Chapter Eleven

Ali’s true to his word – he calls the very next afternoon, but I don’t pick up. Partly it’s because my mouth’s full of pins, partly it’s because I’m not sure what to say. Our date was undeniably fun, but maybe more like the fun you’d have with a really good male friend that you hadn’t seen in ages (who just happens to be a really good kisser). I didn’t have that heart-in-mouth, quivering feeling I get around Charles, a feeling that shows no sign of abating. Now I’ve experienced it I’m not sure there’s any going back. And Ali sure as hell doesn’t deserve being treated as a post-Charles test case, not when he’s been so badly hurt already. What am I saying? It’s not just altruism. The idea I’d have to tell him I’ve served him up lie pie with cream on the side – right after he’s confided about his lying, cheating ex – is too horrific for words.

I’ve replied with a text, promising to call once work’s let up. It needs thought and right now there’s no time for thought: I’m way too busy dodging the personal and professional bullets whistling past my ears from every direction. Tarquin barely looks at me, choosing to deal with Gareth whenever possible, while Suzanne talks to me as though I’m some kind of care in the community halfwit, seconded to the production against their will. She constantly checks up on me, asking me to explain the most basic of decisions. Thank God for Zelda’s raft of brilliant suggestions, which are proving utterly invaluable. When I think about how energetic and inspiring she was, I start to believe that she really might be back on side soon. Suzanne certainly seems to think so, claiming she had a very positive conversation with her only last week. But then, she also believed that she was speaking to her from a beach in Rio De Janeiro, so she’s probably not best placed to judge.

The last plate that’s maniacally spinning is Dad’s visit, now a mere thirty-six hours away. Partly I’m looking forward to seeing him, partly I’m dreading the disappointment that feels like an inevitable consequence. He and Alice have a mutual understanding that I don’t share – he loves that she’s in education, even if it’s in a less highfaluting context than him, while Rufus is left basking happily in Julia’s uncomplicated adoration. I often feel like a bit of a black sheep, even though Alice swears I’m being paranoid. Perhaps she’s right. I’m feeling oddly galvanized by the last few weeks, despite the litany of disasters. If Zelda thinks I’m no longer a duckling, if Charles finds me so darn captivating, surely I’ve got to have enough about me to properly engage my own father? I’m thinking about temporarily breaking away from the tyranny of feeling like the less interesting half of ‘the twins’ and crow-barring some time into his diary that’s just about me and him. Would seeing him without Alice feel too exposing, or would it allow us to find a long-buried connection we’ve lost sight of? Maybe it’s time to take a risk and find out once and for all.

See how all roads still lead back to Charles? Right now I’m in the production office, putting off the inevitable moment when I have to drive out to location. Tarquin wants to go through my costume ideas for Lady Victoria’s birthday ball and both of the stars will be on-set. Emily’s requested a meeting, so I can’t get away with a flying visit. Charles and I haven’t spoken since that fateful night in the pub; all we’ve done is exchange the odd melting, painful smile. He hasn’t so much as texted me, but I’m oddly sanguine about it. He’s one of life’s goodies and I’m sure he doesn’t want to make it any harder for me than it already is. He’s someone else’s husband, a fact I know I must swallow down obediently, like bitter medicine. But I still can’t help mentally toying with the things he said that night, reliving how special he made me feel.

Gareth breaks my reverie, sweeping into the production office weighed down by a roll of lace.

‘Très, très glam,’ he says, taking in my figure-hugging jersey dress. ‘What’s the occasion? More police, camera, action?’ I hadn’t even noticed I was over-dressed: it’s positively Pavlovian the way I up the ante when there’s the remotest prospect of Charles clapping eyes on me.

‘No occasion,’ I mutter, embarrassed. ‘Is that the trim for the ball gowns?’ We’re off to Ripon on Monday, where we’ll shoot the ball and various other scenes of pseudo opulence at a crumbling stately home.

‘The very same. It’s the scratchiest nylon ever created. I swear they’ll all come out in hives. Maybe we should make Emily some knickers from it. It might prevent her from getting herself knocked up by that boy-band reject.’

Emily’s been all over the tabloids this week, caught on CCTV getting down and dirty with some no-count pop star who’s even more primped and highlighted than she is. She claims she’s mortified, but she didn’t seem remotely distraught when she stopped by the office yesterday. She’s recently employed a notorious silver-haired, silver-tongued, permatanned publicist and I suspect this is his opening gambit.

‘You’re looking quite the dandy yourself,’ I say, noticing that Gareth’s sporting a red neckerchief, tied at a jaunty angle.

‘I was just trying to cheer myself up a bit, but I fear all I’ve done is make myself look like a dog who’s won first prize in an obedience contest.’

‘You’d never win an obedience contest,’ I tell him. Gareth really wouldn’t. He got expelled from boarding school for stealing a crate of champagne from the headmaster’s Christmas party and it’s been a slippery slope ever since. ‘I know it’s miserable without Zelda here, but it won’t be long now. She seemed very confident it was under control when I saw her.’

‘Darling, do you really believe your own hype?’

‘Yes, yes, I do,’ I tell him defensively. ‘Zelda wouldn’t lie to me.’

