I try to keep down a smile. ‘C’mon, you’ll have to whittle this lot down. I’m only taking cabin baggage—’
‘Yeah, ’cause you’re a man—’
‘I’ve booked a checked-in case for you. But just the one, okay?’
‘We can check in more, can’t we?’
‘You can’t take three suitcases!’
She sighs loudly, transmitting the silent message:Mum would let me bring whatever I like.So often, where my daughter’s concerned, I find myself holding back from saying what I really want to say; not because I’m a complete pushover (I don’t think), but because it seems like the only way to maintain some semblance of calm. So instead of reiterating that she can only bring one suitcase, I compromise and say, ‘Okay then –two.’
The plan had been for her to stay over at mine tonight so we could head out to the airport in the morning together. But now she’s announced that, as she and Miles won’t be seeing each other for a whole fortnight, she wants to be here when he comes home tonight.
‘Oh, come on,’ I protest. ‘It’ll be a lot easier this way.’
‘I want to see Miles, Dad. We want to spend this last night together.’
‘“This last night”? You’re only going away for two weeks, not to a Tibetan monastery for the rest of your life—’
‘He’ll be really upset if I’m not here tonight.’ Like I’m remotely concerned about his tender feelings. ‘And you don’t need to pick me up in the morning,’ she adds. ‘I’ll meet you at the airport instead’.
‘It’ll be much easier to go together.’
‘No, Dad.’
I exhale heavily. ‘You will be in plenty of time then, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, don’t worry,’ she says brightly.
‘Okay, but remember we have to check in two hours early, so that’s seven o’clock—’
‘I know how planes work,’ she retorts. ‘I realise you don’t just turn up when they’re about to go, like a bus—’
‘And no need to ask Miles to drive you. Just get an Uber …’
‘No, no, he’ll bring me. He really wants to see me off.’ She catches my doubtful look. ‘Hecandrive, y’know …’ After a fashion, yes. ‘He’s really trying to be nice,’ she adds with a pained look.
‘Are you sure he’ll be up for getting up that early?’I’ve always had the impression he likes to sleep in until sundown, like a ghoul.
‘Of course he will,’ she says firmly.
‘Okay. But can I ask you one other thing?’
She lets out a theatrical sigh. ‘What?’
‘Can you pack something waterproof? Because it does rain there, torrential storms apparently—’
‘Like an umbrella?’ She blinks at me.
‘Well, more like an anorak …’
‘An anorak!’ she guffaws, cringing.
‘And another thing,’ I add, trying unsuccessfully to trap in a laugh because she’s maddening. I came home from work yesterday to find that she’d popped round for an impromptu visit. Which was lovely of course. It’s always great to see her. But when I opened the fridge to grab the samosa I knew was there, she’d already scoffed it. And all that remained of the packet of treacle cookies I’m partial to was a scattering of crumbs on the worktop, and the cellophane wrapper lying near – but crucially not in – the bin. ‘There’s never anything to eat here, Dad,’ she announced.
‘We’ll be doing some walking,’ I remind her. ‘Don’t pull that face. It’s a beautiful island and we’re going to explore it on foot …’
‘What,allof it?’ she wails.
