The next day I discover that she reported our exchange about the ‘essay’ – I’m sorry, but it’s not an essay if it’s two hundred words long! – to her mum. ‘You could have been a bit more supportive,’ Rhona retorts when she calls that evening. ‘She said you weren’t sympathetic at all.’
‘Sympathetic about having three weeks to bash out two hundred words?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’ve written shopping lists that are longer—’
‘Yes, but not everyone’s like you, tossing off—’
‘Poor choice of language,’ Luc guffaws loudly in the background.
‘Dashingoff your final dissertation,’ she clarifies, ‘without even breaking a sweat.’
‘I didn’t have a final dissertation,’ I remind her. ‘I had exams.’
‘Stop splitting hairs, James.’
This is how it is with Rhona and me, jibing at each other – mostly good-naturedly – in a way that we wouldn’t with anyone else. We met at university where she gained her law degree. She’d known me when I’d been swotting for my finals. She’d witnessed me slugging coffee all night and working all hours until it felt like my eyeballs were going to roll out of my head. Aunt June had been right in that I probably wasn’t academic enough to gain a degree in veterinary medicine; at least, it hadn’t come naturally at all. And maybe I should have gone for that clerk’s job at the tax office, which she’d ringed in Biro in the newspaper for me. If I hadn’t been one hundred per cent determined to qualify, I’d never have managed to drag myself through five years of study.
As a law student, Rhona was the one who’d breezed through all those essays and exams, while still enjoying long lunches and languid swims at the uni pool. It was as if gaining a first-class degree had required no more effort than the cryptic crosswords, which she also excels at, solving a clue like ‘Big dagger wallowing in trifle, perhaps’ (4,7) in twenty seconds flat. I can’t do those either.
Still, Rhona’s remarks stick, and I do worry about Esther and why she has this tendency to blow up the smallest challenge into a drama. So I make a mental note to behugelysupportive next time she complains about her colossal workload. And when I mention the so-called‘essay’ the next time she comes round –onlyto see how she’s getting on with it, nothing controversial about that, right? – she yawns and says, ‘Oh, I decided not to do it.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah.’ She nods, gnawing contentedly on a slice of pizza.
‘Is that okay then?’ I venture. ‘To just not do it?’
‘Yeah. They said somebody could do it in my words if I preferred that.’
I look at her, genuinely confused. ‘But how can someone else do it in your words?’
‘We just had a quick chat on the phone,’ she says with a trace of impatience. ‘It was fine, Dad. Stop worrying.’
I guess she managed to cobble together an ethos then!
After dinner we settle on the sofa to watch a comedy show together. It’s one I’d never watch on my own, but with Esther it’s fun as we comment and chuckle together. As soon as it’s finished I ask, with studied casualness, ‘So, what about coming toLauren’s this Sunday?’
Her gaze swivels towards me. ‘What’s it for again?’
‘It’s not for anything. It’s just lunch.’
‘How long will we be there?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s justlunch,’ I repeat, concerned that it’s becoming a tic now, this chirping of, ‘It’s just lunch! It’s just lunch!’ Said ever-so-casually to detract from the fact that I’m planning to drag my daughter all the way out to the Hertfordshire countryside to introduce her to the most wonderful woman I have ever met.
Esther flicks back her hair, seeming to be mentally checking her diary.
‘I’d just like you to meet her,’ I add. ‘Lauren’s important to me. I like her a lot. I mean, I’m really—’
‘Yeah, okay, Dad,’ she barks, as if terrified that I’ll divulge more than she can stomach. ‘I’ll come to lunch. I’ll meet Lauren. Okay?’
PART TWO
Reality Bites
When recreating those delicious dishes from your holiday, you may need to tweak the recipe. Ingredients – and the way we live and eat – may be somewhat different back home
