LEN METCALFE HAD a job, which was more than could be said for the rest of his family. He took great pride in his work. As the club steward of Bolingbroke Lane Working Men’s Club, Len had a fair amount of responsibility. He oversaw the draymen, making sure they delivered the right amount of beer – a shortage of bitter on a busy night could easily lead to a riot. He booked the turns, and more importantly turned people away that he didn’t think were suitable. That woman who pulled light bulbs out of her whatnot who turned up to audition the other week, for example; he had sent her packing, but not before asking her how on earth she thought that passed for family entertainment. He cashed up and made sure that no one had their fingers in the till: he could tell a thief a mile off, coming as he did from a long line of them. Len’s brothers were both in prison doing a long stretch and his dad had spent more time inside than out by the time he died five years ago. Len himself had spent two years in Strangeways when he was in his early twenties. He had believed his dad’s stories about the camaraderie in prison; how everyone looked after one another. But he found out first-hand that these were just stories that his dad made up so that his boys weren’t worried by the truth. Len’s two years had been long and violent, although he’d managed to keep himself to himself. He tried not to think about those times. It was nearly thirty years ago and since then he had kept his nose clean and made sure that he didn’t spend any more time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Len was cleaning the optics and checking the drinks invoice for that week. He liked the order and routine of his work. It kept him focused and calm. All in all, Len was very proud of what he did. It wasn’t Caesar’s Palace but it was alright, and although it was named Bolingbroke Lane, it wasn’t actually in Bolingbroke, which was a godsend. Bolingbroke might be where Len lived, but he didn’t need the hassle of running a place there; it’d be easier to run a bar in Basra. It was on the outskirts between Bolingbroke and the marginally more upmarket area of Bilsey, so it drew a more mixed crowd than the Beacon, the hell-hole of a pub perched on the top of the estate.
Len liked being defined by his job. He liked to be thought of as The Steward. The title felt right, like it had some weight behind it; some responsibility. But lately he wasn’t known for what he did, he was known for what his daughter did, and it was beginning to trouble him.
Yesterday’s display wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. But he didn’t think the punishment fit the crime. He wasn’t Joel Baldy, he was plain old Len Metcalfe and he’d never seen himself in the paper before. Had he been presented with the scenario, he would have hoped that his tabloid debut hadn’t seen him frothing at the mouth. He had avoided getting his usual Sunday Globe today. It was one of his small pleasures: a coffee, a smoke and a scan of the Sunday rag. But he just had a feeling that he might be making a rather unpleasant appearance in it today and, as such, had avoided the newsagents. It didn’t matter, though, there was no shortage of people who wanted to show him today’s issue. Marge the cleaner had been the first. ‘Bloody hell, Len, you look like a madman!’ she had said gleefully as she threw the paper down on the bar that morning. Len had looked at it with abject mortification. She was right; he looked like a man possessed. Marge read the opening lines aloud: ‘Madman Metcalfe, father of Joel Baldy’s WAG Charly, was chomping at the bit yesterday moments after being released from police custody without charge after a fracas at the Manchester Rovers game . . .’ As Marge went on, Len hung his head. The rest of the day saw a steady stream of punters coming in armed with the paper, ready to tell him something he already knew: he was a national laughing stock.
Charly had called him earlier. After his appalling showing yesterday she was ringing to rearrange introducing him to her boyfriend. She said that she wanted them to meet sooner rather than later and had suggested that evening. Len had decided that he was going to agree to anything his daughter wanted – he’d brought enough trouble to her door as it was without being all huffy about meeting her famous other half. But he wasn’t sure about Joel. There had been rumours in the papers about him playing away using more than just his feet, and the fact that they’d been together for so long and he’d never met him made Len suspicious. Len tried not to worry too much, he knew that Charly had gone into this relationship with her eyes open, but he was still fiercely protective of her and the last thing he wanted was some silly pretty-boy footballer upsetting her.
