My Own Worst Enemy, page 25
‘Maybe,’ I say, pushing tofu round my plate. ‘But Dad, I won’t actually be around here much over the next few days, remember? Because of my show? Twelfth Night? I’ve got today off, and then the performances on the 29th and 30th…?’
I leave a gap for them to say that they’ve got tickets, but they’ve both become very preoccupied with their cutlery.
‘Did we restock garlic?’ Dad asks Pete suddenly. Pete nods back, egg yolk in his moustache.
I force myself to ask, ‘Are you coming to see the show?’
Pete turns to Dad.
‘Oh, mi amore,’ says Dad, ‘you know how hard it is to get time off work here at weekends. I’ll have to check with the others.’
Dad is literally in charge of scheduling. I put down my cutlery over my untouched breakfast.
‘OK,’ I say, cheeks burning. ‘Other people are coming to see me.’
Dad and Pete stop chewing and look at each other.
‘Like my old drama school friend, Thalia,’ I continue, wildly. ‘She promised to see it months ago, even though she’s basically a celebrity now.’
Saying it aloud makes me suddenly realise how soon two days is. When we’re back in the smoking area at The Boards, maybe it will feel like this year never happened at all. The thought is enough to make the scrambled tofu look even worse than it does intrinsically.
But this doesn’t have any effect on Dad and Pete. They’re still staring at each other like they’re having a whole conversation via blink semaphore.
So I add even more desperately, ‘And my girlfriend, Alice, is coming to see it. She was going to be reviewing it, actually, but now she’s just coming to support me. To cheer me on.’
They exchange another significant glance. Oh, I get it. They’re thinking of the time I pretended I had a girlfriend. She was called Amethyst, and we were very much in love, even though her mafia parents didn’t approve. Dad once made a joke about it at a parents’ evening and I had to say she’d emigrated.
‘Alice is real!’
‘Neither of us said she wasn’t! We just haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet!’ Dad snorts.
Dad always knows how to push my competitive buttons. I scrape the breakfast into the food bin.
‘Then I’ll invite her here sometime!’ I snap.
‘Do!’ he says, calmly biting into his pizza.
‘Fine!’ I say. ‘How about today? Lunch?’
Dad just laughs.
I drop my plate into the sink and, right there, text Alice.
I immediately wish I could take it back. I even hold the text to delete it. But she’s already replied.
Yes!! Finally!! I’m going to make your parents LOVE me!! Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
*
I watch Alice arrive. She looks lost, even though she’s clearly followed her map app and is looking right at the Pete’s’zas sign. She’s wearing another glamorous red cocktail dress, and a smokey eye. Thank God I’m not in my pizzeria uniform.
We’re not open for lunch today, so we have the place to ourselves for this regrettable family gathering.
I open the door to her, hoping Dad doesn’t see her distaste as she looks at the pizza-coloured bar stools. Oh God, why did I bring her here?
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Clooney,’ Alice says to my dad, then turns to Pete and adds, ‘And… Mr Clooney?’
For someone who is literally gay, she seems shocked at the thought of me having two fathers. I suppose it shows how little we’ve talked about our lives outside of theatre.
‘No,’ I correct her, my neck warming, ‘this is my Uncle Pete.’
‘You look alike,’ says Alice, as they shake hands.
‘Oh, we’re not related,’ I correct her. ‘We’re… Well, we’re just colleagues, actually.’
Pete’s eyebrows rise.
‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it,’ says Pete, and bows out to the kitchen.
Dad frowns at me. I try to move my eyebrows in a way that says, ‘what did I do wrong?’ but Dad just rolls his eyes back. He takes a breath and then turns to Alice with his waiter demeanour. He flamboyantly pulls out a seat for her, and compliments her outfit.
‘Good for if you spill tomato sauce!’ he winks.
Dad often makes this joke with red-wearing customers. Alice doesn’t smile back. She grimaces and folds her skirt under her as though she’s sitting on a damp picnic blanket.
I ask Alice what she’d like for lunch.
‘Pinot Grigio please. And do you do salads?’
Dad looks at me like this is a dumpable offence.
