The Honeymoon Sisters (4 page)

‘Mu-um!’ I moaned. Sometimes she
really
embarrasses me. ‘They aren’t that tight. Anyway, Dad said these ones make me look really slim cos they pull in my tummy.’ I stood side-on to show her. ‘See?’

‘You don’t need your tummy pulled in,’ she said crossly. ‘And your father’s going to give you a complex about your shape if he doesn’t stop making such thoughtless comments.’

‘It’s not a thoughtless comment to say I look slim,’ I protested. ‘Dad told me that when he first met
you
, you were
really
slim. And he said your jeans were so tight you had to lie on the floor to do them up!’

Mum scowled. ‘Poppy, I don’t want
you
getting as hung up about your weight as I used to be when I was young. It made me very stressed and unhappy.’

‘I know, Mum, and I’m not going to,’ I said impatiently. Mum’s told me countless times that outward appearance is only important up to a degree, and that it’s
inner
beauty and being healthy that really count. And of course I know she’s right. But still …

‘Mum, I really want a new pair of glasses,’ I said suddenly.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the pair you have, Poppy.’ Mum sounded impatient because we’d had this conversation before. ‘Besides, you only wear them in class.’

‘So?’ Sometimes Mum just doesn’t seem to understand that school is one of the places where my appearance matters most.

‘Poppy, if you didn’t keep losing them or breaking them I wouldn’t mind getting you another pair, but –’

‘I only lost them once and broke them once,’ I
protested. I was about to promise that in any case I would be more careful in future if she would only let me have another more attractive pair, when I looked out of the window and spotted Dad’s brand new
BMW
parked across the end of our drive.

‘He’s here,’ I said. As usual he didn’t seem in any rush to get out of his car, and I guessed he was waiting for me to appear. The thing is, though he never admits it, I know he’s just as keen as Mum to avoid having to make conversation with her on our front doorstep.

Chapter Five

‘Poppy!’ Dad greeted me warmly, giving me a kiss on each cheek as we met outside his car.

Dad is very different to Mum in lots of ways. If you can imagine someone who’s very protective towards the people he loves, but also very stern and demanding at the same time, then that’s my dad. Most people just see the stern and demanding part, plus they think he’s posh because of the way he speaks. Dad comes from quite a wealthy family (though his father’s business went bankrupt when he was in his early twenties) and he went to a pretty posh boarding school and then on to university to study law. He’s always very knowledgeable and articulate about everything, which Mum says she used to love about him but now finds extremely irritating. And it’s true that Dad always seems to find exactly the right words to complete his sentences, whereas Mum
is always falling back on words like ‘thingy’ or ‘doo-dah’ or ‘whatsitsname’ to complete hers.

As he drove me to his place Dad asked me about my week, and since he’s always super interested in anything to do with school I immediately launched into an account of our ill-fated science experiment. After that I found myself doing my best to find other particularly interesting or humorous things to tell him. Dad listened to me and made a couple of perceptive comments before I got the feeling that his attention was starting to drift. I stopped talking abruptly then, because the last thing I ever want to do is bore him. More than anything I want Dad to enjoy my company and to genuinely like me as a person, not just feel he has to put up with me because I’m his daughter.

The trouble is I know he thinks I take after Mum.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t
want
to be like Mum. Mum is a really good person – not a
cool
person, but a good person definitely. The only reason that being like her is a problem is because even though Dad never talks about it, I know that at some point he must have stopped loving her. And I also know that even though he hardly spends any time with her these days, he still finds her highly irritating whenever he does. And the
last thing I want is for him to find
me
irritating. Or worse still, for him to stop loving me.

‘New jacket?’ Dad asked as we pulled up at traffic lights.

Without thinking I answered, ‘Yes! Mum found it in a charity shop.’

He scowled and I instantly realised my mistake. I’d forgotten to lie about the charity shop part. I quickly told him the name of the designer, hoping to impress him, but it clearly didn’t even register.

‘I pay your mother plenty of alimony,’ he said gruffly, ‘so I really don’t understand why she finds it necessary to dress you in other people’s cast-offs.’