‘OK, OK, if you say so. Let’s descend on her with a casserole or something, à la classic “Neighbours”. As a special treat I’ll let you be Madge.’

‘Which era though?’ I ask him. ‘The Ramsay years or the Madge Bishop period? I need to feel into my character.’ I stand on tiptoes, eyes closed, pretending to channel my inner Madge.

‘Oh, you’re having hot, hot loving with Harold, no question.’

My eyes spring open in disgust. Gareth always knows how to take a joke one stage too far. He shoos me out of the office, promising to hound Zelda with calls if I bite the bullet and go to location. Overwhelmingly reluctant, I accidentally on purpose leave the map behind, resorting to a circuitous route round the back edges of Willesden. I’m steeling myself to go back to square one – or was it square two? – where I was attempting to exude calm authority. If I really were the costume designer, rather than a last-minute stand-in, my status on this job would be immense. I start imagining one of those cheesy American TV life coaches talking me into the zone. ‘Feel the feelings, live the dream, be what you’ve always wanted to be. You ARE invincible!’ Oops! I slam on the brakes, a whisker away from running a red light. Must remember that my terrible driving doesn’t allow for mental multitasking.

Charles is the first person I see. He’s swinging his Land Rover into the car park, expertly spinning it into a narrow gap. Considering how sexy he is at driving, how unutterably sexy would he be at sex? When he spots me he looks almost startled, which is hardly surprising considering how much I’ve been avoiding set.

‘Oh, hello, Lulu. I was starting to think you’d forgotten all about us.’

Who is the ‘us’ he’s talking about? The ‘us’ always felt like me and him until we stepped over the line.

‘Um, no. I’ve just been busy. Lots of costumes, you know how it is.’

‘Gosh, you’re such a captain of industry. Are you walking over to location?’

Is that it? I know it’s pathetic to feel rejected, but I don’t think I can bear going from intimacy to chummy neutrality with such brutal speed. Although it’s probably our safest option, I can’t help but long for him to acknowledge what’s gone before; to indicate that he pines for me like I pine for him, even if there’s nowhere for it to go. ‘Yes, yes, I am,’ I say in a small voice, wondering how awkward 200 yards could prove to be. Oh boy, it’s awkward. His foppish charm seems to have gone into hibernation and my frozen-over brain can’t even come up with something as uninspired as my Alsatian query. The second assistant director – a chirpy blonde who wears her walkie-talkie like a fashion accessory – delivers us from the conversational quagmire.

‘Charles, make-up are desperate for you.’

He smiles gratefully, setting off after her retreating back.

‘Bye, Lulu, see you soon.’ I look at him, forcing a smile. ‘Sorry,’ he mouths, leaving me totally flummoxed. Sorry for what? For kissing me? For (not) talking to me like he’s never met me before? I desperately need Alice to help with the Polish translation, but my pride still won’t allow me to admit to my own idiocy.

Tarquin’s a little less frosty than he’s been in recent days, even managing to compliment me on a couple of the designs I show him. I desperately need to make up with him, however much it sticks in my craw.

‘What’s your template for the ball?’ I ask him. ‘What’s the grand plan?’ I’m hoping the ‘grand’ will subliminally massage his enormous ego.

‘Aw, dunno, Lulu,’ he says, suddenly coming over a little Mockney. There’s a new Guy Ritchie film out this week, I’m sure it’s no coincidence. ‘I want it to be bold and brash, you know?’ Tarquin’s the master of meaningless hyperbole. ‘Kind of like Star Wars.’

Star Wars?! What possible relationship can there be between Star Wars and our bonnets-on-a-budget extravaganza?

‘I see,’ I say uncomprehendingly, nodding sagely to play for time.

‘Yeah, like utterly surprising.’ He’s thrashing his arms around for emphasis. ‘There’s so much underlying conflict – rich and poor, men and women. It’s a battle as well as a ball! It should be visually mesmerizing, Lulu.’

‘I’m sure it will be.’

‘I guarantee it, my old china.’ My old china?! ‘It’s good to kick it around with you, get some juice into it. I’ve always said you’re the brains on this shoot. I was telling Suzanne that only this week.’

He’s such a bullshit artist. But who am I to talk, casting him looks of heartfelt admiration as he spouts his faux auteur nonsense? A flash of fear strikes me as I consider whether or not my choice of career means a compulsory pact with the devil. Leave your soul at the door, do not pass go. Ali flashes into my mind momentarily, a man who’s utterly confident in the fact he’s doing good. Perhaps he’ll be the saint with the clipboard turning me away from Peter’s Pearly Gates when the time comes.

Either way, I’m glad Tarquin’s perked up, and all Emily requires is a bit of reassurance that she’s going to be the hottest bitch at the ball.

‘I just know what colours suit me, you know?’ she says, head winsomely tilted to one side. ‘Aquamarine brings out my eyes like you wouldn’t believe.’

I don’t have the heart to tell her she’ll be dressed in magenta.

‘The thing is, Emily, you’ve got such a versatile look that you can carry off a huge range of shades. It’s very rare, in fact.’

‘Really?’ she says. ‘Thank you, darling! You always make me feel you’ve got my back. I don’t care what anyone says, you’re brilliant.’