He looked up to see Fat Paul, a dimwitted wheeler-dealer from the area, heading towards him with the day’s papers under his arm and a stupid grin on his face. Before he had time to say anything Len fixed him with a glare. ‘Shut it, Paul, or I’ll tear you another arsehole.’ Paul put the papers behind his back as if he didn’t know what Len was referring to.
‘Bloody hell, I was only after a quick pint,’ he said.
*
Markie was sitting at the bar of the Glasshouse, the nightclub that he co-owned with his business partner Mac Jones, in the centre of Bradington. He was sipping sparkling mineral water and looking at the guest list for this evening – more for his own amusement than anything; he liked to see who thought they were special around town – when his phone began to ring. ‘Mum?’ he said out loud, looking at the caller ID. What did she want? His mum had been keeping her head very much down over the last year, since it had been discovered that she was selling stories to the tabloids about her daughter, his sister Leanne, who’d had a career as a well-known glamour model.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that’s nice, innit?’ Tracy snapped. ‘When was the last time you came round to see me or called me and then I call you and I get “Yes?”.’
‘Hi Mum, long time no see. God, I’ve missed you,’ Markie said sarcastically.
‘Lovely. I bend over backwards for years for you lot and all I ever get in return is lip and sarky comments.’
Markie wasn’t rising to the bait. ‘Alright, Mum, what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve been thinking . . .’
Markie waited for it. Whatever it was would somehow serve Tracy. She never did anything that didn’t directly benefit her.
‘Thursday night. Let’s have a get-together. When was the last time we did that? Me, you, our Jodie, our Scott, our Karina, our Leanne . . .’
‘The last time was before you decided that selling stories about our Leanne and your granddaughter was a normal way of making some extra cash.’
Tracy tutted; she hated being reminded of her misdemeanours. ‘And am I ever going to live it down? Anyway, it’s just been blown out of proportion now. I’m being painted as the wicked witch of the west when all I was trying to do was earn a bit of cash to take us all away somewhere nice.’
Markie burst out laughing. ‘Pull the other one, it’s got fucking bells on! This is me you’re talking to.’
‘Right,’ Tracy said, ‘if you don’t want to come then fine. Suit yourself. I’m not begging.’
Markie finished his water, stood up from his stool and walked across the floor of the VIP area to the spiral stairs that led down to the main part of the club. ‘So what’s the occasion?’
‘Kent’s entering a competition; I thought we could give him some moral support.’
Markie’s eyes narrowed. What did she need them for? ‘What sort of competition?’ he asked, seeing his business partner, Mac, walk in. Markie nodded to him.
‘Elvis.’
Markie stifled a laugh, ‘You what?’
‘You heard. So you coming or not?’
Markie hung up as Mac approached. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘That dipshit my mother lives with is entering an Elvis competition and she wants us all there like the Waltons to give him moral support.’
Mac laughed and shook his head. ‘She’s a rum ’un, isn’t she?’
‘That’s one way of describing her.’
‘Saw her the other day, in town. She was in Super Cigs. I’ve not seen her look so well in years.’
‘My mum?’ Markie asked incredulously.
‘Yes, your mum. She used to be a looker when she was younger.’
Markie glared at him. Mac held his hands up to placate his business partner. ‘I’m just saying . . .’
Markie relaxed and half smiled. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, but it was always hard to see past that gob of hers.’
The smile turned wry. ‘I can well believe that,’ he said, passing Mac a breakdown of the takings for the week.
*
Jodie had spent the past three days in Majorca on a photo shoot for a leading men’s magazine. In the past year she had seen her stock rise. When her sister Leanne, herself a successful glamour model, had signed her to her new management company Jodie didn’t really think that she could be successful at it. She dreamed she might, but she was a realist and years of living on the Bolingbroke estate didn’t automatically fill a girl with hope that there was a great life to be had out there. A year ago she thought that she was going to spend the rest of her days pulling pints at the notorious Beacon pub, but she hadn’t touched a pint pump in nearly a year and she was making good money as a model. The difference between Leanne’s career as a model and Jodie’s was that Jodie had Leanne guiding her, whereas Leanne had had a manager who didn’t really care what happened to her once she earned her cut. Leanne was ensuring that Jodie was saving half of everything she received. The temptation to go and blow everything had been great when she’d first had some money but she didn’t have that option with her sister around, thankfully.
