Neeve’s phone beeps. She flicks it a look and says, ‘Dad’s on his way over.’
I stare at her. What on earth …? Does she mean Richie Aldin? She can’t mean Richie Aldin.
‘Whose dad?’ Kiara sounds as surprised as I feel.
‘My dad,’ Neeve says.
This is utterly outlandish.
‘What do you mean, he’s on his way over?’ Sofie asks. ‘Over where?’
‘Here.’ Neeve sounds impatient.
But Richie Aldin doesn’t see Neeve more than twice a year. He’s flitted in and out of her life, and his absence is a source of chronic pain. And because it cuts her so deep, a source of sorrow for me.
He’s a fairly shitty excuse for a man. Three years after he divorced me he got married again and his wife had a daughter, then another, then another, each new arrival tying Neeve up in knots of fear and longing. Over the years she’s made several attempts to infiltrate her clan of half-sisters and occasionally they’d admit her some of the way, then the next thing she’d hear they’d gone to EuroDisney or Alton Towers without her and we’d be back to square one, with her sobbing in my arms, saying all she wanted was to be part of ‘a real family’.
On two separate occasions, I got on a plane and flew to Leeds just to beg Richie to include Neeve in his family holidays. I’d cover all costs, if they’d just let her come. Both times he said he’d see, but ultimately he let her down. Again and again, he’s hurt her.
And yet I can’t ever be mean about him to her. He’s her dad and any relationship is better than none.
‘He’s doing a vlog for me,’ Neeve says. ‘On male grooming.’
‘Why tonight, honey?’
‘Only time he can do it.’
Whatever she says, it’s no accident that he’s here on this night of all nights. Any fool knows that Richie and I will never be together again, but she still holds out hope. And that could break my heart, if I let it.
‘He’s a busy man.’ She’s acting defiant, like I might try to stop Richie coming into the house. Which would never happen. Mind you, I’d like to.
He’s never apologized to me, he never will, and while I don’t hold a grudge, I heartily dislike him. Things always go his way – a lengthy and moderately successful spell as a soccer player in the UK, where he kept his head down and accumulated plenty of money. When that career came to its natural conclusion, he didn’t buy a pub and drink it dry, the way lots of ex-footballers allegedly do (according to an article I read somewhere). Instead he returned to Ireland and set up a football academy, which functions as a well-respected feeder for English clubs and, from what the press says, makes bucketloads of money.
Nor does his personal life cause him any angst. A few years ago, he upped and left his second wife; according to Neeve, he was ‘bored’. I don’t know the details but it wasn’t a decision that seemed to generate soul-searching or guilt.
He has never seemed to have a crisis of confidence or conscience. He does exactly what he wants and gets away with it.
These days he has a succession of pretty, charming girlfriends but I don’t see him often enough to keep track.
Does he know that Hugh is gone?
Actually, I don’t care.
‘When’s he coming?’ Kiara is grave. She disapproves of him.
‘He’s on his way.’
‘I wonder what car he’ll have,’ Sofie says. ‘Something flashy, I guess.’ She’s none too keen on him either. ‘Maybe an Aston Martin.’
‘Or a Lamborghini,’ I say.
‘Definitely expensive?’ Kiara asks.
‘Yes!’
‘If I had to have a car,’ Kiara says wistfully, ‘I’d love a Citro?n Dyane.’
‘Until it broke down for the seventeenth time in a mile,’ Neeve says. ‘Then you’d be begging for a Beemer.’
‘It’ll be a Ferrari,’ Sofie says.
‘Not a Ferrari.’ Neeve defends her sorry excuse for a father.
The doorbell rings.
‘Here already?’
All four of us go, keen to see what Richie is driving … and on the step stands Genevieve Payne. Holding what looks like a casserole. ‘Hi!’ She beams. ‘Just dropping this over.’
‘What is it?’ Neeve demands.
‘A casserole.’
‘Why?’ Neeve asks. ‘No one has died.’
