Esther couldn’t believe her dad had gone to Corsica on his own. ‘What’s he going to do there for two weeks?’ she’d asked her boyfriend as he’d flipped from show to show on TV. A cookery thing, with someone demonstrating how to create a wavy edge effect on a pie. Then something with tractors and a terrible daytime soap. Esther isn’t fond of channel flipping – or the TV being on in the day. It feels depressing but then, this is Miles’s flat they’re living in. So she doesn’t make the rules.
‘Dunno babe,’ he’d replied, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Are there ancient ruins to look at? Does he like that kind of thing?’
‘Guess so.’ In fact Esther knows her dad is interested in archaeology. When she was little he’d taken her to archaeological digs. It was a bit like going on treasure hunts – they’d found shards of pottery and ancient coins – and for a while it had been one of their favourite things to do together. But she didn’t mention this because Miles wouldn’t have been interested. He’d have just done that glazing-over thing.
Anyway, her dad hadn’t been looking at ancient ruins in Corsica. He’d been far too busy for that. He’d met a woman – an actual woman – and fallen in love with her! Esther would have been no more shocked if he’d come home with a neck tattoo.
Her dad never dated anyone (apart from Polly, who’d seemed nice enough despite her terribly ugly sandals and had suddenly disappeared to South America). Generally, Esther had always assumed he was far too busy with his work. But not now. Now he’s seeing this Lauren person and seems all sparky and happy and different, somehow. This change in him, when he’s always been so solid and dependable, always there for her … well, it’s unsettling to say the least. And now he wants Esther to not only meet his new love, but go to her house, somewhere way out in the countryside!
A lunch is being put on. Some big fancy lunch so they can be formally introduced. This is sending out warning signals about this Lauren person. Esther is trying not to judge the woman before she’s even met her, but it’s hard not to when she’s being pressurised like this.
After all, they could have kept it simple and just had a quick coffee at her dad’s place. No big deal; it could have all been over and done with in twenty minutes. But for some reason Lauren couldn’t do that. Nope, it had to be a big showy-offy occasion, taking up half of Esther’s weekend. She has only agreed (begrudgingly) to go because she loves her dad and it obviously means a lot to him, for her to be there.
Now Esther has learnt that Lauren has a teenage son. Apparently he’s going to be at this lunch too. ‘Of course he is,’ her dad had said, tetchily, when she’d quizzed him on this. ‘It’s his house, Est. It’s where he lives.’
‘What’s he like?’ she asked.
‘Really nice. Quite studious and a bit shy,’ he told her.
Well, this was going to be a load of laughs. ‘It’s only lunch,’ her dad keeps reminding her. If it’s that insignificant then why are Lauren’s best friend and her husband coming along too? A whole fucking gang! If her dad had said this at the start – that half the village would be coming along for a gawp – then she’d never have agreed to go.
Esther goes rigid with anxiety every time she thinks about it. What if she doesn’t like Lauren? Or Lauren doesn’t like her? How awkward is that going to be, when her dad’s so obviously smitten? People think, because of the kind of industry Esther works in, that she’s super-confident and never fazed by social events. They’re wrong, though. She’s fine in work situations because she’s developed ‘the tools’ to deal with them, as Chrissie, her therapist, would put it. She’s created coping mechanisms and a persona she can slip into: shiny, sparkly Esther. But ‘being Esther Burton’ won’t work when she meets Lauren, not with her dad being there – because he knows her better than anyone else. It would feel ridiculous, being professional Esther in front of him. Trouble is, she’s relied so heavily on this version of herself, which she pulls on like a costume, that she can’t remember how to just be her normal self.
Meeting this Lauren person and the bookish son seems so fraught with potential disaster that, three days before the big event, Esther calls Chrissie and insists she fit her in.
Esther doesn’t think she’s a qualified psychotherapist exactly, but when she tried to check out her credentials and found basically nothing, her friend Lily, who’d recommended her (she’s Miles’s friend really) said it’s not about framed certificates on the wall. Just as well because there aren’t any. They are sitting in what Chrissie calls her therapy suite, which is a glorified garden shed. She hands Esther a glass mug of chamomile tea. Esther would rather have a coffee, a big jolt of caffeine to sharpen her up.
‘I can understand why this is alarming for you,’ Chrissie says. ‘The thought of all these new people is making you feel unsafe.’
Lily was right. Qualifications don’t really matter. As she pours everything out in Chrissie’s shed, Esther starts to feel a whole lot better.
Chrissie understands that she only agreed to go to support her dad, and because she’s still harbouring a residue of guilt over not going to Corsica with him. ‘But then, if you had gone, he wouldn’t have met Lauren and be so happy now,’ Chrissie offers.
That makes Esther feel better immediately. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. So, d’you think I shouldn’t go to this lunch?’
‘What do you want to do,’ Chrissie asks, ‘in your heart?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How is the situation making you feel?’
She considers this. ‘Kind of like … being tricked into something,’ she explains.
Chrissie nods understandingly. She knows that Esther and her dad don’t always see eye to eye; that he’d made a big fuss about how many suitcases she’d been planning to take to Corsica, and then went on about her coat, calling it ‘a carpet’. (Charming!) Now Esther is explaining how this whole meeting Lauren scenario is reminding her of the time he’d made her walk part of the Southern Western Coastal Path, or whatever it’s called, near St Ives in Cornwall, where the two of them had gone on holiday when Esther was fourteen. He’d bought her some terrible walking boots that weighed about a ton each, which Esther had refused to wear – because it was like having bricks strapped to her feet.
