I manage a smile, but it feels tight. As if the skin of my face doesn’t fit this sort of movement anymore. ‘Thanks so much for having me, Claire.’
She moves aside to let us pass. ‘Us swans need somewhere to land where we don’t have to paddle so hard. And don’t thank me until you’ve survived the plumbing in winter.’
As I squeeze past her, her heady perfume – vanilla and liquorice – fills my nose. She catches my eye. Her gaze is laser-focused, sweeping over the grey, washed-out set of my face.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay or offer platitudes. I almost sag with relief. If she asked me how I was, the cheap tape that keeps me together would peel right off.
‘Kettle’s always on,’ she says to my back.
Dad and I trudge up the stairs and dump the box on the bare floorboards. My room is at the very top. The attic conversion. It’s decent. Coombed ceilings that will definitely result in a concussion if I’m not careful, a skylight streaked with rain, a double bed with a duvet, a small kitchenette, a minuscule bathroom, and a laminate wardrobe that looks as though it might collapse at a cough.
It’s austere and safe. And lonely as hell.
I’ve never lived alone.
The stairwell door has a deadbolt. I asked before I agreed to the viewing. The company solicitor’s cease-and-desist to Nevin was posted on Friday. Small fortifications, practical and unglamorous. They do the job. I hope he stays under his rock. There have been no further TikToks. Not that I’m aware of at least.
‘Right then.’ Dad unzips his fleece. He brought a multi-tool he keeps in his glove-box and a bloody-minded determination to conquer Swedish furniture.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, unwrapping the plastic packets of screws. A. B. C. The little wooden dowels scatter across the floorboards. For twenty minutes, the only sounds are the rain on the glass and Dad swearing under his breath.
‘Who designs this shite?’ He twists the Allen key, and it slips, scratching the white veneer. ‘Bastards.’
I reach for the key. ‘Let me do it, Da. You’re stripping the head.’
‘I’ve got it, Ava.’ He pulls it away, shoulder blocking me. ‘I build oil rigs; I can build a bloody shelf.’
‘Yeah, but you don’t build them with an Allen key.’
‘Aye, well. Same principle. Things fit, or they don’t.’
He forces the screw. The wood splinters slightly, but he ignores it. It’s hilarious, theoretically – a lifelong structural engineer being humbled by IKEA. I watch his hands. They’re scarred from years of literal heavy lifting. He’s turning sixty next year, and his eyes are squinting in the grey light.
But… He’s here.
The realisation hits me with the force of a grand jeté landing on concrete. He’s actually here. In this room. Sweating over a bookshelf because I called him.
And instead of gratitude, I feel a brick in my stomach. He wouldn’t have to be here if it wasn’t for… My messed up relationship radar and my toxic impulse to stay with a narcissistic abuser.
‘You didn’t have to come.’ My words are quiet and slightly defensive. Because openly moaning, ‘Why didn’t you just send money?’ would be a bit rude. Even for us.
‘Don’t be daft. I should’ve been there for you earlier, but I can’t turn back time.’ He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘You’re my daughter. You need shifted, I shift you.’
He twists the key again. This time it bites. ‘Och, your mum always did this bit.’
The mention of her hangs in the damp air. Mum. The other half of the demolition site I came from.
‘She invited me to Ballyclare,’ I pick up a plastic cap and worry it between my thumbs. ‘For Easter.’
Dad stops turning the key. He looks at the chipboard like it holds the secrets of the universe. ‘Did she, aye?’
‘Aye.’
‘You should go if you have the time.’ He grunts, returning to the screw. ‘Derek’s a prick, but she misses you.’
‘You still talk?’
‘Sure, now and then.’ He lifts the shelf, and I help him position it against the wall. ‘Mostly about you, pet.’