She was living in an apartment near the city centre, using the money she earned from her first few months as a model as her deposit. It wasn’t Trump Towers, and it was in Bradington, but Leanne had warned Jodie away from getting starry-eyed and thinking that she needed to move to London just because a lot of her work took place there. Leanne advised Jodie to stay at home and dip into the London life for parties and premieres; that way it would always seem exciting and yet she wouldn’t find herself stranded, as Leanne had, if work dried up. Not that Leanne was going to let Jodie’s work dry up; she was finding work for her daily.
Jodie was standing in her kitchen leafing through the post and waiting for the kettle to boil when her phone began to ring. No one ever rang the landline. She was going to ignore it, thinking it was probably a sales call, but curiosity got the better of her.
‘Hello.’
‘Don’t put the phone down . . .’ the familiar voice said quickly. Jodie’s face registered shock; it was her mum.
‘What d’you want?’
‘To stop all this bollocks. I’m fed up with us all not speaking; it’s time to let bygones be bygones.’
Jodie took a deep breath; anyone else’s mum and she might have believed them, but not her own. Whatever it was that Tracy wanted it was for herself, not because she really wanted reuniting with her family. ‘Is it money?’
‘Is what money?’ Tracy asked.
‘What you’re after?’
‘You cheeky sod. I don’t need your money.’
‘Right,’ Jodie said, trying to sound neutral. The fact was, as much as her mum was the worst example of motherhood that Bradington had to offer, she was still her mum and no matter how many times Tracy let her down, Jodie always hoped that one day she’d stop acting like a sneaky overgrown kid and start acting like the parent she was supposed to be.
‘Right, nothing. Don’t think just because you’ve been asked to go on Celebrity Breakdance you’re a cut above, because you’re not.’
How did she know about that? Jodie wondered. She’d quite liked the idea but Leanne had told her she wasn’t doing anything that didn’t involve modelling. Those types of shows were fine to do when you had something to promote or your career was in the doldrums, she’d said, but as Jodie was doing fine and was doing all the promoting she needed by just being in magazines, she didn’t need to spin on her head and be marked out of ten just yet.
‘I don’t think anything of the sort.’ Jodie was about to snap at her mum but caught herself; she knew this could descend into a full-scale slanging match very quickly if she wasn’t careful. ‘OK, Mum, go on, what’s up?’
‘I’ve arranged a night out for us all. As a family.’
‘Have the others agreed to this?’ Jodie asked with surprise.
‘Markie has. Scotty has, but then again he’s not seen his arse with me the same way the rest of you have . . .’ Jodie bit her tongue. Her brother Scott was too soft with Tracy in hers and everyone else’s opinion. ‘. . . and I’ll ring Leanne and Karina when I’ve finished talking to you.’
‘So what’s the big occasion?’ Jodie asked.
‘Kent’s entering a competition and I thought it’d be nice if we were all there.’
‘What sort of competition?’
‘Elvis.’
Jodie snorted laughing. It came out involuntarily; she couldn’t help herself. The thought of stupid Kent up on stage doing one of his terrible Elvis impersonations was too much to bear.
‘What you laughing at?’ Tracy sounded indignant. ‘You’re as bad as Markie.’
‘What do you think I’m laughing at? Kent as Elvis. Brilliant. Put my name down.’
‘I don’t want you taking the piss out of him. He takes it very seriously.’
Jodie rolled her eyes. ‘Would I?’
‘Yes, you would. Right, Bolingbroke Lane Working Men’s Club; Thursday night, half seven. Don’t be late.’