What does everyone say? Does the whole crew hate me? Do even my own team think I’m a rank amateur? I pull myself together: if I stay here much longer I’m going to get as self-centred as Emily. I need the normality of home; the steady rhythm of my relationship with Alice, forged a million miles away from the maddening hall of mirrors that is the television industry. I head back to the car. Even so, I can’t help but look back, wondering if Charles will suddenly appear from nowhere. A part of me longs to see him – to glean more of where he’s at and undo the awkwardness of earlier – but the wiser part of me knows it’s the last thing I need.

The traffic’s Friday-night terrible and it’s gone nine by the time I get back. I thought Alice would be out with Richard, but she’s hunched over her laptop in her tracksuit bottoms.

‘I have to pick a night,’ she says disconsolately. ‘He’s got someone else covering for him tomorrow so he said he’d have to work tonight.’

‘Are you OK about him meeting Dad so soon? It’s only been a few weeks…’

‘I know, but Dad only pitches up once in a blue moon. I really think me and Richard have got something, and if I don’t introduce them this time it’ll be forever.’

‘Mm,’ I say non-committally, worried she’s going to terrify the hell out of him. But maybe I’m behaving like some self-hating misogynist, assuming that all men need to be subtly lured into the forest of commitment with a trail of emotional breadcrumbs. After all, he’s agreed to come. Surely that’s a good sign?

‘I’m so glad you’re back!’ says Alice, enthusiastically sploshing about half a bottle of wine into a glass for me. ‘I’m actually surfing Facebook on a Friday night. You know how it is when you get a boyfriend, you completely forget how you entertained yourself when you were single.’

‘Er, being Jenna’s wing-woman on some misjudged bar crawl? Snogging classroom assistants in that pound-a-pint pub in Mare Street?’

‘Yeah, that’s about the size of it. God, why are we never single at the same time? Pl-e-e-e-a-se give Ali another once over.’

‘What, so we can go on double dates? They’ll probably have to take place in the exercise yard at Holloway, you realize.’

‘No,’ says Alice, laughing, ‘not just to make me happy! Because he sounds sweet.’

‘His sweetness is partly the problem. He’d probably refuse to watch “America’s Next Top Model” because it encourages conflict.’

‘But the back-stabbing’s the best part!’

‘Exactly!’

‘I’m just worried about you,’ says Alice pleadingly. ‘It’s nearly four months since you and Steve broke up and you’re still behaving like a nun.’ She’s looking at me in a way that tells me that she’s been storing this up, chewing it over. ‘You must be obsessing about it, but not telling me cos you think it’s boring. But you never bore me, Lulu. I hate it when you bottle stuff up.’

‘It’s not that…’ I say, pausing. My reasons for not confiding are wearing increasingly thin, particularly as it’s well and truly over. Maybe I should just take the plunge and deal with her wrath about the fact I’ve kept such a major secret. ‘It’s more complicated than you realize.’

‘It’s NOT complicated,’ says Alice bossily. ‘He’s not remotely good enough. I want you to be with someone where it’s straightforward, someone who gets how great you are and loves you for it.’

And in a heartbeat I’m reminded how much Alice loves simplicity. Two plus two equals four. That’s why I’ve kept schtum, and why it remains the best policy. I can’t explain my mangled, illogical feelings to myself, let alone to her.

‘We need to get out there more,’ she says, running on. ‘I’ll ugly twin it up and we’ll go out and find someone for you. We haven’t gone out dancing for weeks.’

I hate dancing. I’ve got at least three left feet. Put Alice on a dance floor, meanwhile, and it’s like Bianca Jagger taking to the floor at Studio 54.

‘Or we could go to one of those late-night gallery openings full of clever single people who can talk about Impressionism.’

‘They’ll have beards, I can feel it in my bones,’ I say. ‘It’ll be fine, Alice, I know it will. I’ve – I’ve just been working so hard and…’

‘Yeah and it sounds like there’s no one remotely hot and single on this job.’

‘No, quite,’ I agree, a little too emphatically. Oh, the irony.

‘It’s just… it’s making me really happy having someone again, and…’

Why is she hurling all her eggs into Richard’s basket with such alacrity? I’m hearing how happy she says she is, but I’m sensing an undercurrent of self-delusion. Is she more smitten with the idea of a boyfriend than Richard himself? There are a few too many booty calls and not enough wining and dining for my liking. He’s constantly using the off-licence as a reason to be unavailable, but I can’t help wondering if it’s an excuse. Meanwhile, Alice seems to be convincing herself that he’s Islington’s answer to Rhett Butler.

‘Oh God, I’m so bored of talking about myself,’ I say. ‘What the hell are you doing on Facebook, anyway? You hate it.’

‘I know, I wish I’d never gone near it. There are loads of messages thanking us for the party, which is nice, but then there’re about four people I’d never be friends with in the real world asking to be my friend.’

‘That’s what I hate about it. It completely denigrates the meaning of friendship.’ I giggle. ‘How old do I sound? Maybe I’ll write a letter to the Telegraph.’

