He waves his hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. Eighty-nine per cent of critics love me.’
My lack of interest doesn’t pop his bubble, which is encouraging– maybe he’s becoming more resilient. I rest the guitar against my chest and look at him sideways. The house is tidy, he’s clean-shaven and wearing a pressed white shirt. He glances at my nails, painted in three different shades after Eva decided to use up the odds and ends of her home nail bar. ‘My fiftieth birthday was a roaring success. And you brought me back my son. You have delivered happiness, Daisy …’
‘I aim to please. But about Joe …’
‘Can you locate his number? I want to have a proper talk. I’m so delighted you brought him back to me.’ The doorbell rings. ‘Another late birthday present to myself. One moment …’
While he’s gone I stroke the sleek neck of the instrument, revelling in its engineering. I strum softly, appreciating the tone, and then pick out the twelve-bar blues. And then I stop as it’s the soundtrack of my dad not coping. Simple tunes played over and over again, numbing him, and allowing him to disengage with the world. I put the instrument on its stand, unwilling to pluck myself into the past.
Back in the room, Vince unwraps a parcel, pulling out some guitar strings and a black gadget I recognise as a tuner. ‘These little beauties are going to change my life,’ he says, his body swaying in his excitement. ‘Or at least make it sound better.’ He grins again like he’s auditioning for The Joker, fits the clip to the neck of the guitar and starts to fiddle. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. ‘I want to take Joe out to dinner,’ he says above the racket.
‘He won’t come.’ The words leave my mouth before I’ve thought about it. Vince raises an eyebrow, so I back it up with, ‘He’s fussy about his food.’
He frowns. ‘He loved his food as a kid. Always ate like a locust.’
‘Only likes pizza now,’ I say. ‘Pizza and ice cream.’
‘That’s a bit of a limited diet. By the way, what happened to the pizza guy at my party? We made them ourselves in the end, using his dough. It was fun. Bonded the drunken hangers-on …’
‘He got caught up …’
‘In traffic?’
‘Something like that.’ That night was a car crash, for sure.
‘I’ll take Joe out for dinner. To a restaurant of his choice. Please facilitate that for me.’ He says it like it’s part of my job expectations.
I don’t know what to say. Joe said bad things about his father in the past. His reaction to seeing Vince didn’t indicate a desire to rekindle their relationship. And he’s still ignoring my calls. Yet Vince is my client and I need to help him find happiness. What could be more happy than a family reunited?
Vince pushes a key round too far and snaps a string on the best guitar in Holland Park.
I need to get this session back on track.
‘I have an important task for you to do today.’ I pull a large sheet of paper and some pens from my bag. ‘Totally unrelated to music, this is called a POP chart. Stands for Pleasure or Progress. I need you to choose two coloured pens and sit down and write up everything you’ve done this week in these little squares, indicating whether the activity in question brought you pleasure or progress. Finally, I’d like you to put a number beside it. For example, if you feel you’ve improved at the guitar you should mark it as progress and perhaps give it a five. Inversely, if you think your dinner sucked, you can use a different pen and give it a one for pleasure. Hopefully we can see how balanced your life is and come up with some activities to plug the gaps. If you don’t finish today then it’s fine to continue on your own later.’
‘What if the activity brought me both pleasure and progress?’
‘I’m sure some will have an element of both, so just make it clear it’s a dual colour. And you don’t have to do it on paper– if you prefer I can send you an electronic version. I still have some from my student days. What were you thinking of that adds up to an equal amount of pleasure and progress?’
‘My sessions with you,’ he says, making me blush with pleasure, although I’m well aware our progress is sporadic.
After an hour I leave Vince thoughtfully swapping pens and head back home. When I reach my front door I find myself face to face with a familiar figure. I’m both anxious and relieved. Avoiding the coffee cart has become a chore.
‘Hey,’ Joe says quietly, leaning back against the small brick wall in front of my flat. I’ve missed that crinkle of his eyes, I realise, as I invite him in. I put the kettle on, confessing I don’t have anything fancy. We politely chat about the pointlessness of coffee bags for a moment as I make us a brew. Then after a short silence I decide to voice the elephant in the room. ‘Did you see your dad on TV this week? His new series is smashing it. The papers are calling him the Wolf of Walthamstow.’
‘I’ve been busy. I don’t really watch television although I have become a bit too familiar withPeppa Piglately. And I have no interest in my father or whatever performance he’s putting on now. But, Daisy, I do want to apologise for running out on you at the party, especially when I was booked to provide the catering. And for ignoring your messages. I was confused and a bit triggered by the whole thing if I’m honest. Why didn’t you tell me who the client was? I’d never have accepted the job. Last time I checked he was living in Chelsea.’ His words are calm and measured, but I notice his hand shaking as he takes a sip of his drink.
‘How could I have known he’s your dad? Your name is Morelli while he goes by the stage name of Marino. You live in different London suburbs, have no photos on the mantelpiece and make a point of never mentioning each other. If I had sussed out you were related, why would I keep that from you? I was trying to be professional by not sharing his details. And then I thought you might be intimidated by his fame and all the big-name guests, with it being your first pizza gig and all that. He was out when we set up the garden or you’d have met him then, which undoubtedly would have been less embarrassing for you both. Although he wasn’t all that fazed, even when you walked out.’
‘He’d have to feel guilt to feel embarrassment. Vince Morelli has always been the centre of his own universe.’
‘He’s an actor, a little vain for sure, thinks the world …’
‘… exists up own backside? I know. I lived with him for eighteen years. Eighteen cheating, fighting, miserable years.’
‘I’m sorry he wasn’t a good dad. He admits as much if it makes you feel any better.’ My tone is gentle as I try to alleviate Joe’s anger towards his father.
‘It doesn’t. And I’m guessing he failed to share why we fell out? Or how he behaved when my mom died?’ I shake my head, and he continues, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. ‘I almost missed saying goodbye to her as they failed to give me the news of her terminal illness until the last minute.’