‘Bolingbroke Working Men’s Club!’ Jodie began to protest about the pipe-and-slippers venue but Tracy had already put the phone down.
*
Charly was nervous. She was standing in front of her full-length mirror in the city centre penthouse, scrutinising her reflection. Her blonde bobbed hair was perfectly straight, her petite size eight figure was poured into a muted silver Body Con dress that didn’t give her any room to breathe, and her feet were encased in a pair of leopard-print Dolce and Gabbana shoes that matched her handbag.
‘You look fit,’ Joel said, sliding his arm around her waist, his hand making its way down her skirt and between her legs.
‘Thanks,’ Charly said flatly, taking his hand off her leg. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself,’ she added without really looking at him. Things had been tense between them since he stormed off the other day. The move into town couldn’t have been described as fraught, as Gina had organised everything, but the tension had remained in the air. Charly knew that the last thing Joel wanted to do tonight was meet her father. But he also wanted to make his peace with Charly. He often did this, sulked for days and then decided, when he was ready, that they should act as if nothing had happened.
‘Suit yourself,’ Joel said at the rejection. ‘Shall we go then?’ He waved the keys to his Lamborghini Murcielago.
‘I hope you like my dad,’ Charly said anxiously. And she meant it. She was fraught enough as it was, trying to keep up the paper-thin veneer of civility between her and Joel, without having to deal with him not liking her father.
‘What’s not to like? Other than the fact he twats stewards and ends up getting arrested,’ Joel said sarcastically.
Charly smiled tightly at the ill-judged joke. Joel pulled her into his arms.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll be like a pussy cat,’ he said, kissing Charly on top of her head. Let’s hope you are too, Charly thought grimly.
‘Do I need to keep it buttoned about your old dear?’ Joel asked. Charly felt a sudden shudder run through her. It was one of those moments where she wanted to go back to just before he’d opened his mouth and say, ‘Please Joel, don’t say what you’re thinking.’ She had impressed upon Joel on a number of occasions how distressing it was to her that her mum was not in her life and how it had affected her. But it seemed that Joel, as ever, wasn’t thinking about her feelings. He was just saying the first thing that came into his head. This to Joel was probably the height of compassion, Charly thought; actually remembering to think that she even had a mum who was still floating around somewhere.
Charly had last seen her mother, Shirley, when she was eleven. Her mother had taken a job in a factory about two miles away from Bolingbroke. As Charly remembered it, Shirley had never been the most confident woman, but suddenly she had a personality that shone out from under Len’s larger-that-life persona. She went from being just plain old ‘Mum’ to a woman with her own money and as a result her own small bit of independence. At first Shirley had used the money just in the home, spending it on Charly and Jimmy. But the more Len seemed to dislike his wife going out to work the more Shirley pushed back and she began to spend her hard-earned cash on herself. She wasn’t prepared to just spend it on washing powder and tea towels any more.
Charly remembered the first time that her mum had got dressed up to go into town without her dad. There had been an almighty row. Len was shouting about not having his wife going out dressed like a prozzie and Shirley was saying she could go out in just her knickers and bra if she felt like it, seeing as she’d paid for them. Charly hadn’t known what her dad was complaining about: she thought her mum looked really pretty. But she remembered the anger in the room and it hadn’t felt normal. Ever since she had tried to avoid conflict although when it came her way the Metcalfe gene did have a tendency to raise its head.
Things at home had gone from bad to worse with the arguments occurring daily and Len spending more and more time out of the house just to avoid Shirley.
Charly remembered the last argument they had clearly. It was a bright summer evening and Shirley had been washing up. Len had come into the house and demanded to know where his tea was. Shirley had wiped her hand on the tea towel and said, ‘Make your own sodding tea.’
Len had hit the roof. But Shirley didn’t seem interested in arguing with him. It was as if she’d given up. Charly had hid in her bedroom listening to music, hoping that the noise would drown out her dad’s shouts.