‘No, you’re right. That kid in my class, Marco, his dad just poked me! How can that ever be appropriate? And Pam from school who we never even liked threw a palm tree at me because she’s going on holiday. How stupid is that? If she actually threw a palm tree at me, I’d be suing her for assault. It’s a fantasist’s paradise.’

I peer over her shoulder. ‘It says you can rub suntan lotion into Pam’s back though.’

‘Eurgh. Do you remember how spotty she always was? But, Lulu, this is worse.’

She clicks her mouse and brings up Jenna’s page. Her picture’s all tits and teeth, and her single status is emblazoned for all to see. ‘She’s become a fan of pizza! How pointless is that? She goes mental when there’s no one to obsess about. But it’s not just her, look, there are 269,152 other losers worshipping dough.’

‘Just commit Facebook suicide,’ I tell her. ‘It’s like a porn habit you can’t crack.’

‘I know, I know…’

But there’s no denying it’s addictive. Soon we’re trawling it for exes and laying into a second bottle of wine. Ali texts around midnight, by which time I’m most definitely drunk.

When I explain the context, Alice declares the text comic genius, and before I know it I’ve sent a tentative acceptance to his invitation. Now I’ll just have to stay drunk so I don’t get tangled up in the implications.

It’s well past two a.m. by the time we get to bed, meaning I’m far from bright and bushy-tailed when I wake up. Maybe this is the head I was aiming for, the muzziness cancelling out my stupid, illogical anxiety about seeing my own father. I sneak ‘Gossip Girl’ into the DVD player until Alice’s determined vacuuming guilt trips me into action. She’s faffing around with the latest Jamie Oliver book, veering between insane ideas like making pasta from scratch and roasting whole suckling pigs. I beg her to settle for a simple pasta sauce, but she totally dismisses my input, eventually deciding on aubergine parmigiana. The afternoon’s spent in a fug of oily smoke, frying endless slices of the accursed things, monotony only broken by the various errands that Alice sends me out on. I can tell she’s ridiculously stressed, even though she flatly denies it, snapping at me for buying the wrong kind of mozzarella and refusing to let Jenna come round for a ‘chat’.

I don’t rise to the provocation, blaming her mood on understandable nerves about introducing her new squeeze to our (sort of) parents. I take on table-laying duties to allow her a good hour of beautification prior to Richard’s arrival. Dad and Julia turn up on the doorstep dead on seven, bearing a dodgy-looking bottle of wine and some droopy chrysanthemums.

‘Hello, darling,’ says Dad, giving me a brisk kiss and handing the wine to me. ‘I’m afraid the local amenities leave a lot to be desired, hence the plonk.’

‘Oh, Andrew!’ says Julia, rolling her eyes, all mock conspiratorial with me. ‘It seems like a good spot to me. Much better than your last place.’

‘Come in, come in,’ I say as Alice comes bounding down the stairs.

‘Hello, Daddy!’ she says, giving him a hug. I don’t know if Julia clocks my confliction as I witness them, but she swiftly links an arm through mine and asks for a tour of the rest of the house. I’m well aware what she’s really after – the lowdown on what’s cooking – so I start with the kitchen. Soon she’s sticking her head in the oven, inspecting the parmigiana and congratulating me on the baby baked potatoes.

‘Much, much better than relying on wheat. I’m so glad I wasn’t such a wicked stepmother that you learnt nothing from me! You do still always remember how vital it is to obey the call to stool, don’t you, Lulu?’ Oh God, why must she do this?

‘Erm, yes – obviously,’ I tell her, yanking her away from the oven and leading her up the stairs.

‘Good, good. It’s the key to a healthy colon,’ she says, beaming with pleasure. I try to distract her by asking about Rufus, who she’s already spent an evening with.

‘I’m desperately curious about this girlfriend of his,’ she says. ‘What are your thoughts?’

‘She’s nice, I think. They seem very affectionate.’

‘I know this will sound a bit ridiculous, but him bringing a girl home feels like a milestone.’

You can say that again: I almost ask her if she shared our suspicions that he was a friend of Dorothy, but it seems kind of inappropriate.

‘And now Alice has got a beau in tow too!’ she continues. ‘What about you, Lulu? Are you going to bed with anyone at the moment?’ Where does she get these bizarre phrases? It’s a hangover from her early, tentative stabs at stepmotherhood, where she’d nervously drop in a question or a word of advice and then run away from it like it was an unexploded bomb. Ghastly tweens that we were, we could smell fear and would ruthlessly mock her bumbling advances. I momentarily imagine how much Charles’s children would hate me if they knew how much I long for their dad, then chastise myself for straying into such forbidden territory.

‘Er, no, not really. I’m dating,’ I tell her, hoping it makes me sound glamorous and mysterious. Luckily Julia’s been burnt far too many times to attempt emotional keyhole surgery.

‘Good, good,’ she says. ‘I’m sure someone super is lurking round the corner, ready to pounce.’

I’m both glad and sad that she’s backed off. I wonder if Mum was still here whether I’d be pouring out the whole truth, nothing but the truth, to her? Sometimes it feels like she’s been reduced to a smudgy photocopy, a faint trace of the vital, complex woman who once existed. Who was she really? It’s so easy to idealize her, but how different would my memories be if she’d lived a few more years and had to try her hand at dealing with our secretive, moody teenage incarnations? We were only just in double figures when we lost her, still so simple to nurture.

