‘Because they were old and rusty and—’
‘Tins don’t go out of date.’
‘They do, Dad. Theydo.Otherwise why would they put dates on them?’
‘That’s a new thing, sell-by dates.’
Not that new,I think,considering the pies expired around the time Take That broke up.‘No it’s not. They’ve been around as long as I can remember—’
‘It’s all this woke nonsense. The world’s gone mad—’
‘Sell-by dates arewoke?’
‘Tins are fine until they blow!’
Still gripping my phone, I pull out the big bunch of keys from my pocket and unlock the library’s main door. ‘They blow when there’s a gas build-up, Dad. Is that what you want? So the contents are actually fermenting—’
‘You’re trying to take over my life,’ he retorts.
‘No, I’m just trying to stop you getting food poisoning,’ I shoot back. ‘But I didn’t mean to upset you. And okay, I probably overstepped the mark. I realise that now and I’m sorry.’
The door opens and I step inside, inhaling the still, cool air that’s lain undisturbed all night. Heading for thekitchen, I pull off my jacket and fill the kettle and click it on. ‘I’ll replace them,’ I add. ‘How many were there again? Eight?’
I exhale slowly, certain that I can sense the oestrogen leaving my body. No one warns you about this: that sometimes it goes quietly, like a neighbour leaving after a cup of tea. At other times it’s like a crowd surging out after a gig, spilling out onto the pavement and having a brawl.
‘Oh, don’t bother with that.’ Dad’s tone softens.
‘If you’re upset I will. I don’t mind. I’ll bring them next time I come over—’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he mutters, and the silence stretches between us.I do my best, can’t you see that? I bring you groceries and books and your medication, and cook for you and clean your flat. I sit and watchCash or Crashwith you, when you shout at the TV and mock the contestants who get seemingly simple questions wrong.
It feels cruel, when you do that. You can be cruel, and so can Frank, although it’s a different kind of cruelty. Two men, whom I try to keep happy.
Well, fuck that,I decide as the kettle comes to the boil and switches off.
‘Well, I’m sorry anyway,’ I say briskly. ‘But I’m at work now, Dad. I’d better get on.’
‘Are you? All right.’ He clears his throat. ‘So, I’ll see you at the weekend, will I?’
I pour boiling water over the teabag. ‘Actually, not this weekend,’ I reply.
‘Oh.’ He sounds taken aback. ‘Look, Carly, I wasjust upset,’ he adds gruffly. ‘It was a bit of shock to see everything gone. But I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s not about the tins, Dad,’ I cut in quickly. ‘That’s not why I won’t be over to see you this weekend.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Something’s come up. I’m going away, so I’ll see you next week, okay? Bye, Dad.’
And then I finish the call and reply to Suki’s message:That’s so kind of you! Thank you. I’d really love to come. Cx.
Chapter Eighteen
My ten-step preparation plan for Suki’s cabin weekend:
Shave legs, underarms, bikini line, knees. (I had hairy knees! How had this escaped my notice?) Marvel at how much fuzz there was to remove from my various areas. Enough, if it was gathered in a bucket, to carpet a hutch. Is that why Frank’s gone off me – because it’s like being in bed with a guinea pig?
Select outfits for a weekend of – what exactly? Not knowing what we’ll be doing makes it especially tricky to pack. A few weeks ago, fired up byThe Empty-Nester’s Handbook– ‘Now’s the time to freshen up your look!’ – I ordered a couple of items from the dog-end of the Boden sale. Trouble is, things look lovely online, but seem to come to me via the Frumpification Plant: what I picture as a vast, faceless factory where all of their loveliness isobliterated. Dismiss dowdy items in favour of jeans/sweater old faithfuls.