Her mum had opened the door and walked into the room and asked if she still fed her Tamagotchi. Charly had laughed and told her mum not to be daft, she was eleven. She’d got her Tamagotchi when she was nine; they were for babies. Shirley asked if she could have it. Charly didn’t like it when her mum cried, so if it meant giving her one of her old toys to make her stop then that was fine. She’d put her arms around her mum. Shirley had taken the toy, kissed her daughter quickly on the head and then stood up quietly and walked out of the room.
That was the last time Charly had seen her mother. No one had heard from her since then. She walked out of her life, out of their life, and never returned. At first Charly blamed herself, then she blamed her dad. But ultimately she had to arrive at the conclusion that the only person who made Shirley leave her family was Shirley herself. To begin with Charly thought that her mum had died. Why else would she leave them without even saying goodbye or ever getting in contact? But then they found out that she had been spotted in London. One of her sisters had tracked her down and spoken to her on the phone. Len didn’t say much about the whole episode but from what Charly could gather her mum hadn’t been keen on the idea of returning to them or to Bradington. It was as if Shirley had walked out of her own life and blocked out her past.
After her initial contact with her aunt, Charly had tried to contact her mother a few times, but Shirley had moved by the time Charly wrote to her and her sister never heard from her again; or at least that was what she told Len and his family. After that Charly made a pact with herself to forget about her mum; she wasn’t worth it but it was easier to say she was going to forget about her than to actually forget about her. Charly often thought about where her mum was now; she’d even thought she might come out of the woodwork when it became public knowledge that her daughter was seeing a famous footballer, but she’d stayed away. Charly was glad now, if she was honest. If Shirley could turn her back on her own children then she was better off staying where she was.
‘Yes,’ Charly replied firmly, turning around to look at Joel with a seriousness that was rare for her. ‘Don’t mention my mum. Not my “old dear”, my mum.’
‘Alright, keep your hair on.’
‘My hair is on, Joel, you’re just insensitive.’
‘Your mum did a runner and I’m the insensitive one?’
Charly looked at him with ill-disguised disgust. ‘You’re a complete pig,’ she said quietly. There was a lot more she wanted to say but she knew if she pushed it any further he’d pull out of dinner and she’d have to explain to her dad why he wasn’t there, which would mean admitting to herself that things were far from rosy in the garden.
*
Charly had chosen the restaurant in the Manchester suburb of West Didsbury because she thought that it would make her dad feel comfortable. He hated fancy restaurants, but she knew that he would be able to have a nice well-done steak here and no one would bat an eyelid. She also knew that being with Joel meant that they got attention wherever they went but she liked this place; the staff treated them normally and didn’t sneer at her when she asked for ketchup with her chips.
They were greeted at the door by the waitress and brought to their seats where her dad was already waiting. He was dressed in a suit that looked like it had been dragged out of mothballs and he had already tucked his napkin into the top of his shirt and thrown his tie over his shoulder as if it was proving a major inconvenience. Len jumped out of his seat when he saw his daughter and her boyfriend approach. He thrust his hand out. ‘I trust you’re looking after my daughter,’ he said, trying to be affable but falling short of the mark.
A wry smile broke across Joel’s face. Charly held her breath.
‘I’m doing my best,’ Joel said, shaking Len’s hand. Charly noticed that her dad had taken her boyfriend’s hand in a vice-like grip. He was obviously nervous. Joel kept eye contact with Len until he finally let go; it felt like an age to Charly.
They all sat down. ‘Have you got a drink?’ Joel asked amicably.
‘They don’t do bitter, so I’ve asked for a whisky,’ Len said, as if the two drinks were similar.
Charly’s eyes shot open in alarm. ‘Whisky?’
‘Yes, love, whisky,’ Len said dismissively. Charly shifted in her seat. Her dad couldn’t drink whisky. Correction, she thought, he loved whisky; it was just that on the odd occasion it could make him belligerent, and there was just no way of knowing if this was such a time.