‘It’s lovely, Lulu, really lovely,’ says Julia. I can see her mentally cataloguing the random detritus on my dressing table, analysing the clues. Julia’s a secret snoop, always looking for the answers she can’t prise out of us. A knock on the door signals Rufus’s arrival, giving me the perfect excuse to gently hustle her out.

I hug him hello, fighting a creeping suspicion that he’s a replicant. He looks almost like my brother, smells almost like my brother, but somehow isn’t my brother. Gone are the inevitably uncool jeans, seamlessly replaced by a pair of smart black trousers. His Pixies T-shirt’s been consigned to the wash basket, overthrown by an actual shirt, with buttons. Even that comforting top note of unwashed man has been expunged; now it’s aftershave all the way. He’s got the evil puppet master in tow, who’s charm personified. ‘Mrs Godwin!’ she says, double-kissing Julia. ‘What a complete pleasure to meet you.’ Julia blushes pink with delight as Dinah turns her attentions to Dad, scoring a total blinder with an enquiry about a paper he’s just published. Once he’s given her a précis, he claps his hands as if to bring us to order.

‘Shall we eat?’ he asks, a tad impatiently. ‘Smells delicious.’

‘Um, I just wanted to wait for Richard to arrive,’ says Alice hesitantly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here any second.’

‘Let’s give him fifteen minutes or so,’ he concedes, ‘but we are still on East Coast time.’

‘Oh, Mr Godwin, you must try my travel tincture!’ pipes up Dinah. ‘It knocks out jet lag in a heartbeat. When I went to Maine in the summer I was sparkling right from the off.’

‘Do call me Andrew,’ says Dad, looking positively tickled by how solicitous she is.

‘Dad, has Alice shown you the rest of the house? Do you want a quick tour while we wait for Richard?’

‘Don’t worry, Lulu, she’s shown me downstairs and I don’t have any great need to poke around your bedrooms.’ He tempers it with a smile, but I’m illogically stung by it.

‘Oh, OK. How long are you here for anyway? Are you doing something ground-breaking with test tubes or inventing a cure for something hideous?’

Why am I so incapable of talking about his work in an adult way? It’s like I define myself as the airhead offspring who doesn’t understand its true significance. He smiles patronizingly.

‘Just a week, I’m afraid. I’m addressing a conference in Oxford and accepting an honorary fellowship.’

‘I’m going to go and see him speak!’ adds Rufus proudly. I think about offering to come too, before realizing that there’s no way my work schedule would allow it. Or that I’d understand a word he was saying. I might as well try to sit an A level in Estonian folklore.

‘I’ve been filming near Oxford,’ I tell him.

‘Yeah,’ says Alice, ‘you won’t believe what a step up Lulu’s taken. She’s the queen of bonnets.’

‘Ooh, is it like “Pride and Prejudice”?’ says Julia. I ramble on about how low rent it is and how much over budget I’ve gone, totally denigrating my contribution for no accountable reason. Still, at least it fills the gap before Richard deigns to make an appearance. Alice positively beams when he comes through the door, his lateness instantly forgiven. She leads him over to Dad like he’s a thoroughbred stallion. Dad inspects him over the top of his glasses and administers a brief, sharp handshake.

We’ve made asparagus to start with, a layer of melty Swiss cheese over the top. Dinah puts a dainty hand on my arm as I’m dishing up.

‘Lulu, would you mind awfully if I had it without the asparagus?’ The cheese is literally welded to it by now.

‘It’s kind of integral,’ I say, rather at a loss.

‘Is it the way it makes your wee smell of burnt rubber which puts you off?’ asks Julia jollily. ‘I know it’s rather pungent, but the nutritional value more than makes up for it!’

Dinah looks taken aback. ‘No, I just don’t really like it. It’s absolutely fine, I’ll have some bread.’

I take a few spears back to the kitchen and try to melt the cheese back off over the hob, managing to burn the ends in the process. Soon the smoke alarm’s ringing out and I’m dancing round the kitchen with a wet tea towel looking like a drunken morris dancer.

‘So no actual fire then?’ says Dad, appearing from next door. He smiles at me, reaching his long body upward to stop the hellish siren.

‘No fire, just a one-woman fondue,’ I say, indicating the blackened asparagus, burning cheese spilling off it.

It’s a nice feeling having him there, doing something fatherly and protective (even if it’s as lacking in jeopardy as saving me from the curse of boiling cheese). Seeing him stretching up, I’m suddenly reminded of what a giant he seemed when we were tiny, and how we used to get him to chase us around the garden shouting ‘Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum’. Mum used to hate that game because of how hyper and over-excited we’d end up. I think about asking him if he remembers, but while I’m still formulating the question he retreats back to his place at the head of the table.

Conversation putters along, with Julia questioning Richard about the off-licence (the cogs visibly turning as she tots up his units) and Rufus asking Dad keen questions about his presentation. It suddenly seems so superficial. As per normal, my mind wanders to Charles, thinking about how baldly honest he was that night in the pub. I loved how unfettered he was, how jaggedly truthful he was about what he was feeling. I love my Dad and I’m simply going to tell him what’s on my mind.