‘I’m sure Pete can rustle something up,’ I say.
Dad barely hides his sneer as he returns with a bottle. He pours a sip for Alice to try, then, when she nods, a full glass for her. He takes the delivery of our order as an excuse to leave the table completely. He too disappears into the kitchen, turning up the TV in there, clearly to cover up their private gossiping. He’s meeting my girlfriend for the first time, why can’t he act like a dad, not a waiter? It’s so rude.
Alice asks me how the last days of rehearsals have been. My mind flashes images of Mae, in a green room, and Mae, in an empty cinema. I’m so scared of revealing something about my confusing temporary crush on her (I know, I’m a terrible person), that I end up telling Alice everything about Ruth and Raphy’s betrayal, and explain that’s why I’m staying with my Dad again.
‘Well,’ she sips, ‘it’s natural that they would prioritise their romantic relationship with each other over their friendship with you, right?’
She squeezes my knee under the table, then raises it higher. I jerk it away, nearly toppling off my mushroom.
Dad walks over, delivering me an Emmy Special and Alice a truly delicious-looking salad. He doesn’t have any food for himself or for Pete. He turns on his heel and returns to the kitchen TV.
I can’t help comparing my dad’s behaviour with Alice to how he treated Mae at the hospital. How he immediately loved her and joked with her.
As I watch Alice push a walnut round her plate, it all bubbles up in me – the guilt, the longing, the doubt. If I allow myself to imagine being here, with Mae at the table instead… I feel like such a fraud that, despite the terrible timing, I can’t let it carry on any longer.
‘Alice,’ I say, putting down my cutlery. ‘I… As you know, I’m not very experienced with dating. I really, really wanted to make this work. But I feel like I must be doing something wrong. I don’t… I don’t think I’m feeling what you’re feeling.’
She smiles at me, fluttering her eyelashes.
‘No?’ She smiles at me, taking my hand. ‘I promise, I feel exactly what you’re feeling.’
I’m going mad.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I really don’t want to hurt your feelings. B-but… I-I think I might… Like someone—’
And Alice is still holding my hand, astonishment crossing her face, when I hear horribly familiar music.
‘Saus-a-ges, saus-a-ges,’
I freeze.
‘Saucy fun for all a-ges,’
‘No way!’ calls Pete from the kitchen. ‘Emmeline! You’re on the TV!’
‘On its own or in a bun,’ the commercial sings. ‘It’s meaty fun for everyone.’
Dad stares at me through the kitchen serving hatch, then turns back to the screen. Alice runs over and I follow, lightheaded.
We watch as, on the TV screen, a Japanese teenager pushes a bento box aside, and replaces it with an anvil of steaming Saucy Sausages. Two black men do the same with chicken wings. I cringe so hard I feel as if I’m melting into the floor.
‘Please turn it off,’ I say.
No one moves.
And then there I am. Like I always wanted.
‘Even I love Saucy Sausages!’ my voice says.
Arm in arm with my pink-haired girlfriend, our apartment decorated with rainbow flags and cat photos, we push our salads aside to feed each other sausages. Zoom in on my mouth chewing, curry sauce dripping down my chin. A cartoon pop of explosive enjoyment. My ‘girlfriend’ cheekily wipes it with a finger and then looks to the camera as I lick it off her. ‘Mmm!’ says a bass voice.
Then the cast are lined up, standing in front of a green screen of zoomed in sausages, cartoon faces drawn on each one.
‘Saucy!’ we cheer.
There’s a blip of bad editing at the end of the commercial which means the line of us is frozen for a long second before the next advert starts.
Dad pauses the TV.
We’re all silent for a moment.
Then Dad says seriously, ‘Pete, we’re removing the Emmy Special from the menu.’
He’s disowning me.
He continues, ‘We’re turning it into a Sausage Fest.’
Pete and Dad laugh heartily.
I know they’re only joking. I think they’re only joking. And for heaven’s sake, the advert is horrible trash. So why am I feeling like I’m about to cry?
Dad rewinds and plays the horrible commercial again, studying it while polishing a glass.