‘But –’
‘My step-dad has gone away to self-actualize. He totally rocks. Keep your casserole.’
Genevieve attempts panicky eye-contact with me. ‘Amy, I –’
But Neeve is shutting the door.
And then the door is actually closed and I’m backing away down the hall, shocked and giddy and afraid of repercussions.
‘What a dick!’ Neeve says.
‘Neevey!’ Sofie exclaims. ‘Slay! All day! Total badass!’
She is a total badass. When she’s on your side, there’s no one more loyal and fierce.
‘ “Keep your casserole”,’ Kiara exclaims, in admiring tones. ‘Bow down.’
‘But, daaaaamn, casseroles are for when people be dead!’
‘We ain’t playin’!’
‘We ain’t playin’.’
‘Drag that bitch’s ass!’
I can glean the meaning of the words but I’d never be able to use them with confidence myself.
‘ “Keep your casserole”,’ Sofie says, and unexpectedly, we’re all convulsing. I laugh until my face is wet and finally the spasm calms.
Then Kiara says, ‘ “Keep your casserole”,’ and we’re all off again.
An Audi with flashy headlights pulls up outside.
‘Damn,’ Kiara says. ‘None of us wins.’
‘Hi, Amy.’ Richie Aldin is standing in the hall and gives me a polite kiss on the cheek. He smells of some expensive man-perfume. He never smells of just himself. Maybe it’s a footballer thing, them and their incessant showers. ‘You look good,’ he says.
He looks good too, again in a footballery sort of way. His red-gold hair is ‘tended’, cut modern and tufty, and he’s compact and muscular, not tall but powerful. He probably still trains, what with running his lucrative academy and all.
‘Hi, hun.’ He hugs Neeve.
‘Hi, Daddy.’
It hurts to see how happy she is. Could he not have been kinder to her these past twenty-two years? What makes it even more painful is that they look so alike – those scornful glinty eyes, the scattering of freckles across their noses, their shining rare-hued hair.
‘Hugh not around?’
I freeze. ‘Um, no.’
‘What?’ He looks from me to Neeve. Nosy feck.
‘C’mon, Dad,’ Neeve says. ‘Let’s get started.’
‘But –’
‘I’ll explain,’ she says.
26
Thursday, 15 September, day three
Thursday is late-night shopping and my plan is to go on a looking-at-lovely-things outing when I finish up at work. But my phone rings. It’s Mum and my heartrate rockets.
‘Amy, I need you to come over tonight. Dominik’s let me down and I’m going out.’
‘Oh! But … where are you going?’
‘Out.’ She sounds almost huffy. ‘For a drink.’
‘With whom?’
‘Friends.’
‘Mum, what friends?’
‘Friends of mine,’ she all but hisses. ‘And Dominik is getting too big for his boots.’
This is extremely worrying: Dominik keeps the show on the road. ‘What happened? He cancelled?’
‘He didn’t cancel. But he wouldn’t make himself available. Says he has another job.’
‘But –’
‘Be here at seven.’ She hangs up.
This – Mum’s assertiveness, her unreasonableness – is unprecedented. I’ll ask Hugh what I should do and – Oh! I can’t.
It’s literally unbelievable that he has gone away. How did everything go so bad so quickly?
I call Mum back, but it goes straight to message. Next I try the landline and it’s the same story so I’ve no choice but to drive all the way out there.
Mum is in Neeve’s leather jacket, waiting by the front door. ‘Thanks for this,’ she says. ‘If I don’t get out and away from him,’ she nods in Pop’s direction, ‘I’ll go fucking insane.’
‘Um … okay.’ I’m certain I’ve never before heard her use the F-word. ‘Who are you going with?’
She answers by taking one of my hands between both of hers and asking, ‘How’re you managing, love? Since Hugh went?’
‘Oh. Ah. It’s weird. But early days.’
‘Well, I’m here for you. Come over any time.’
‘So where are you off to now?’
‘Who’s doing the dinner tomorrow night?’
‘Maura.’