to My Place’, which is the current song the partygoers are throwing themselves into with gusto. The man has some moves.
‘I think I’ll sit this one out,’ Jason says, with a half-hearted smile.
‘Oh, Jase…’ Disappointed, I sigh as he wearily sits down and parks his coke in front of him. I don’t normally act like a teenager. With two children to look after, as well as working close to full-time, I’m too exhausted to walk up the stairs to bed half the time, but the music is contagious.
‘Maybe later,’ Jason says, reaching to ease the crick in the back of his neck. ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, I guess.’
He’s bound to be. I feel a surge of sympathy. He’d slept badly, which is why he was in a mad rush and more stressed than usual this morning. I’m not surprised, with his business worries and bills we can’t meet piling up. Nor am I surprised he’s not in the mood for partying, but things haven’t exactly been easy lately for either of us. It would do us both good to loosen up. Jason, though, his brow furrowed pensively as he runs a finger around the rim of his glass, doesn’t look as if he’s going to be moved.
‘Right, well, I hope you don’t mind if I do. A girl’s gotta have a little fun, you know.’ Wiggling my hips, which causes him to raise his eyebrows in amusement, I head off to join Mum and her toy boy on the dance floor.
Allowing the music to wash through me, I soon lose myself completely. For a short, blissful time, I am carefree, detached from the me who frets constantly, transported to a place where I don’t have to worry about our financial problems, about my children, my father belittling their father. I concentrate everything on the dance.
It must be a good twenty minutes later when I feel Jason’s arm slide around my waist, pulling me away from my slow dance with the toy boy and forcefully to him. I’d glanced across to him once or twice, but my father had joined him the last time I looked and the two were deep in conversation, so I’d decided to stay where I was. I’m sure my father won’t break his promise not to say anything to Jason about our conversation, but still, seeing them together, I’d felt nervous butterflies take off in my stomach.
‘I hope this is my dance?’ Jason says, close to my ear, as he moves around in front of me. With the band now crooning ‘Save the Last Dance for Me’, and my husband looking classically tall, dark and extremely handsome in his blue linen-mix jacket and cream chinos, it might have been terribly romantic, but for the thunderous expression I see in Jason’s eyes.
Two
JASON
Driving away from the golf club, finally, Jason blew out a sigh of relief.
‘Everything okay?’ Karla asked, her tone slightly wary.
Jason nodded, though he supposed it was obvious he wasn’t ‘okay’, since he’d more or less insisted they leave. He hadn’t been able to help himself. After being cornered by her father, again, and then watching the guy his wife was dancing with appreciating the view – his eyes had been all over her – Jason had fervently wished he’d made a work-related excuse not to go to Diana’s party. But it wouldn’t have gone down well with Karla. Her old man, though, might possibly have mustered up a smidgeon of respect for him, putting business before pleasure – as he himself always had, he was fond of saying, which was bullshit.Robert Fenton might bang on about business acumen and work ethic, but when it came right down to it, the man had no ethics. Jason had learned that as soon as he’d met him. The man had made it clear he didn’t consider him suitable husband material for his daughter from the outset. He’d wanted her to finish her acting degree at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art – validated by King’s College, London, no less – not throw her future away.
He’d wanted her to abort their child.
Jason still felt it now, the anger that had boiled up inside him twelve long years ago, when he’d overheard her ‘caring’ father trying to make her see sense. Fenton’s study window had been open. Arriving at the front door, Jason had heard every word.
