He clears his throat and takes a moment to find the words. “Well… Since you asked. I’ve been looking for my cufflinks.”
I make a face, not that he can see it. “And?”
“And I can’t find them anywhere.” He sounds flustered and I wonder how long he’s been sat on this. Probably not wanting to interrupt my time away.
“Dad, did you call me to help you findyourcufflinks inyourown home?” I ask, trying not to laugh at him.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m useless. But I have a thing. And I need them.”
“A thing?” I press.
“Yes.”
“What thing?”
He rattles out an irritated sigh. “If you must know, I have a date.”
I bite my lip. I almost play with him some more, but I can feel how hard this is for him to share with me. And I understand, because it’s hard for me too.
“That’s great, Dad,” I say instead, a tear escaping my eye.
I blink it away because I don’t want him to hear it in my voice. Something about knowing he’s ok with moving on and trying to be happy, finally, after all these years, overwhelms me.
“They’re in the shoebox box under your bed,” I say eventually.
“Well, why would they be there?” he says, gruffly.
I laugh. “You put them there, silly man.”
“Never. This was one of you four messing with me.”
“Alright, alright. Yes. We tidied up and organised your house on purpose just to make you mad.”
I listen to him rattling around his room until he finds the ones he’s after and thanks me. “You’ll come for dinner at the weekend, won’t you? I’m going to do a barbecue. It would be nice if you could all be there to meet Sandra.”
“Oh, she has a name!” I say, knowing it will wind him up.
“She’s very nervous. You’ll tell the girls, won’t you?”
He means he wants me to inform my sisters of his news and it’s so second nature to me now I can’t help but agree because I just want him to be happy, even if it does mean taking on some extra baggage to see it. It’s not like I have a whole lot else to do.
I agree to his terms, begging him to make a salad so that his new girlfriend doesn’t think he only eats red meat and baked beans (he does) and then say farewell so I can crack on with the rest of my day.
After the call, in a weirdly high mood, I head to the seaside, taking a long blustery stroll down to the Marina and back. I almost pop into a shop on the seafront before remembering I’m almost definitely skint until payday. Sighing, I open my banking app to check my financial situation and nearly walk straight into someone going the opposite way. The number showing on my screen can’t be correct.
“Holy shit,” I hiss, holding a hand over my mouth.
My bank account has fifty thousand pounds in it.
The transaction says it came from a Mr A Kenwood.
I panic, swiftly closing my phone in case anyone walking past might see and judge me for being rich.
Bastard.
I told him not to pay me any interest. And this is more than interest. It’s a massive chunk of money that he probably barely thought twice about.
My breathing is rapid, my pulse beating in my throat. I take a seat on a bench and give myself a moment before a seagull starts to eye me from the armrest at the other end and I feel harassed.
