to check nothing appears too obviously
disturbed, I go downstairs, get into the car and drive to M&S. I spend an hour shopping in a daze, stocking up on party snacks and mixers. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts I almost
walk out of the store with my unpaid trolley of goods, realizing my mistake just inches from the door.
I drive home, eat several cocktail sausages and a handful of salad leaves straight from the bag, then switch off the phone and go to bed. I don’t normally nap in the daytime, but today I
feel utterly exhausted. Our bedroom is a mix of our tastes. Simple, uncluttered and plain for me, with splashes of the strong, bold colours that Art loves.
I lie under the duvet, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, memories wash over me like the sea crashing over the shore – unstoppable.
My dad died long ago, when I was a little girl. I don’t remember him well – just snatches out of time – but from what people tell me he and Art had a lot in common. Like Art,
my dad was charming, driven and talented. And in a sense he was equally successful.
But Art is on top of his life in a way my dad never was.
My dad was a musician – a brilliant guitarist who played with every major seventies band from Pink Floyd to The Rolling Stones. He was away from home a lot, but when he was around he made
everything a party. He would always bring me exotic presents and greet me with a huge smile and some silly song he’d made up for me.
My Queen
, he called me, all mock serious –
or
Queenie
when he
really
wanted to tease me. He had long, dark hair that fell over his face when he played his guitar, and hands that always shook in the morning.
I hold out my hands in front of me. Mum says they are like his – slim, with long, tapered fingers. And my mouth. That’s like his, too. Bottom lip thin, top lip full. I think Beth
would have had our mouth. I wonder what Dad would have been like as a granddad.
I close my eyes, remembering how his breath smelled sweet when he kissed me goodnight. I didn’t realize until I was older that the sweetness came from vodka. He had bottles hidden all over
the house. I tried some once, when I was about six – a bottle I found under some towels in the bathroom cupboard. Just a little sip. It made me feel sick, like a liquid version of the way
Mum’s hairspray smelled.
They called me Geniver after a character in a movie they’d watched during the trip they made to India together before I was born. I can’t imagine Mum – even the young, hippyish
version I know from photos – enjoying the rough freedom of India, but I loved Dad’s stories of how they wandered together through village festivals and markets, the scents of cardamom
and cumin heavy in the humid air.
Dad drank himself to death just before my ninth birthday. He was on tour – back in India, ironically – with a now long-forgotten group called Star Fire. You can hear Dad’s
guitar solo on their only hit: ‘Fire in the Hole’. Apparently, the day he died, he recorded the song then argued with the band’s manager. That was the start of a ten-hour drinking
session that ended with him choking to death on his own vomit in an alleyway outside a nightclub.
They found a little salwar kameez he’d bought for me in his hotel room. I still have it.
On an impulse I get out of bed and head for the large walk-in closet that leads off our bedroom. Art’s stuff takes up less than a third of the space in here. The rest is crammed with my
own clothes, mostly things I no longer wear – or that no longer fit.
I rummage along the bottom shelf, looking for the pile of old clothes I brought from Mum’s house when we moved here. I find my Brownie uniform, covered in badges, then my school tie with
its blue-and-maroon stripes. The salwar kameez lies underneath. It’s red silk. I never wore it. It only fitted me for a few months after Dad died, when the idea of actually putting it on was
too painful. Suppose I tore it? Or
disturbed, I go downstairs, get into the car and drive to M&S. I spend an hour shopping in a daze, stocking up on party snacks and mixers. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts I almost
walk out of the store with my unpaid trolley of goods, realizing my mistake just inches from the door.
I drive home, eat several cocktail sausages and a handful of salad leaves straight from the bag, then switch off the phone and go to bed. I don’t normally nap in the daytime, but today I
feel utterly exhausted. Our bedroom is a mix of our tastes. Simple, uncluttered and plain for me, with splashes of the strong, bold colours that Art loves.
I lie under the duvet, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, memories wash over me like the sea crashing over the shore – unstoppable.
My dad died long ago, when I was a little girl. I don’t remember him well – just snatches out of time – but from what people tell me he and Art had a lot in common. Like Art,
my dad was charming, driven and talented. And in a sense he was equally successful.
But Art is on top of his life in a way my dad never was.
My dad was a musician – a brilliant guitarist who played with every major seventies band from Pink Floyd to The Rolling Stones. He was away from home a lot, but when he was around he made
everything a party. He would always bring me exotic presents and greet me with a huge smile and some silly song he’d made up for me.
My Queen
, he called me, all mock serious –
or
Queenie
when he
really
wanted to tease me. He had long, dark hair that fell over his face when he played his guitar, and hands that always shook in the morning.
I hold out my hands in front of me. Mum says they are like his – slim, with long, tapered fingers. And my mouth. That’s like his, too. Bottom lip thin, top lip full. I think Beth
would have had our mouth. I wonder what Dad would have been like as a granddad.
I close my eyes, remembering how his breath smelled sweet when he kissed me goodnight. I didn’t realize until I was older that the sweetness came from vodka. He had bottles hidden all over
the house. I tried some once, when I was about six – a bottle I found under some towels in the bathroom cupboard. Just a little sip. It made me feel sick, like a liquid version of the way
Mum’s hairspray smelled.
They called me Geniver after a character in a movie they’d watched during the trip they made to India together before I was born. I can’t imagine Mum – even the young, hippyish
version I know from photos – enjoying the rough freedom of India, but I loved Dad’s stories of how they wandered together through village festivals and markets, the scents of cardamom
and cumin heavy in the humid air.
Dad drank himself to death just before my ninth birthday. He was on tour – back in India, ironically – with a now long-forgotten group called Star Fire. You can hear Dad’s
guitar solo on their only hit: ‘Fire in the Hole’. Apparently, the day he died, he recorded the song then argued with the band’s manager. That was the start of a ten-hour drinking
session that ended with him choking to death on his own vomit in an alleyway outside a nightclub.
They found a little salwar kameez he’d bought for me in his hotel room. I still have it.
On an impulse I get out of bed and head for the large walk-in closet that leads off our bedroom. Art’s stuff takes up less than a third of the space in here. The rest is crammed with my
own clothes, mostly things I no longer wear – or that no longer fit.
I rummage along the bottom shelf, looking for the pile of old clothes I brought from Mum’s house when we moved here. I find my Brownie uniform, covered in badges, then my school tie with
its blue-and-maroon stripes. The salwar kameez lies underneath. It’s red silk. I never wore it. It only fitted me for a few months after Dad died, when the idea of actually putting it on was
too painful. Suppose I tore it? Or
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