‘They’re not cast-offs, Dad …’ I protested. ‘Well, they
are
, I suppose … but they’re
vintage
cast-offs!’

He snorted like that was laughable. The trouble with Dad is that he just doesn’t get the whole charity shop thing. He doesn’t get that you can pick up some really great stuff, or that one person’s cast-offs might be another person’s treasure. For instance Mum loves finding retro clothes, especially Sixties or Seventies stuff, and she also loves absolutely anything (no matter how ugly or tacky) that reminds her of her grandparents’ house when she was a kid. And I like finding unusual
jewellery or scarves or bags to add to my accessories collection.

‘Dad, don’t you ever want to find yourself a bargain?’ I tried hesitantly.

‘I’m sure there are plenty of needier people than me out there who would benefit from snapping up a piece of decent second-hand clothing at a reasonable price,’ he said. ‘If people like your mother didn’t go around creaming off all the best items, that is!’

‘At least the money goes to a good cause,’ I pointed out swiftly.

But Dad was still unimpressed. ‘If you want to support a charity, then give them a monetary donation by all means. I still don’t see why you should feel obliged to walk around in second-hand clothes!’

I opened my mouth to argue back, then decided I couldn’t be bothered. I knew Dad would have the last word on the subject no matter what I said – after all, he is a barrister. Mum says it’s the perfect job for him – getting to argue with people for a living. I know he loves his job so I think she’s probably right.

‘So, Poppy …’ Dad glanced sideways at me just as the traffic lights changed to green. ‘About tomorrow … I’ll be introducing you to Kristen. Now while I do
realise it can’t be easy for you to see me with someone new –’

‘Don’t sweat it, Dad!’ I interrupted with a little laugh. ‘It’s no biggie!’ (After all, it had happened enough times before.)

He looked surprised at my response. ‘Don’t
sweat it
? No
biggie
? Is there some reason for the sudden deluge of slang, Poppy?’ he demanded.

‘Hey, I only used
two
slang expressions,’ I defended myself. ‘That’s hardly a
deluge
.’

He looked even more surprised, and something else that I wasn’t used to seeing – slightly amused and a little bit proud, maybe? He shook his head, muttering drily, ‘You know, it’s at times like these when I can definitely tell you’re
my
daughter.’

And I’m ashamed to say that his comment pleased me far more than it should have.

Dad lives in an upmarket apartment block about a fifteen-minute drive from our house. His flat is on the fourth floor and it overlooks the river. It’s got three bedrooms and two balconies. The smallest bedroom is mine whenever I stay there. Mum thinks he should have given me the second-largest bedroom because
it’s not like he actually
needs
a home office since he puts in such long hours at work. But as I pointed out, since I only spend every second or third weekend at Dad’s, I can see why he doesn’t want to waste all that space.

When we got inside Dad ordered some Thai food. I’d never eaten Thai before and Dad always likes to introduce me to new things. (He thinks Mum doesn’t do enough of that.)

We ate it while we watched a film together on his massive plasma screen. I mostly only ate the rice because the rest was too spicy, but I didn’t mind. He never thinks any food he’s bought me is a waste of money so long as I’ve actually tried it.

‘What about your car, Dad?’ I suddenly remembered. ‘Don’t you have to take it to the garage?’

‘Oh, they phoned to cancel while I was on my way to collect you. Since I’d already changed the arrangement with your mother I thought I’d better stick to it.’ He must have seen the look on my face because he added, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing … it’s just … I probably should have stayed with Mum tonight in that case. Amy left this morning and Mum’s really missing her.’

Dad seemed slightly irritated as he replied, ‘I shouldn’t worry too much, Poppy. Your mother’s had enough experience of saying goodbye to foster-children by now.’ He paused, softening his voice a little as he added, ‘Actually,
you’re
the one I’m concerned about. You got rather attached to Amy, didn’t you? I remember you even hoped your mother might adopt her.’

Unexpectedly my eyes pricked with tears. Dad surprises me sometimes with the things he remembers that I’ve said. ‘Mum says we wouldn’t have been the first choice as a forever family, but I still think if Mum had
wanted
to adopt her then social services might have let her. I mean, it took them ages to find the right family and by
that
time she was already part of
ours
.’

