She scoffs and throws open the door. “Fine. Let’s go and have this stupid dinner.”
She climbs out of the car, slamming the door behind her. I take a moment to remind myself that I can do this, before joining her in the street. She follows me, dragging her heels along the pavement, as I gesture at her to hurry up. We’re twenty minutes late for our booking, and I don’t want them to give away our table.
We stayed out shopping a little later than planned, but it was the first time we’ve done something together, and I didn’t want to rush her as she chose the new colour of her bedroom. Red, in case you were wondering. Not a nice, bright red, but a darker, more intense shade, which makes you think of destruction. Of the apocalypse. I didn’t say a word; I promised her that she could do whatever she wanted to that room – apart from tear it down – so I kept quiet. She seemed relaxed, almost as if she was having fun with me. She also picked out a desk, and said she’d think about a bookshelf. I have no idea whether or not she likes reading, but I didn’t want to bombard her with questions on our first trip out together. I’ve promised myself to come up with more reasons for us to spend time together – I want to make the most of every moment with her.
I managed to wangle this dinner out of her – which I’m scared she’ll find a way to pay me back for, later. I don’t know why but I have a feeling that, little by little, she’s actually starting to like the idea of coming out with me – even though she tries very hard to hide it.
I open the door to the restaurant and she passes me and walks inside, rolling her eyes at my show of gallantry. I’ve always been polite; the fact that I’ve slept with a lot of women doesn’t automatically make me an arsehole, or mean that I treated them with disrespect. I’m a gentleman, especially between the sheets. No one has ever said otherwise.
A waiter comes to greet us as I’m looking for somewhere to shake the rain from my leather jacket. My daughter stands there, sullen, her red checked shirt soaked through.
“Kerry,” I tell him. “I made a booking this morning, but we’re a little late.”
“I’ll go and check on your table right away,” he says, scurrying off into the room.
“It’s a nice place. I’ve been here a few times. The food is amazing, and Grandma said that the service is always good, too.” I’m trying to make conversation, but Skylar doesn’t do small talk. I fall quiet, thinking about something I can talk about at dinner that will spark her interest.
I glance around the room; they’re pretty full tonight – well, I guess itisFriday – when my gaze lands on the last person I should see here. But she was also, somehow, the only person I really want to bump into.
“Oh, Jesus,” my daughter says as she follows my gaze. “Is she eating on her own?” she asks, giving voice to my own doubts.
I look towards her again, trying to work out whether she’s here with someone, but I only see one glass of wine and a table set for one.
“Wow,” she says, nodding. “That’s badass.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you kidding, Kerry? She’s having dinner on her own, on a Friday night, in a restaurant full of people – people she knows will gossip about her tomorrow morning. That takes balls.”
I hadn’t thought of it like that. I don’t think there’s anything weird about it.
“I told you she was alright.”
“Yeah, you did,” I agree, smiling, before turning my gaze back to her. This time, I notice her drawn expression, the shock on her face. Following her eyes, I see that idiot Steven Hill helping a woman take her jacket off. I imagine it’s his latest conquest – who, by the looks of it, is about half his age.
“What an arsehole,” I say, capturing my daughter’s attention.
“Who?” she asks, suddenly interested.
“That guy over there,” I say, nodding subtly towards him. “Her ex-husband.”
“I don’t like him. He looks like a dickhead.”
“Couldn’t have said it better, myself. But don’t say that word, please. Even though you’re right.”
“Oh, no,” Skylar says. “He’s heading towards her.”
I look back at Jordan, who seems as if she’s about to collapse onto the table, then look at my daughter.
“Go on. What are you waiting for?”
I move quickly, trying to reach the table before Steven does. I approach her from behind, grabbing her shoulders. She just about has time to work out who I am before my mouth is pressed against hers.
Jordan lets me kiss her, weave my fingers into her hair. She lets me stroke the back of her neck, breathe her in, and taste her bitter tears with my tongue.
“A woman like you should never be left alone,” I tell her, when I pull away from her lips, my heart heavy.
She flashes me a small smile, her eyes shining with gratitude.