I clumsily cut across Dinah, who’s treating us all to a rundown of her dressage trophies.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you remember that game we used to play? When you chased us around pretending to be a giant? And how Mum would try and stop you cos it meant we wouldn’t go to sleep?’ There’s a pause as everyone tries to catch up with my complete non sequitur.

‘That’s right!’ he says, a smile wreathing his face. ‘You were such little terrors at that age, always swapping your clothes to try and fox us.’

‘What else do you remember?’ I continue eagerly.

‘Oh, London life seems like an aeon ago,’ he says, suddenly dismissive. ‘Can’t imagine how we lived here when I look back.’

For London, read Mum. I look over at Julia, wondering if he’s frightened that memories of his life before her will make her feel displaced. She’s silent, watching nervously.

‘Well it was, but –’

‘Can I have a little more of your parmigiana?’ says Dad, clearly keen to change the subject. ‘I had no idea you’d become such culinary stars in our absence.’

Alice beams with pleasure, oblivious to how smoothly he’s dispatched our early lives to the vault. Meanwhile Dinah’s busy scraping the mozzarella off the top of her parmigiana and stacking it neatly at the side of her plate. Course One suggested she liked cheese, but obviously her relationship with it is more complicated than it first appears. She spots me looking. ‘It’s delicious!’ she says with a theatrical roll of the eyes. ‘Mmm!’

Grumpy and dispirited, I stomp to the kitchen to retrieve pudding. Conversation buzzes merrily behind me, but it just sounds like noise. Maybe I’m the freak, not them, with this sudden craving for visceral mental connection. It’s like I’m experiencing all the emotional intensity of falling in love but without the other person there to play it out with. Am I going to start spontaneously demanding bus drivers give up their deepest fears and desires to me because I can’t ask it of Charles? Richard helpfully follows me through with some plates and I start to wonder if I’ve been too judgemental. That’s until he slips on the wet tea towel, breaking a plate and unleashing a stream of swear words which wouldn’t sound out of place on a pirate ship.

‘God, sorry. Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘I must’ve dropped it when I was trying to make the smoke alarm stop.’

‘Would it’ve been so much trouble to just PICK IT UP?!’ he snarls.

‘Baby, what happened?’ says Alice, rushing in. ‘Did you cut your hand?’

He’s not six! I want to cry out. He’s certainly not six in swearing years. Alice is fussing round him now, kissing it better and stroking his angry face.

‘I’m fine, honey,’ he says, putting an arm around her waist and smiling beatifically. I beat a hasty retreat before my expression gives me away, chucking down the pudding plates like I’m dealing cards. It’s gone ten and I can see Dad starting to yawn.

‘Are you flagging, Dad?’ He nods a tired assent. ‘Will we see you again before you go?’

‘You girls could come and have tea at the hotel on Tuesday,’ he says, unaware how impossible that would be. I think again about my idea of trying to get him on his own, but I’m too self-conscious to suggest it.

‘I’m in Ripon next week,’ I say, ‘though I’ll be back by Sunday. Perhaps I could –’

‘Sunday’s out. We’re driving to Farnham to see Julia’s parents.’ He looks round at Rufus, who nods that he’s coming: maybe I should just tag along? But then I think about spending my one day off with a couple of dreary old crumblies I’m not even related to and swiftly dismiss it. I might as well just drive a tea trolley down our street and see who invites me in.

‘You’ll just have to come to Boston instead,’ he adds.

‘I will, Dad,’ I tell him, determined to follow my good intentions through, despite my irritation. ‘I promise.’

Conversation is stopped dead by the shrill shriek of a car alarm. Dad goes racing out of the door, only to find the back window of his rented Prius smashed to smithereens. ‘Christ, this is why I hate London!’ he shouts. Disastrously he’s left a briefcase in the boot filled with papers relating to his talk. They’re of absolutely no use to a thief, but critical to him. He’s puce with rage, all set to call 999.

‘Dad, it’s not 999 for this kind of thing, it’s the local number,’ I tell him cautiously. ‘I’ll look it up in the book.’

‘This kind of thing never happens at home!’ he fumes. ‘London’s like a sewer nowadays.’

An unwarranted wave of anger spreads through me and I think about picking apart his beloved ‘home’ – asking him about the crime rate in Detroit or South Central LA – but I realize it’s not the time. Richard, meanwhile, is beside himself at stumbling upon an opportunity to vent his rage.

‘They should string them up,’ he fulminates. ‘All this softly-softly shit: they need to know who’s boss. At least when there was hanging there was a proper deterrent.’

I look round to see if anyone else is reacting to his psychotic ranting, but everyone’s poised to hear if Dad’s got through to the police. He’s left on hold for half an hour, frustration spiralling out of control. Julia pats his hand, smiles comfortingly, but there’s nothing anyone can do. When he eventually does get through he’s given short shrift.

‘Are you not even going to bother coming out?’ he asks incredulously. ‘What earthly use is a crime reference number?’