‘So this is your “job”?’
I’m blushing as hard as the pizzas. How is my Saucy Sausages commercial the first acting work my dad has seen me do since school?
Alice looks at me.
‘Mr Clooney, with respect,’ she says, disrespectfully, ‘it’s incredibly competitive to get a television commercial spot like that. I’m very proud of her.’
I stare at her. I can’t believe that, even after I tried to give her bad news about our relationship mere minutes ago, she’s still standing up for me. She’s even willing to fight my own family about it. I’m so embarrassed, so close to tears, that when she takes my hand and gives it a defiant squeeze, I feel so much gratitude it’s overwhelming. I squeeze her hand back.
Dad comes through from the kitchen, Pete trailing behind him. Dad’s chest puffs the way it does with rude customers.
‘Oh, and it’s not competitive, selling pizza in London? Everything is competitive. But you don’t need to sell your soul away for something that doesn’t care about you, that stereotypes you like this. You choose this – this foolishness to a proper family job?’
It’s the final straw. Something deep in me snaps.
‘You know what?’ I say. ‘Fuck you, Dad.’
The words echo round the empty restaurant.
‘My face has been seen by more people in the past minute than will ever step foot in this restaurant,’ I say, shaking. ‘I earnt more money doing that commercial than I’ve ever made from being a waitress. What do I have to do for you to believe acting is a proper job?’
Dad stops polishing his glass. Pete takes his chef hat off and worries it round in his hands. I think I feel the power Alice must experience when she summarises someone’s flaws in reviews. It’s intoxicating.
‘You’ve never come to see my shows,’ I gasp. ‘Never! I-I got the best marks from the best drama school, and y-you didn’t even ask if you could come to my graduation?’
Dad grasps the counter and looks away from me. His frown has collapsed in on itself. He opens his mouth, but now I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
‘Mum wouldn’t have laughed,’ I say. ‘How is the parent who literally abandoned me still more supportive than the one I stayed with? Sometimes I—’ I choke. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d chosen her!’
My throat is sandpaper, but it’s strangely satisfying, how it hurts.
‘I have tried and tried to be a good daughter to you,’ I shout, ‘but you – you’ve never tried to be a good father to me. All you care about is yourself, and your one friend, and your stupid – fucking – pizza.’
I pick up the plate with the cold remnants of my Emmy Special to gesture with it, but in doing so, I accidentally knock it off the table. It smashes onto the yellow brick tiles.
My immediate instinct is to apologise, run to the back room to get the dustpan, and offer to sacrifice a week’s wages. But suddenly Alice mimics my gesture, pushing her own uneaten salad off the table. The plate smashes next to mine. She comes and grips my hand, triumphant.
‘Emmeline, love,’ says Pete quietly. ‘You’ve got it wro—’
‘Stay out of this please, Boss!’ I snap. ‘This is a family matter.’
Pete looks like I’ve spat at him. I feel sick. I’ve never been intentionally rude to Pete before. But my mouth keeps going.
‘And in fact, you’re not my boss anymore,’ I say. ‘Because I quit.’
‘Emmeline,’ growls Dad, but Pete puts a hand on his arm.
‘In that case,’ says Pete, ‘I can only thank you very much, for your contribution to the company.’ He bows, puts his chef hat back on, and leaves the restaurant.
For once in his dramatic life, Dad seems lost for words.
‘Well then,’ he says finally. ‘I’ll take you off the rota.’
My throat hurts so much. Isn’t he going to apologise? Aren’t I? We can’t just leave without a reunion, can we?
‘We can talk more tonight,’ he says.
‘No,’ says Alice. ‘Emmy’s going to come and stay with me.’
I stare at Dad, trying to will him to tell me to stay. All I need is one word from him, and I’ll stay.
But Dad just nods. Alice squeezes my hand. As he walks away, I feel the world slipping away from under me.
‘D-don’t come and see Twelfth Night,’ I call after him. ‘Not that you would have bothered anyway!’
At the door, he hesitates and turns back. My heart leaps.
‘You should apologise to Pete,’ he says, and closes the novelty meatball handle behind him.
