Lessons for a Sunday Father (34 page)

Then I go into the kids’ rooms. Rosie’s room is dead cute, you should see it. I’ve finished painting her room at the flat now and laid some carpet down and got her a bed so she can stay over every other Saturday night, but she needs a desk and a chair and a lamp to make it all proper. It’s going to be a great room. Eventually. I bought a sofa-bed, just in case Nat—. Well, see how we go, eh? Nat’s room is a mess, of course. Nothing new there then. I’d like to leave him a bit of pocket money ‘cause he always seems to spend his in about five minutes. Where can I leave it so’s he’ll find it but won’t realize I’ve been here? His sports bag is on the floor. There’s a damp towel in it and an old pair of trainers and two empty crisp packets, a small carton of juice, some computer game I’ve never even heard of and various other items such as odd socks and shower gel. Right at the bottom, I find four postage stamps and a torn piece of paper with my old address on it in Gail’s writing. Hmm. What’s all that about then? I crumple up a tenner then flatten it out again and tuck it half under the rigid bit at the bottom of the bag.

His roller-blades are hanging up on the back of the door. You should see him skate, he’s the biz. The main man. Actually, I’m not bad myself. For a crumbly.

Gail will be back soon. I better get a move on. The dishwasher’s empty, so I wash up my coffee mug like a good boy, dry it and put it back exactly as it was in the cupboard. Then I take one last dekko round the kitchen, the front room, looking at everything as if I’m trying to memorize it for a quiz, close the doors behind me the way Gail leaves them till it’s just me, standing alone in the hall, and then there’s nothing left to do but step out onto the front path, lock the door behind me, and I’m gone.

There’s a toot-toot and Harry sticks his head round the office door.

“Want anything from the sandwich van?” he says.

“Not sure what I fancy.” Getting to my feet slowly. “I’ll come and have a look.” All casual. No rush. Strolling out.

Three in line in front of me, Lee never missing an opportunity to chat up any available totty as usual. I get there and I’m pausing as if I can’t make up my mind, waiting a tick for the others to drift back inside.

Thingybob nods and smiles.

“Not seen you for a while. I thought maybe you’d defected to a rival sandwich-maker.”

I wrinkle my nose in what I hope is a suave and sexy way.

“Would I do that? Besides, there aren’t any.”

“You’re full of cheer today, aren’t you? What’s up? I like to think I can count on you to give my day a little lift.”

Is she having me on? At least she’s smiling.

“Sorry, it’s just life’s been a bit hectic of late, you know? Too much work, too much dashing around all over the shop. Domestic hoo-hahs, that kind of thing.”

“Oh?” She looks into my eyes for a second. Green. Her eyes are green. I have to stop myself from saying it out loud, or she’ll think I’m a moron. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sounds tough.”

“Yeah. Well.” I cough attractively. For chrissakes, lighten up, boy. “Nothing a chicken baguette can’t fix.”

“Oops. Sorry. I’m all out. I don’t know what’s with everyone today. They’ve all got the munchies. I’ve only got sandwiches or ordinary rolls. And I’ve no fresh chicken left either. But … hang on. How about mozzarella and tomato on ciabatta bread? I can do that if you don’t mind waiting?”

“Sure. Sounds swish. Are you branching out?”

She shrugs, talking over her shoulder as she reaches up to a high cupboard.

“I always have it. I just don’t normally offer it to you lot. Didn’t think it was your cup of tea. I take them to those units out by the river, you know? There’s a design place and a recording studio. They love all that—ciabatta, focaccia, smoked salmon bagels.”

“And we’re not sophisticated enough? I can’t imagine what makes you think that.” I pretend to wipe my nose on my sleeve.

She laughs, looking down at the bread as she cuts it.

“Basil?”

“No, Scott. And you?”

“The herb, silly. Do you want some in your sandwich?”

“Go on, then. Sod the expense. You didn’t answer my question.” She’s still looking down, sprinkling the torn leaves over the tomatoes and reaching for a sheet of greaseproof paper with her other hand.

“Which was?”

“Your name. I don’t know if you ever told me it. If you did, I seem to have forgotten. What?” She’s looking at me like I’m brain dead.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Don’t tell me. We used to go to school together or we were married once and I really ought to know it?”

She shakes her head and laughs again.

“Take a step back.”

“Why? Are you going to hit me?”

“Don’t tempt me. Go on. Step back. What do you see?”

And there it is, in ginormous great red letters under the hatch:

ELLA’S EDIBLES
Fresh rolls and sandwiches. Home-made cakes.
Delivered to your door or desk.