Pleading, claiming national importance: nothing works. Richard offers to take the phone, quivering with anticipation, but Dad thankfully declines. Oh God, why did this have to happen? He’ll always associate this evening, and London itself, with this horrible event. He’s obsessing about it now, trying to think if there’s anything useful to be done, any way of breaking down the police’s total lack of interest. Could I? Would he?

‘Dad,’ I start hesitantly. ‘There is someone I could call for advice…’

It seems wrong to ask a favour from Ali before I’ve confessed my crime, but I really want to do something to show Dad that I’m more savvy than he realizes. There’s probably nothing to be done, but if Dad heard it from the horse’s mouth his busy, feverish brain might start to simmer down. He’s willing to try anything right now, so I take my mobile outside and call Ali. His voice goes up with pleasure when he answers.

‘Hey, you!’ he says. ‘Have those slave driver bosses given you Saturday night off? My shift’s just finished if you’re around for a beer.’

‘Can you just stay in policeman mode for five more minutes?’ I ask him. ‘I wanna ask your advice.’

‘I’m all yours.’

And I run him through the whole sorry mess, somehow managing to take a verbal diversion via the burning asparagus and the smoke alarm. Eventually he cuts across me.

‘Alice, the best thing is if I just swing by, talk your dad through a few things and have a poke round a couple of the front gardens. It’s more than possible the cheeky bugger’s just given up and ditched the thing.’

‘Do you think? That’s a brilliant idea. We can start looking now.’

‘No, just hang on. I don’t want you digging round deep, dark holes without me there. I’ll get straight in the car and be there in twenty minutes.’

And that’s when I realize it’s time for the truth. Quite apart from the fact that keeping my raggle-taggle family in line with the lie is more than I can face, I cannot bear to exploit his authenticity and kindness a moment longer.

‘Ali?’

‘Yes?’

‘That’s the thing… You might want to keep me on loud speaker when you’re driving. You might even want to turn round when you hear what I’ve got to say.’

‘And why would that be?’

Here goes.

‘Because I lied to you and you’re the last person who deserves lying to. And I didn’t want to make a fool of you, I was just being a coward and I –’

Ali makes me start from the beginning, listening without interruption as I describe my sorry behaviour. There’s silence when I’ve finished.

‘Ali? Are you in a lay-by with your handbook working out what to charge me with?’

‘Forget it,’ he snaps tersely. ‘I thought you were lying about something, just didn’t know what. I wondered if you had a boyfriend hidden away somewhere, never thought of a twin.’

‘How’d you know I was lying?’ I ask him gingerly.

‘Lot of nose scratching going on, some head cocking. You get to know these things in a job like mine.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I say. ‘I’m really, really –’

‘Let’s just deal with the job in hand.’

He’s on the doorstep in no time, blue light flashing. There’s no kiss hello, just calm efficiency. He apologizes for the Met’s lack of interest, but explains how hamstrung they are, somehow managing to get Dad to see it in similar terms to his overstretched academic resources. Explanation over, he strides towards the door to start the search.

‘I need a rough idea of the area – alleyways, garages, that kind of thing.’

Dad cuts in. ‘We can’t possibly expect you to navigate your way around a strange area. Lulu can show you the ropes, unless you think it’s too dangerous? Maybe I should come along too, rather than hanging around hoping the local bobbies will call back.’

‘No!’ I say hysterically. Everyone bar Alice looks at me oddly. ‘Um, no. Ali and I will be absolutely fine.’

Ali glowers at me, but gruffly agrees. Meanwhile Julia’s eyes are darting back and forth, trying to divine if I could possibly have gone to bed with him. I babble on, hoping to distract her.

‘Besides, I’m terribly tough. Remember that year of judo we did in 1992? I must be at least a beige belt.’

Alice nods, clearly unable to speak for fear of laughing.

‘Shall we get on?’ says Ali, patently unimpressed. I totter after him, realizing too late I should’ve changed out of open-toed high heels. Why did I glam up so much? I guess I’m all about costume, even when there’s no earthly point.

‘Wait up!’ I shout after him.

‘Why, so you can humiliate me a little bit more? Did you really do all of that to get off a speeding fine?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then why did you bother? Have you and your sister got some weird sex cult going on in that cute wee house of yours? Few dead firemen stowed in the dungeon?’

He’s stopped to poke around in a bush, refusing to make eye contact. I stand behind him, stomping my stiletto-clad feet like a shire horse in a futile attempt to keep warm.

‘I went on a date with you because you asked me, and –’

He whips round, cutting across me.

‘That’s one hell of a compliment. Do you go on a date with any chancer who asks you out, or just the ones in uniform?’

‘Hang on, I hadn’t finished. You asked me, and I liked you and I thought we had a bit of zing, even on a dark street corner in deepest South London. And please bear in mind that I hate South London.’

‘Zing, is that what you call it?’ He’s set off again now, leaving me to hobble uselessly after him. ‘I thought we had a bit of “zing” too, but judging by how long it’s taken you to call me back, the zing’s well and truly worn off for you.’

‘It hasn’t…’ I say, feeling disloyal to Charles all over again. I want to reassure Ali with so much more vigour than this, but I’m not sure it would be honest. ‘That’s why I agreed to a second date.’