42
Alice calls us a cab and strokes my leg. I check my phone, expecting missed calls from Dad.
Instead, there’s a text from Mum.
Hi my love, hope you won’t mind me texting, but Pete just called to say you fought with your father. You always have a home here, if you need a place. Would you like to talk about it? I’m just a phone call away. I’m sure it feels awful right now but I hold out hope that there’s always a chance to forgive the people who really matter.
I swallow painfully. I stare out the window, wondering how I could even begin to reply. When I look back, I have a new message. From Mae. I angle my phone away from Alice.
Yo, Cloons. Feels kind of weird not seeing each other every day now, doesn’t it? Before the tech on 29th, are you still on for meeting with the rest of the cast outside Foyles? Oooor I wondered if you wanted to meet you and me before that? Maybe we could get coffee so I can insult their latte art technique?
Alice tuts at me. ‘Darling, don’t worry about anything else right now. Turn that phone off.’
‘I just need to—’
She holds a finger up. She’s right. Dad isn’t going to contact me, I’m stressing myself out further by seeing these other messages, and I’m being rude to Alice. I return my phone to my pocket and try to enjoy the feeling of her hand in mine.
As soon as we’re in through her front door, she puts our bags down and hugs me for a long time.
‘Shhh,’ she says. ‘You’re safe now. No one can get you here.’
At first I feel very tense, presumably the aftermath of the fight. I do my calming breathing exercises. I take in the soft-pink walls of her corridor, the white marble tiles.
‘That’s right,’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘That’s better, isn’t it. We’ll be all right – now it’s just you and me.’
I desperately wish I was with Ruth and Raphy. But they don’t want me bothering them anymore.
‘Stop overthinking, darling. There’s nothing to worry about now.’ She rubs my tense shoulders. ‘Let’s get rid of all that stress. How about a nice bath, hmm?’
Alice steers me to her bathroom. It has elegant hexagonal tiles, a vase of white lilies, and a skylight casting holy reflections onto the huge bath. The only bath I’m used to is the pool of sudsy water at the bottom of our blocked shower, but Alice has one of those freestanding tubs with ornate feet and bronze taps.
She sits me on a wicker chair (begging the question – why do you need a chair in a bathroom?) and runs the tap for me, pouring in salts and oils. It makes me feel like a grimy urchin. She lights a huge candle, making it even more cloying in the room. I go to open the high window, but Alice stops me.
‘Cosy and warm,’ she says.
So I just watch, the smell of the rose bubbles, the vanilla candle, and the lily perfume heavy in my throat.
Alice produces a large white towel and dressing gown as though I’m at a spa. She ferries treats from the kitchen, lining up a home-made Old Fashioned and chocolate truffles. I feel awful when I remind her that I don’t like whiskey and I’m vegan. She whisks up the bubbles angrily and huffs as she takes them away.
‘Alice, no one has ever been this lovely to me,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
She looks at me for a long moment, and kisses me. The steaming water pounds into the endless bath.
‘This is what it will be like, every day, from now on,’ she says. ‘You don’t need to worry about anyone or anything else. I’ll take care of you.’
I worry she’s going to try to get in with me, but she just adds, ‘Risotto for dinner.’
‘Alice. . .’ I hold her hands, feeling so awed and humbled that the guilt about Mae is kept at bay, ‘thank you for being so generous, but please, you really don’t need to do anything more. Let me order in some takeaway or something, it’s the least I can do.’
But she waves her hand away.
‘I don’t want you eating trash. I’m going to feed you properly.’
She turns the tap off.
‘This is just what a good relationship looks like. Get in now, darling.’
I wait for her to leave, but she remains, looking at me. When it’s been too long, I start to take off my clothes like it’s a game of poker, least vulnerable clothes first. Socks, jeans… I pretend to fiddle for a long time with my shirt buttons.
‘Thank you,’ I say again. ‘I’ll be all right from here.’
Alice tuts affectionately and with quick fingers undoes the remaining buttons of my shirt, pulls it over my head. Now I’m just in my pants and sports bra. I cross my arms.
