wasn’t until I saw her with him, completely relaxed, always laughing, that I realised just how unhappy she’d been before. I suppose I hadn’t noticed it, because it crept up on us over the years, but we’d become quite fearful in our day-to-day lives. And now Dad was gone we both became louder, messier, more chaotic, more ourselves.
Even so, I was still annoyed that Charles was coming for dinner on New Year’s Eve. I’d imagined it would just be Mum and me, and that would be something different. Maybe we could talk a bit, about Dad, maybe Mum could help me understand why whenever I called him he sounded disappointed. He’d pick up and go, ‘Hello?’ and I’d say, ‘Hi Dad, it’s Nicole’ and then he’d go, ‘Oh.’ And he never asked how I was getting on at school, or anything like that. He always said, ‘How’s your mum? She doing all right is she?’
Charles arrived just before seven brandishing a copy of Marco Pierre White’s White Heat .
‘Makes a change from Delia Smith, don’t you think?’ he asked cheerily. ‘You want to help out with the cooking?’ In a low voice he added, ‘I won’t even bother asking your mother.’
‘Not really,’ I replied grumpily. For god’s sake! Wasn’t it bad enough that I had to stay in on New Year’s Eve with my mother and her boyfriend? Now I had to help in the kitchen?
‘Oh, go on, Nic,’ Charles said. ‘We’re having scallops and langoustines with cucumber and ginger, followed by noisettes of lamb with fettuccine of vegetables and tarragon jus .’
‘All right then,’ I said, trying my best not to roll my eyes at him (Mum hated that). I didn’t like to admit that I had no idea what he’d just said.
And to my surprise, as I chopped shallots and thinly sliced a thumb of ginger (ingredients entirely alien to our kitchen), and as Charles poured me half a glass of champagne and talked to me about The Handmaid’s Tale , which I was due to study in English next term, I found myself having quite a good time. Dinner turned out to be delicious, Mum was in a great mood, we had a Keanu Reeves double bill on video (My Own Private Idaho and Point Break – a special treat for me), so it really wasn’t so bad after all.
And then, just before eleven, the doorbell rang and my stomach churned. Dad. It had to be. And he’d have been in the pub a good few hours by now. Charles paused the video and got up to go to the door, but Mum stopped him. I tried to follow her out, but Charles put his hand on my arm and said, ‘Let’s give it a minute, eh?’ The pair of us stood in the living room, just behind the door, poised to spring out and save her.
She opened the door and then I heard her cry out, ‘Oh my god!’ and my whole body went cold. Something very bad was about to happen. Charles charged out into the hallway in front of me, I grabbed the phone, ready to dial 999. I heard her say again, ‘Oh my god, what happened to you?’
Phone in hand, I ran into the hall. Mum and Charles were in the doorway, blocking my view.
‘What is it?’ I called out, trying desperately to quell the panic in my voice. ‘Is Dad all right?’
‘It’s not Dad, love,’ Mum said, and as she did she and Charles parted slightly, allowing the person at the door to step into the hall. I watched, dumbstruck, as she and Charles ushered Julian into the house. Julian, dirty and dishevelled, his shoulders heaving, his right eye swollen shut, blood all over his face. I burst into tears.
Mum took him upstairs to clean him up. I hopped around outside the bathroom, calling out. ‘What happened? What’s going on? Open this door! Mum! I need to see him. He’s my friend!’
Eventually Charles came upstairs, handed me a cup of tea and persuaded me to go downstairs, and an agonising ten or fifteen minutes later, Mum and Julian joined us in the kitchen. The four of us sat around the kitchen table for a minute or two, nobody saying anything, everyone sipping their tea. Julian looked
Even so, I was still annoyed that Charles was coming for dinner on New Year’s Eve. I’d imagined it would just be Mum and me, and that would be something different. Maybe we could talk a bit, about Dad, maybe Mum could help me understand why whenever I called him he sounded disappointed. He’d pick up and go, ‘Hello?’ and I’d say, ‘Hi Dad, it’s Nicole’ and then he’d go, ‘Oh.’ And he never asked how I was getting on at school, or anything like that. He always said, ‘How’s your mum? She doing all right is she?’
Charles arrived just before seven brandishing a copy of Marco Pierre White’s White Heat .
‘Makes a change from Delia Smith, don’t you think?’ he asked cheerily. ‘You want to help out with the cooking?’ In a low voice he added, ‘I won’t even bother asking your mother.’
‘Not really,’ I replied grumpily. For god’s sake! Wasn’t it bad enough that I had to stay in on New Year’s Eve with my mother and her boyfriend? Now I had to help in the kitchen?
‘Oh, go on, Nic,’ Charles said. ‘We’re having scallops and langoustines with cucumber and ginger, followed by noisettes of lamb with fettuccine of vegetables and tarragon jus .’
‘All right then,’ I said, trying my best not to roll my eyes at him (Mum hated that). I didn’t like to admit that I had no idea what he’d just said.
And to my surprise, as I chopped shallots and thinly sliced a thumb of ginger (ingredients entirely alien to our kitchen), and as Charles poured me half a glass of champagne and talked to me about The Handmaid’s Tale , which I was due to study in English next term, I found myself having quite a good time. Dinner turned out to be delicious, Mum was in a great mood, we had a Keanu Reeves double bill on video (My Own Private Idaho and Point Break – a special treat for me), so it really wasn’t so bad after all.
And then, just before eleven, the doorbell rang and my stomach churned. Dad. It had to be. And he’d have been in the pub a good few hours by now. Charles paused the video and got up to go to the door, but Mum stopped him. I tried to follow her out, but Charles put his hand on my arm and said, ‘Let’s give it a minute, eh?’ The pair of us stood in the living room, just behind the door, poised to spring out and save her.
She opened the door and then I heard her cry out, ‘Oh my god!’ and my whole body went cold. Something very bad was about to happen. Charles charged out into the hallway in front of me, I grabbed the phone, ready to dial 999. I heard her say again, ‘Oh my god, what happened to you?’
Phone in hand, I ran into the hall. Mum and Charles were in the doorway, blocking my view.
‘What is it?’ I called out, trying desperately to quell the panic in my voice. ‘Is Dad all right?’
‘It’s not Dad, love,’ Mum said, and as she did she and Charles parted slightly, allowing the person at the door to step into the hall. I watched, dumbstruck, as she and Charles ushered Julian into the house. Julian, dirty and dishevelled, his shoulders heaving, his right eye swollen shut, blood all over his face. I burst into tears.
Mum took him upstairs to clean him up. I hopped around outside the bathroom, calling out. ‘What happened? What’s going on? Open this door! Mum! I need to see him. He’s my friend!’
Eventually Charles came upstairs, handed me a cup of tea and persuaded me to go downstairs, and an agonising ten or fifteen minutes later, Mum and Julian joined us in the kitchen. The four of us sat around the kitchen table for a minute or two, nobody saying anything, everyone sipping their tea. Julian looked
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