“So. Ella. That’s your name then.”

“No, it’s really Tatiana, but this was on the side of the van when I bought it and I couldn’t afford a respray, so I changed my name instead.”

I look up at her. Not a flicker of a smile.

“What, really?”

She sighs.

“You’re slow this morning.”

I bang my forehead against the side of her van and moan softly to myself. “Jeez. I am being so thick today. Make that every day. Take me to the vet and put me out of my misery.”

“Oi! Leave off the van. Half of it still belongs to Barclays.”

“Sorry.” I look up at her again looking down at me, like Juliet on the balcony. She smiles and hands me a piece of coffee fudge cake.

“On the house. Here.” She hands me a business card. “Case you ever want to order extra rolls,” she shrugs, “—or anything. Or to reserve a mozzarella and tomato special.”

“With basil?”

She nods.

“Except on Wednesdays,” she says. “That’s his day off.”

Yesterday, I got home from work earlier than usual. I’m full time at the surgery now, but I came straight back because Rosie was going to Kira’s after school. I came in, dumped my bag on the kitchen table and went straight over to fill the kettle, make myself a good strong cup of tea. And you know what? The kettle was warm. I noticed it but didn’t register at once that it was odd, that of course it shouldn’t have been. Then suddenly it clicked. Still warm after eight hours, when I left this morning? Also, it was nearly full. For one second, I had the horrible thought that we might have had a burglar. But the kitchen looked exactly as I’d left it. I crept into the sitting-room. No sign of any disturbance there either. Anyway, what kind of burglar would break in and make himself a cup of tea but not steal anything?

Ah—only one kind of burglar. The Scott kind. It has to be him. How the hell did he get keys? Where did I put his old keys? They were in that awful old ashtray in the lounge. I know, I moved them so I didn’t have to keep looking at them, and so the kids wouldn’t have to see them. Understairs cupboard, on a hook on the back of the door. So I checked and they were still there, still with the key fob with that horrible old photo of me. God, I looked so young. Nasty dress though, and those flicks in my hair. Thank God I’ve got better taste these days. He can’t have broken in, he wouldn’t have the nerve. Anyway, I’d have noticed. He must have sneakily taken the keys when they were still in the lounge one Sunday when he came to pick up Rosie, and then had them copied and put them back.

I wonder how many times he’s been here. I moved the keys weeks and weeks ago, so it must be more than once. It’s strange, now that I think back, there were a couple of times when I had the feeling that someone had been in the house. But it seemed crazy, particularly when nothing had been stolen and there were no signs of a break-in. Like that time when my nightie went missing. I was sure I’d put it under my pillow, but it just vanished. First, I thought Rosie had borrowed it for dressing-up, and when she swore she hadn’t, I wondered if perhaps she’d ripped it or something and was scared I’d tell her off, and it was only an old one anyway. Then I thought maybe I was losing my marbles—practically every day I seemed to be forgetting what I was supposed to be doing and mislaying things and leaving things in odd places, so it just seemed yet another proof that I was falling apart.

I’m not sure what to do about it. I can’t let it carry on, of course. He’s got some nerve, I’ll say that. I can’t understand it though, especially after—after he was here last, when I told him—tried to tell him—that I couldn’t, didn’t want him back. I was so anxious about it and then, in the end, he made it so easy. I didn’t even have to explain, but he seemed to understand.

Sunday. I told Rosie to go back upstairs for a few minutes and sort out her games kit so I could wash it today while she’s out with her dad. Then I asked Scott into the kitchen.

“Fancy a quick coffee?” He looked surprised and a bit on edge, like he’d be ready to run for it if I were to pounce.

“Oh, cheers then, Gail. What’s brought this on then?”

“What’s brought what on?”

“Well.” He shrugged. “Inviting me in. Giving me coffee. The red carpet treatment.”

I walked across to the kettle and patted the side of it. Watched his face.

“Gosh!” I said, my voice upbeat like one of those permanently cheery TV presenters. “The kettle’s still warm from earlier. It’s amazing how long it stays hot, isn’t it?”

He got it straight away, I could tell from his face. He looked ashamed. Guilty. And very, very embarrassed.

“I didn’t think there was much point in keeping you out on the doorstep if you’re only going to sneak in when you feel like it anyway.”

“Wasn’t sneaking.” He avoided my eyes. “And anyway, it was the last time, I swear it. I wasn’t ever going to do it again.”