Len scanned the menu before shutting it decisively. ‘It’s all bloody fancy pants in here. Soup and a steak for me, I think.’ Charly smiled awkwardly.
A little boy approached the table nervously. Charly looked at him; his hand was shaking as he held a piece of paper and shuffled his way towards Joel. Charly broke into a smile. She really felt for him. She’d seen this time and time again; little boys and girls, all their hopes, dreams and ideals about their hero bundled up inside their head, their faces begging Joel not to disappoint them.
‘Could I have your autograph, please?’ the boy’s voice wavered.
‘Ey, look at that. D’you want mine too, lad?’ Len asked. Charly saw Joel shoot her dad a look.
Joel looked at the boy for a moment. ‘We’re in for a quiet meal, but if you get your mum to ring the club then they’ll send you a signed picture no bother.’ He said this as if he was being perfectly amicable. Charly’s heart sank as the little boy returned to his table, evidently crushed. His mother glared over at their table. Charly hung her head.
‘It wouldn’t hurt to just sign something, would it?’ Len asked, looking at Joel as if he couldn’t believe how he had just handled himself.
Joel sighed. ‘Len, if I stopped and signed something every time a kid wanted an autograph I’d never have a minute’s peace, would I, babe?’ He turned to Charly, putting his hand at the back of her neck. It was a deliberate show of affection but had the odd effect of making her feel like he was puppeteering her answer.
‘I know, but he looks gutted,’ Charly said, trying to be diplomatic.
‘Well, if he’s so gutted why don’t you go and sign something for him?’ Joel asked tersely.
Charly could feel her dad shifting at the other side of the table. ‘That’s a daft thing to say if I ever heard one. You’re a football star. He wants your autograph, not hers.’
‘Jesus Christ, alright!’ Joel said, jumping to his feet, scraping his chair noisily away from the table. Charly watched as he marched over to the table and turned on the charm. The little boy beamed from ear to ear as Joel signed his Rovers shirt and posed for a picture with him. Charly noticed that his mother wasn’t quite as bowled over by the charm offensive as her son was. Joel knelt down beside the boy with a rictus grin as his mother took a picture on her camera phone. Charly looked at her father, who was watching the exchange with disapproval.
‘He should be nicer to little ’uns; people like him are their bloody idols,’ Len huffed.
‘Alright, father of the year,’ Charly snapped.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Len was evidently wounded by the comment.
Charly looked at her dad and knew she wasn’t being fair. Her father had done a great job raising her, her brother and their twin cousins – who had lived with them since they were ten – despite the circumstances he found himself in. ‘Nothing. Sorry, Dad,’ she said as Joel sat back down next to her.
‘Happy now, everyone?’ Joel said, trying to sound jocular but missing the mark.
‘Yes, and so’s that little boy.’
‘Len, Manchester Rovers is the biggest team in the world, always has been, and we’re hassled everywhere we go . . .’ Joel was about to go on with his poor-me, who’d-be-a-footballer speech but Len cut him off.
‘Manchester Rovers?’ Len said, shaking his head. ‘Everyone forgets they were no good twenty years ago, scraping along, they were, then. That was when Bradington were in the first division. It was proper football then, mind.’
Charly squeezed Joel’s knee, wishing that the meal was over and done with and that her boyfriend and father hopefully wouldn’t have to set eyes on one another again until they got married, if that was ever on the cards. ‘So it’s not proper football now?’ Joel asked.
‘I’m just saying that it was in the days that men played for passion, not so they could see how many Porsches a week’s wage would get them. And if some young kid asked for an autograph they’d be flattered.’
‘Dad, don’t have a pop . . .’ Charly said quietly, smoothing down her napkin.
‘Who’s having a pop? I’m just saying . . .’
Joel leaned across the table. ‘I play because I love football. And I happen to be good at it. Just because it pays well now and most lads would give their right arm to do it as a job is to me just an added bonus.’
