‘Already on it,’ he says as the waiter pitches up with a bottle of red. ‘Jonah’s driving so he’s sticking with water. I’ve ordered a special bottle of Merlot for us. Unless you’d like something else?’
‘Jonah?’ My mouth twitches.
Joe hasn’t shaved, presumably out of disrespect to his dad. In contrast, Vince wears the goatee of a man having a midlife crisis in Hoxton and talks so loudly I suspect the wine is a top-up. And his son’s stony face tells me he’s thinking the same as the actor launches into a monologue. ‘Have I told you how good my reviews are? With a bit of luck, I’ll be a long-running TV lawyer when I turn sixty. My period of not making any progress is over. TheGuardiansays I am more wolfish than the prime minister and deserve a Hollywood movie. Meanwhile, I have an audition for a six-part Amazon series that’ll blow the lid off period drama. ForgetDowntonandBridgerton, this is ostentation personified.’ I cut him some slack as it must be difficult meeting your estranged son. Out of the blue, he asks Joe what he sees in front of him.
‘Er … a napkin swan and a half-empty glass?’
‘You are looking at success,’ Vince replies. ‘You are looking at a man who has earned his place at the table.’ He shakes his head. ‘You always were a glass half-empty kind of boy.’
‘Just because I didn’t pick a career to brag about, it doesn’t mean I’m not successful. And, as you were such a disappointment to your own father, the wheel has pleasingly come full circle, hasn’t it, Vince?’ Joe turns to me and points to Vince. ‘His father was always sick as a dog that he didn’t follow him into academia. Grandad was a lecturer in psychology at Columbia and thought acting was for people who couldn’t get a proper job.’
‘Says the man who drives a coffee van for a living.’ Vince’s tone is as smooth as the red he samples before the sommelier pours it. But there’s sediment swirling around in the bottom. I double-check the fire exits in case I need an escape route during this uncomfortable bout of parenting.
When it’s time to order our food, Joe opts for a puff pastry parcel filled with beetroot, Stilton and other delights. In contrast, Vince orders cock and bull; a chicken and beef dish I’m pretty sure he chose for the shock value of the name. Both choose scallops to start. I dither. Choosing food is not my superpower– I get bamboozled by three different flavours of Super Noodles. And then I worry what my choices will say about me. Is a prawn and avocado salad too last century? Will ordering a black pudding Scotch egg be the equivalent of standing up and screaming, ‘I’m from a lower-class background and my dad buys theDaily Mirrorand busks for a living!’
I order the least offensive starter on the menu– a carrot and coriander soup– and gulp back the wine Vince has approved. I don’t normally do red, but the neck brace should cover any blotching. For some reason Vince decides to tell the story of how he walked off with my leaflet.
‘It’s not really a coincidence though, is it?’ says Joe, at the end of the anecdote. ‘More an example of six degrees of separation. ‘Lovely Almond Milk Latteis the original superfan. She told everyone in the queue to go and see the play. Strident Single Shot Cappuccino thought it sounded interesting as she’s into technology. And she insisted you booked a seat when she heard you were big on Twitter.’ He nods at Vince. ‘That’s when I discovered you had gone back into theatre. I thought you were done with anything that required showing up sober?’
Vince is triggered by his son’s comment. ‘I rehearsed up to fifteen hours a day forCancelled. Learned the lines of a dozen different characters, performed them without a hitch every night, improvising with a different, unpredictable audience member, before meeting and greeting fans at the stage door. Gave it all one hundred per cent and earned rave reviews. Not bad for someone who “can’t show up sober”.’
‘Oh right, it was just marriage and family life you couldn’t manage without a drink inside you? And you should maybe make that ninety-nine per cent– I read about your dramatic final show. Anyhow, I’m not sure you’re a credible figure when it comes to handing out shame– seeing as you’ve never experienced it.’
Vince rises and pushes back his chair. What’s he going to do? Lash out? Depart in a huff? But he is calm, stepping around the table and standing over his son. Joe seems unbothered, taking a sip of his drink and looking bored.
‘You. Are. Cancelled.’ Vince’s voice projects around the restaurant. Two diners who have just sat down look alarmed. At one time I was on high alert when those words were uttered. But here, they sound ridiculous. He takes off his jacket, drapes it on the back of his chair and sits down. And then he grins, looking like he just won a tug of war.
‘Very impressive. I am now reassessing my entire existence. But then cancelling is what you do, isn’t it? You use people and move on.’ Joe pauses for the starters to be laid down in front of us before carrying on.
‘When are you going to sack Daisy because your attention span is as short as a grump of gnats?’ he asks, and I can’t help but smile at his use of the crossword clue. ‘Then you can maybe recruit someone to teach you how to be kind. Or loyal? Or even faithful? Because you don’t need a bigger serving of happiness. Personal gratification has always been your bag. Women, wine, attention– you guzzle them all before going after the next shiny thing to catch your eye, leaving the last one wondering what they did wrong. How do I know? It happened to Mum and me.’
Vince balls up his hands, as though trying to contain himself but doesn’t respond. There’s an awkward silence as we eat. I ask Joe to pass the salt and he’s careful. We don’t need my kind of paranoia tonight– there’s enough at the table already.
When the waiter collects the plates, I fill the void. ‘So, when’s the last time you two saw each other? I mean before the party, of course.’
My question is misjudged as Joe’s face clouds. ‘Mum’s funeral.’ He swallows twice, his eyes dimming. ‘Dad was quite the actor.’
Vince’s shrouded eyes mirror his son’s. ‘Everyone had a good time.’
‘No one is supposed to have “a good time” at a funeral. It’s not a cocktail party. But you did, didn’t you? You had a lovely “do” with your crowds of supportive friends. The eulogy was the monologue you’ve been waiting for all your life. A total wallow in grief, with you playing the adoring husband.’
‘Every word was true.’
‘Nothing you say is true. When I turned up at the hospice one of the nurses congratulated me on my university degree.’
Vince looks down before clearing his throat. ‘That was your mother. She was unassailably proud of you. But I assume you did achieve some form of qualification after all that money we paid out?’
Joe is quietly seething. ‘I have an advanced level certificate from Gelato University in Bologna. It is a professional food qualification not an MSC in astrophysics. Quit treating me like your father treated you and wanting me to be a better son. A parent’s love is supposed to be unconditional.’
They’re silent again, eyes burning in tandem. ‘What was she like, your mum?’ I ask Joe gently.
‘Glorious,’ Vince replies. ‘More than that. Remember those parties when you were little, Joe? The costumes she made?’ He turns to me and gives me his full beam. ‘I met her in Stratford. We escaped to The Dirty Duck. I became besotted. On the next fitting she measured my head and I asked her to be my wife.’
Joe folds his arms. ‘Surprised she had a tape measure big enough.’
‘I said my head not my dick,’ his dad replies, as the waiter rearranges the table for his cock and bull.
I cut in, an attempt to divide and rule. ‘Stratford is a long way from New York …’