“You can skip the pouting and the it wasn’t me, Miss, schoolboy act, Scott. What on earth did you think you were doing? I could have you arrested. Were you spying on me? Like a stalker? It’s so creepy. I thought we were going to be straight with each other now—you know, after last time. I thought we were both beginning to move on.”

“We
are.
I
am.
Honestly.”

“Tell me then, Scott. Why? How long have you been doing it?”

His body sagged in the chair, like an old dog that’s too tired to do tricks any more. He shook his head and, for a moment, I thought he was still trying to deny it. But that wasn’t it. I think he was just sorry and ashamed and didn’t even understand it quite himself.

“At first, it was just because I could, you see? I had the keys copied and I felt like I was being clever, getting one over on you—thinking you couldn’t keep me out even though you thought you had—and then, I don’t know—I—I—just wanted—still—to be with you—with all of you—and I’d go into Rosie’s room and look at her bits and bobs and her posters—and Nat’s room with all his mess everywhere and his roller-blades hanging up on the back of the door—and it—and you—and you—and it—smelt like home, you see—and—I—I didn’t harm anything. I promise. I was very careful—I—tried—I—” His voice caught in his throat and then he started to cry. Yes, Scott—crying. His face just sort of crumpled up like an old hankie, tears spilling down his cheeks. It was so shocking, like seeing rocks crumble into dust before my eyes. I could hardly bear to watch his face. I went and stood behind him then and laid my hand on his shoulder. I wondered if I should hold him, put my arms around him the way he had with me, but it would have felt so strange and I wasn’t sure how much comfort I could offer him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, squeezing his shoulder.

He nodded, wiped his face on his sleeve. I tore him off some kitchen roll. “Mops up all household spills,” I said.

He laughed and blew his nose.

“Wash your face here if you like.” I gestured at the sink. Neither of us wanted Rosie to see he’d been crying. I passed him a hand towel.

“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to be strong every minute of the day, you know. Makes me feel better about things somehow.”

“Mmn. Me too, I guess.” Then he fished out a key ring with two keys on it and dropped them into my palm. “It really was to have been the last time. Honestly, I mean it.” He smoothed his hair. “Now, how do I look? Passable?”

“Good. You look fine. Like how a dad should look.”

“Oh, go on.” He shoved his hands deep down into his pockets, the way Nat does, then he smiled at me. “Do I really?”

OK, as far as I can see, here are my options. I can (a) spend the rest of my life mooning around, wishing I’d done it all differently, (b) go and hole up in a cave in Morocco or somewhere and get into religion or smoking opium or something or (c) get my act together and start having something that might remotely resemble a life.

But the simple fact is I’m forty-one years old. I can’t be going out on the pull in bars and clubs or trying to snog some girl in the back of the cinema, can I? I’d feel ridiculous. I know what I want though. I can see it in my mind. I’m laying stretched out on a couch, a nice long one where I don’t have to scrunch up my legs. And my head is resting in this woman’s lap. She’s stroking my hair, her fingers sort of kneading my scalp, and it feels so good and relaxing, I feel like I’m floating. She smells nice, too, it’s like a fresh smell, like really, really clean air, like you smell when you’re walking in a wood and you’ve stayed out too long and it’s dusk, not like perfume at all. Then, when I open my eyes to look at her, she smiles but her face goes all misty in front of me and the whole picture starts to dissolve. It’s really frustrating.

That’s it. That’s my entire fantasy. I know, it’s deeply sad. What happened to all my old favourites, you know, the ones you have in the shower—the taking-her-up-against-a-wall one and the doing-it-in-a-lift-stuck-between-two-floors one and the diving-between-her-thighs-beneath-a-long-tablecloth-in-a-restaurant one. Yes, of course I still have those. I’m not dead yet. I’m just saying, I think I’m going soppy in my old age, that’s all.

I suppose I should give Jeff a call. Or Roger. Ask them if they fancy a lads’ night out. To be honest, I’m not feeling keen as mustard on the idea myself. I’m not sure I want to get totally smashed out my head and wake up not knowing how the hell I made it home to bed. I should have asked out that Ella, the sandwich girl. Woman, sorry. I like her. But it’s after five now. Where does she go the rest of the day, I wonder? I mean, if she does sandwiches for offices and stuff, she must be free after lunchtime. I could give her a ring, say I wanted to order an extra muffin or something. I’m sure she gave me her card. I had it here somewhere. I could have asked her this morning if I’d been at work. That’s the trouble, she’ll forget my face soon. If I’d spent less time being a dipstick and creeping about my old house, I could have been chatting her up. I go through my pockets. You never know. No luck.