‘Course it is, son, I’m not suggesting any different.’ Len nodded thoughtfully, and Charly breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the conversation was coming to a close. Len turned his attention to his daughter. ‘So then, our Charly . . .’ he said with a smile, obviously about to try and lighten the mood. Charly winced; she could sense one of her dad’s bad jokes brewing. ‘What do you see in the millionaire Joel Baldy?’
‘Dad!’ Charly hissed.
‘Mr Metcalfe . . .’ Len corrected.
‘You weren’t christened Mr Metcalfe . . . Have you got a problem?’ Charly knew that Joel was livid.
‘I’m not the one with the problem, lad.’
Charly looked at her dad; how had things gone so badly? she wondered. Joel was just about to retaliate when the waitress arrived.
‘Soup?’ Joel looked away, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he restrained himself.
‘Me, love. Thanks,’ Len said, smiling. ‘And grab us another whisky and water, would you?’
Charly stared at her starter. She had suddenly lost her appetite.
The rest of the meal continued in a similar if uneventful vein as the three ate their food and stuck as much to pleasantries as was possible.
After Len polished off a sticky toffee pudding and a large brandy, he asked for the bill. ‘Hope you don’t mind me giving you the third degree, lad. Just my little joke really.’ Len smiled drunkenly at Joel, who was sipping water. ‘Just want to make sure you’re serious about this one.’
‘We’ve been together a year, Dad, how much more serious can he be?’ Charly asked angrily.
‘Bloody hell, love, don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Len said, his eyes sparking, suddenly angry. Charly looked at him, worried what he might do next. His moods were unpredictable when he drank whisky. Len looked at his daughter and his face thawed; as if he was mentally bringing himself back from the brink. He patted her hand as the bill arrived. ‘Good girl.’ Len momentarily looked at the bill and took out his wallet. He was carefully leafing out notes as Charly looked on gratefully. Her dad shouldn’t have to get this but she was proud that he was offering.
‘I’ve already paid, Len,’ Joel said.
‘What do you mean? I wanted to get this.’ Len looked almost wounded.
‘It’s done. Gave the waitress my card when I came in.’
Charly could tell her father’s pride was hurt. He liked to pay his own way.
‘It’s alright, Dad, you can get the next one,’ she said, praying to God there wouldn’t be a next one. Len smiled weakly at his daughter.
‘Thank you, Joel,’ Len said humbly.
‘No prob.’ Joel got up from his seat. ‘Shall we?’ Charly looked at her boyfriend. He couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Charly and Joel drove home in silence. She stared out of the window, willing the angry tears that were threatening to overwhelm her to go away. Joel was trying to keep below the speed limit as his car was a police magnet but Charly could tell that he wanted to put his foot down and drive at one hundred and twenty miles an hour along the Parkway into town.
‘What the fuck was all that about?’ Joel asked angrily.
‘What?’ Charly asked, puzzled.
‘I don’t like being spoken to like a twat and your dad just made me out to be a prize one.’ Joel threw the car around a roundabout.
‘I don’t like being spoken to like a twat either, Joel!’ Charly snapped back.
‘Let’s call it a night, yeah? I don’t want to talk about your cunt dad any more,’ Joel said with real anger in his voice.
‘Cunt?’ Charly said, taking exception to the word. ‘The only cunt in there was you.’
Joel slammed hard on the brakes and Charly flew forward. Her seatbelt cut into her as it pulled her back into her seat sharply and she gasped for breath before looking at her boyfriend in shock.
Joel pressed his face up to Charly’s. She could feel his breath against her skin. ‘Call me a cunt again and I’ll show you what one looks like.’
Charly wiped the side of her face and looked out of the window as Joel pressed his foot on the accelerator, urging the car into life. She hated living like this but what could she do? She loved Joel, and she knew that if she left him there would be a line of women waiting to take her place. She didn’t know what to do, so she’d do what she always did when faced with confrontation from Joel: nothing.