He nods thoughtfully. ‘It’s lovely to see you back in it. It was such a huge part of your childhood.’
And whose fault was it that I left?
‘I have missed it,’ I confess. ‘The atmosphere, my friends, the travel.’
‘Not the cars?’
I concede a small smile. ‘And the cars. Well, not Ackland’s.’
His face turns grave. ‘Definitely not Ackland’s. And how’s your mum?’ he asks casually, like he hasn’t received dog turds from her in the post.
‘Alright. She’s an estate agent and dog breeder now. Lives in a cottage just outside Reigate.’ I don’t know why I’m reciting a whole Wikipedia page about her like I’m on trial. I’m nervous. Leave me alone.
That million-dollar smile. ‘Good for her.’ He rubs his prickly jaw. ‘She always did talk about living rurally. I just thought she wanted to play at it. The Barbour jacket, the boots, the double-page spread inCountry Life.’
‘Nope, she’s really done it.’
‘Wonderful. She finally got a dog too.’
‘She’s got six,’ I correct.
His white brows shoot up. ‘We talked a lot about getting a dog, but unfortunately I’m allergic.’
‘You’re not allergic, you hate them.’
‘I don’thatethem, they just… malt, and slobber. But I do have terrible allergies as well.’
This is so strange. We’re not old friends, he’s my fucking father. And why is he being so… indulgent. And altruistic. My dad is many things but selfless isn’t one of them.
Oh god. He’s drawing in a breath. He’s shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. I know what he’s doing better than anyone because that’s how I psyche myself up too. He’s about to address the elephant in the room. This is it. ‘Minnie, I?—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ I snap.
He seizes up. ‘Don’t want to know what?’
‘All of it. Why, when, how. I don’t want it. It’s not going change anything or make anything better, so I’d rather not know.’
Maybe it’s the worst possible timing or the best, but our waiter decides to deliver our coffees. The air between us is a horrible icky limbo until he leaves. I take a sip of my burning latte – anything to break the stillness.
‘Whatdoyou want then, Minnie Moo?’ he asks gently.
Jesus, he whipped out ‘Minnie Moo’. I can’t stop my eyes from welling up. He can’t do that. He can’t benefit from nostalgia when he’s ruined so much. I won’t let him.
‘I want you to tell me I’m loveable,’ I hear myself say, making no effort to stem the tears leaking down my face. ‘That I can love and be loved in return. That I didn’t deserve to be discarded, and that no one will do that to me again. That I’m worthy, even if the only one who believes it is Mum.
‘I want you to tell me there’s nothing wrong with me. That all my hard work will pay off someday. But, most of all, I want you to tell me I’m not like you. I won’t do anything like what you did to us, because I’m not the broken one – you are.’
I shove my face in my hands, letting the relentless moisture seep into my sleeves. I didn’t mean to say all that in the middle of Soho House. It rushed out, and now it’s dangling in yet more horrendous silence, but this time punctuated by thick sobs.
I can’t look up. I know this man and he’s not going to make it better. What was I thinking confronting him like this? It’s sure to do more harm than good.
A warm hand touches my arm. I lift my gaze to see him crouched beside me. He’s not crying too like I hoped he’d be, but at least he hasn’t done a runner which, historically, is his forte. He’s regarding me steadily. Even through a blocked nose I can smell his familiar cologne. It’s woody and reminds me of weekday mornings in our flat in Monaco. The three of us, getting ready for the day together. I give another mortifying sob.
‘Minnie Macklin Roberts, you are your mother’s daughter,’ he says with a tender smile.
What? How dare you. I bare my soul and you compare me to your arch nemesis?!
I open my mouth to spew soggy rage.