‘Very gracious,’ he says, striding on. ‘But don’t worry, you’re off the hook.’

I look at his retreating back, wishing I could make him realize that, despite the lies, I have nothing but respect for him. He radiates integrity in a way that I clearly don’t. As I’m trying to formulate a response, he swerves off down an alley running round the back of the houses.

‘I didn’t even know this was here,’ I say, before being stopped in my tracks by a rat running past me, filthy paws close enough to paint my toenails. Before I can help myself, I emit a blood-curdling shriek. Ali spins round, racing towards me, reaching for his truncheon.

‘Lulu, Jesus, what is it? Did you see the guy?’

‘It was – it was…’

He grabs me around the shoulders.

‘Which way did he go?’

‘It was a… a rat.’

He uncouples himself, exasperated.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, you’re being ridiculous. There’s rats everywhere, Lulu. For your information, the bubonic plague died out more than a century ago.’

‘I know that, I just really hate them. They’ve got those long, fat tails and –’

‘Can we just get this over with?’

He sets off back down the path, shining his torch around all the nooks and crannies. Right at the end of the path we finally spot the briefcase, slung under a tree and decorated with a light coating of dog faeces. Luckily Julia spares us an analysis of the dog’s probable diet when we get back to the house. The papers are all contained within and Dad’s effusively grateful.

‘My pleasure,’ says Ali. ‘Glad I could prove to you the Met’s not a total waste of your daughters’ taxes.’

‘Do you want to stay for a drink?’ I ask him pleadingly, utterly mortified by it all.

‘I’m on earlies,’ he says with a brief smile. ‘I’m gonna go.’

I scuttle after him, trapping him on the doorstep.

‘Thank you so much for doing this. I know you must think I’m just another piece of evidence for why women can’t be trusted, but I really did love that evening.’

‘Did you now?’ he says tersely. ‘So did I.’ He gives a brief shrug, before disappearing back into his panda car and driving away.

When I get back inside, Dad and Julia are gathering their things together in preparation for leaving.

‘What a drama!’ says Julia.

‘Very quick thinking of you, Lulu,’ says Dad.

‘It was all Ali,’ I say. ‘But I’m glad I could help.’ Warmed by his approval, I follow him out into the hall where he’s looking for his coat.

‘Dad, maybe we could meet up again before you go.’

‘I’d like that, but I thought we’d established –’

‘I know, but I just wonder if there is some window we haven’t thought of. I’d love to ask you some stuff, about when we were young, about Mum…’ I pause as I see his expression folding in on itself, face closing.

‘If something opens up when you and Alice are free, then that would be fine.’

‘I was thinking of just us…’ I continue lamely.

‘Let’s see how the time goes. But it sounds like the dresses are proving quite onerous at the moment.’

Perhaps I’m projecting, but it feels like the tone of voice he uses to describe my work is about as dismissive as it’s possible to be. I step away from the whole enterprise, feeling roundly rejected. I kiss him goodbye, eyes stinging, and join Alice on the doorstep to wave them all off. Once the car’s rounded the corner we disappear back inside. Richard’s crashing around upstairs, ablutions as angry as all his other actions. A hard jet of urine noisily hits porcelain like a water cannon decimating a peace protest. Teeth next, ground into submission by a brush applied with the delicacy of a circular saw.

‘That was action-packed!’ says Alice, hurriedly gathering up the glasses so she can get upstairs. ‘And I’m warning you that you’re not going to get away with letting Ali slip through your fingers. Not on my watch.’

I can’t even engage with the whole Ali debacle quite yet. I’m still smarting about how remote Dad was when I tried to make a connection. Considering how little we see of him, the least he could do is be available when he is here. I bet he wouldn’t have been so quick to discount Rufus or Alice. She’s hurling the glasses in the dishwasher now, but is brought up short by how silent I am.

‘What is it, fat face?’ she says. ‘It was OK, wasn’t it?’

‘I just feel like he doesn’t like me!’ I blurt out. ‘And why does he act like Mum never even existed? She’s half of us, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh, Lulu, don’t be so oversensitive,’ says Alice. ‘It wasn’t the time, that’s all. And thinking he doesn’t like you is crazy.’ She grins at me. ‘How could anyone not like you? He loves you.’

‘I know he loves me, I’m just not sure he likes me.’

‘How can he love you and not like you? You can’t make that distinction.’

‘Yes I can. It’s like the difference between loving someone and being in love with them. It’s on the same axis, but it’s completely different.’

‘You’re being really unfair on him…’ she snaps, two flashes of red lighting up her cheeks.

I look at her, feeling a corrosive distance between us. Anything that feels too emotionally complex, too threatening, just can’t be contemplated. Doesn’t she realize that safety comes at a price?

‘Alice, I need to get up really early,’ shouts vile Richard, saving us from plunging into the perilous terrain that’s opening up between us.

‘OK, sweetie,’ she calls back. ‘Why do you have to make things so over-complicated?’ she hisses.

‘I don’t know why I bothered,’ I snarl, grabbing the dregs of my wine and stomping off into the garden. I’m never pleased to be parted from Alice, but right now a week in the Yorkshire Dales is sounding like the perfect prescription.