‘You’re not doing the walk in flip-flops,’ her dad had said, as if she was six years old.
‘They’re sandals, not flip-flops,’ she’d corrected him. He knew absolutely nothing about fashion.
‘Whatever they are, they have no supporting structure.’ Who even talks like that? Her dad is obsessed with footwear offering ‘support’ to the foot and ankle as if she was one of those people who hikes up mountains with spiky sticks. So she’d worn her flip-flops – sandals – and after about half an hour she was in agony and crying and they’d had to turn back. But it wasn’t her fault. It was a misleading description thing. Coastal Path? It wasn’t a path, it was boulders.
‘You’re worried that he’s misleading you about this lunch with Lauren?’ Chrissie prompts her now.
‘Yeah. I mean, Lauren’s invited all her friends along—’
‘Really?’ Chrissie asks in surprise.
Esther nods, aware that she’s exaggerating slightly. But what if she’s not? Nothing would surprise her now.
‘You mean, you’re worried that you’re going to feel paraded in public?’
‘Exactly,’ Esther says, aware of a twinge of guilt now. Her dad would never ‘parade’ her. He’s the kindest man you could imagine and sometimes she thinks he’s the only one who actually takes time to listen to her, whereas with her mum it’s all, ‘Oh, is that right, darling? Great! Lovely! Sorry, gotta dash!’ It was her dad who’d realised she was good at history, that she had a keen interest in it. Amanda, who taught it, was one of the few decent teachers at her school. Her dad had encouraged her to work extra hard, to put her all into it and get good grades. Even though he hadn’t been keen for her to go to Willow Vale – with its optional lessons – he’d listened while she’d begged and pleaded, and after weeks and weeks of this (God, he hadn’t made it easy) he’d eventually said yes, okay, if she was absolutely sure it was the right place for her.
Her mum, of course, had said, ‘Fine, darling!’ right away. Which was great. But in a way, Esther had liked it that her dad had put her through all that, because it meant he really cared.
Then came the reality show set at her school and filmed over a whole term. Amazingly, she was chosen by the production team as one of the main pupils to be in it. God knows why because she was really ordinary then. Quite shy, even. She hadn’t yet grown into herself. It goes without saying that her dad was really, really concerned about how it would affect ‘her education’ (because back then everything was about her education) and whether – although he didn’t put it this way – they’d make her look like a twat.
‘The thing about you, James,’ her mum had argued, ‘is that you automatically see all the dangers and the things that could go terribly wrong.’
They’d ground him down, she supposes now. Esther feels slightly ashamed of that now because, even though he was unsure about it, he was still supportive. He just kept saying, ‘If there’s anything you feel even slightly uncomfortable about, you must let me know.’ Whereas her mum was all, ‘Go for it! Make sure you stand out! Who knows where this is going to take you?’
Chrissie twiddles the cluster of thin metallic bangles around her tiny wrist. She’s wearing a crinkly patterned top, flowing wide-legged trousers and leather sandals with gold embellishments – the kind Esther’s dad would be appalled at for having no structural support. ‘Is there a way that you can go to the lunch, but still feel in control?’ she asks.
Esther thinks about this for a moment. ‘Miles could come too. Then I’d feel less outnumbered …’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Chrissie says, smiling.
Esther looks at her. She hadn’t thought of that before now. But obviously, it’s the ideal solution. ‘Yeah. But Dad can’t stand him. He’s made no secret of that. I mean, he refused point-blank to let him come to Corsica with us—’
‘He wouldn’t be outwardly rude to him, though?’ Chrissie cuts in.
‘No, no, he’d never do that,’ Esther says firmly.
‘Well, it sounds like a good compromise. And hopefully your dad’ll be fine about that.’ Chrissie pats her hand. ‘You’re being brave, Esther. It takes courage to stand up for what you want, especially when someone has a big personality like that.’
Does her dad have a big personality? She wouldn’t put it like that exactly. He just gets on with his life, doing difficult stuff she has no idea how he copes with – like removing a tumour from a hamster’s ear.
Way back in July, when she’d called him to say she wouldn’t be going to Corsica after all – not if Miles couldn’t go too – he hadn’t even yelled at her. She’d been braced for an angry outburst but, weirdly, he’d sounded relieved but also upset. ‘Right. Okay,’ he’d said distractedly. What about the hundreds of pounds he’d spent on her flight and hotel room? She’d almost wished he had yelled at her – then she’d have felt less terrible. But her dad’s not a yeller. He’s a reasoner, if that’s a word.
‘For God’s sake, James, d’you have to be so reasonable?’ she’s heard her mum say more than once. So her kind, sensible, reasonable dad was probably just relieved she wasn’t dead.
It’s Miles who has the ‘big personality’, she reflects now. Miles who came home recently making a massive fuss because someone had had the cheek to come up to the DJ booth and ask him to play a request. ‘Do I look like a fucking wedding DJ?’ he’d barked, pouring himself a massive tumbler of red wine. ‘Do I look like I’ve got Dancing Queen?’
Session over, Esther heads back to the flat deciding that this time – unlike with Corsica – she won’t ask her dad whether Miles can come along too. He’ll just jump into the car when her dad comes to pick her up.
That way there’ll be no argument. All she needs to do now is get Miles to agree to come.