Page 9 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Um … actually, I’ve sent flowers instead,’ I say brightly.

‘Flowers?’ she repeats blankly, taken aback. ‘For your father?’

‘Why not? Dad loves flowers,’ I say defensively. ‘He’s always gardening.’

‘Well, I suppose so …’ She trails off and I can tell she’s wishing I’d just sent a card and a pair of socks like a normal daughter. Huge bouquets being delivered to Mr Merryweather will no doubt cause a stir in their tiny village. I can practically hear Mum now, explaining to the locals: ‘They’re from his daughter. She lives in London, you know.’ Which, in tiny villages in the Yorkshire Dales, is explanation enough.

‘Y’all right, poppet?’ Dad’s hearty voice sounds down the line and I feel a warm glow.

Ours has never been an easy relationship as we’re both very stubborn. My teenage years were spent engaged in a perpetual battle over how loud I could play The Smiths. (Me: very loud. Dad: ‘Bloody turn it off – it’s music to slit your wrists to!’) Yet despite our differences (or should that be similarities?) we’re still incredibly close – in fact, our birthdays are just four days apart.

‘Hi, Dad, happy birthday,’ I say, smiling and wedging the phone under my chin. We’re coming up to the restaurant and I want to touch up my make-up quickly before my meeting.

‘Thanks, luv. I haven’t opened my cards yet,’ he replies cheerfully.

Guilt stabs. Dad will love his flowers, I just know it, but still.

‘So what are you going to do today?’ I ask, changing the subject. I open my compact and tilt it to the light. The dark shadows under my eyes loom into view.

‘Oh, you know, a bit of this and that. What about you? When are you going to come visit?

‘Soon,’ I reply, dabbing furiously with my concealer. I don’t like to look as if I’m wearing too much make-up, so this morning I just went for primer, light-diffusing foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, a slight blush on the apples of my cheeks, mascara, a slick of lip balm … You know, the irony is, you have to wear an awful lot of make-up to look natural.

‘You say “soon” every time,’ he grumbles. ‘We haven’t seen you since Christmas.’ Mid-dab I pause. Gosh, is it really that long? I think back to my mad dash up the M1 on Christmas Eve. I hadn’t been able to get away before. Melody was launching a new range of diet shakes in the new year and Beatrice had been off with the flu, so I’d been working round the clock, doing everything myself. Most of Christmas Day was spent at my laptop trying to finish a press release, and then I was back in the office on Boxing Day.

‘I know. I’m sorry, Dad. Things are just a bit hectic, that’s all. I had to work over the weekend on a big deadline, and this week I’m pitching for a new account.’ I give up on my dark circles, click my compact shut and stick on my sunglasses instead. ‘I promise the first free weekend I have I’ll drive up with Miles. You can see my new car. You’ll love it, Dad. You can take it for a spin.’

‘Hmm, yes, I read an article about one of those new VW Beetles in that magazine you got me …’

I can feel Dad softening. He adores tinkering around with cars, lifting up the bonnet, admiring the engineering.

‘Whereabouts, luv?’ the cabbie interrupts over the speaker.

‘Hang on a minute, Dad.’ I look up to see the restaurant looming before me. ‘Anywhere here’s fine,’ I reply, leaning forward so the driver can hear me before being suddenly thrown back as the cab swerves into the kerbside and comes to a shuddering halt. I quickly gather together my things, which have been flung across the back seat.

‘Sorry about that,’ I gasp into my phone as I clamber out on to the pavement. ‘Thanks. If I could just get a receipt …’ Passing the driver the money for the fare, I catch sight of myself in the cab window and immediately set about smoothing my hair. ‘You were saying,’ I continue, switching back to Dad.

I’ve become quite an expert at having two conversations at once. At first it used to freak me out and I’d get all muddled, but now I’ve grown used to it.

‘Well, as long as you’re all right,’ he says, placated. ‘We just miss our little girl, that’s all.’

I feel a wave of affection. Little girl? In four days I’ll be turning thirty-two. In eight years I’ll be forty!

OK, I really shouldn’t have had that thought.

‘I miss you too, Dad,’ I reply, hurrying up the front steps. ‘But you don’t have to worry about me, honestly.’ Pushing through the glass doors, my heels clatter into the marbled lobby.

‘And you’re happy, aren’t you?’

I spot a couple of large mirrors on the wall next to me and immediately begin checking out my reflection. ‘Of course I am,’ I say distractedly.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of the journalists I’m meeting pulling up outside in a cab. My nerves jangle. I always feel like this before one of these lunches. I have to do a little presentation of a new product we represent and it’s my opportunity to get press and promotion. As much as it’s dressed up as lunch and wine and chit-chat, there’s a lot of pressure on me.

‘Look, Dad, I’m going to have to go …’

‘Oh, right, well, off you go, then. It was nice speaking to you.’

I feel a stab of regret. We’ve barely spoken. But it’s like that nowadays. When I was younger, I would sit on the phone for hours, talking about anything and everything, but now I’m lucky if I can snatch five minutes.