Dad looked thoughtful. ‘You know, your mother’s never given me a straight answer when I’ve asked what she actually
gets
out of all this fostering. Of course I understand that she’s helping these children, but at what cost to you and herself? It’s obviously painful to get so attached to these little girls, only to relinquish them again at the end of their time with you. Perhaps I should speak to her again about it.’

‘No, Dad!’ I felt like I’d betrayed Mum now that Dad was turning it into this sort of conversation. ‘It’s not
Mum’s fault! We’re supposed to remember we’re not a forever family! With Amy I just forgot!’

‘Sounds like it.’

I scowled. ‘Yes, well, it won’t happen again.’

‘I see. And those sorts of feelings are something you have control over, are they?’

‘Of course!’ I found myself looking at him uncertainly. ‘I mean … I must have, mustn’t I?’

‘Well, what do
you
think, Poppy?’ He was using his don’t-expect-me-to-spoon-feed-you-the-answer voice.

‘I don’t know,’ I told him stubbornly.

‘If I were you, Poppy, I’d give it some thought and see what you come up with,’ he advised me.

I scowled. Recently he’s had this real thing about encouraging me to think for myself rather than just ‘absorbing other people’s opinions like a sponge’, as he puts it.
OK
so I can see why he does it, but frankly there are times when I just wish he’d let me do the sponge thing.

Just before I went to bed that night Dad reminded me he’d be in the swimming pool first thing tomorrow morning – the one in the basement of his apartment block – and he asked if I wanted to join him. I shook my head since I never like going swimming with Dad. He
always swims endless lengths and encourages me to do the same and I always feel really pressured.

‘So when do I get to meet Kristen?’ I asked.

‘We’re meeting her in the cafe in the park tomorrow morning.’ He paused. ‘You know, she’s very nice, Poppy. I’m sure you’ll get along.’

‘Nice?’ I repeated with a smirk. That isn’t a word my super-articulate dad uses very often.

He frowned slightly. ‘I was trying to say that she’s easy to talk to. She’s got a very friendly manner. Everybody likes her.’

‘Not like Penelope, then,’ I said before I could stop myself. ‘
She
was impossible to talk to – unless you’d been to boarding school like her and rode horses.’

Dad frowned. ‘Don’t stereotype people, Poppy.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying that I really hope Kristen isn’t the same
type
as Penelope, that’s all!’

Chapter Six

Dad and I walked to the park together the next morning and I noticed a couple of youngish women taking a second look at him as they passed us. Dad is pretty good-looking for a man in his late forties, I guess, especially when he’s made as much of an effort as he had today.

‘By the way, Poppy,’ he began as we walked along. ‘What’s happening with the school council these days? You don’t talk about it much.’

I remembered how I’d agreed to apply for that school council post just to please my father. It had never entered my head that I’d be shortlisted. But Dad had checked my proposal letter and made me rewrite it four times, thus ensuring I made it to the next stage. He had then insisted on helping me with my election speech. He hadn’t written it for me but he had made me rewrite and then
fine-tune that speech until it was perfect. And finally he had listened to me rehearsing it and coached me until I was delivering it with confidence. It had been pretty nice to get all that attention from him, actually. And to feel his pride in me when I told him I’d been given the job.

Though in retrospect I wasn’t sure that any amount of positive attention made up for all the hassle the job entailed.

‘Oh, well … we’re helping to organise a whole school open day, for one thing,’ I said. ‘There’ll be art exhibitions and science demonstrations and stuff like that.’

‘That sounds good.’

‘Actually it’s a bit of a pain. And it’s embarrassing having to make announcements about it to the other Year Eights.’

‘Well, it’s good to do something outside your comfort zone when you get the chance. You’re a very capable girl, Poppy, but I still think you’re far too cautious. And as my father used to say, the right amount of caution will stop you getting hurt, but too much will stop you getting anywhere.’

‘Did he say that before or after he went bankrupt?’

He looked taken aback, I guess because I wouldn’t normally answer him back like that. I wasn’t sure why I
was doing it except that I felt unusually … well … moody and mouthy (to put it bluntly).