Our messages and calls have reassured me that Lauren and I are fine after that car crash of a Sunday afternoon. Bloody Miles. I must stop fixating on him. As Lauren suggested, I need to step back and let his thing with Esther burn itself out. ‘It’s bound to,’ she said. ‘She’s a smart young woman. She’ll see what an idiot he is and meet someone her own age eventually.’
I can only hope she’s right. Meanwhile, I’m feeling a whole lot better on this chilly Tuesday morning as I vaccinate a Dutch rabbit named Guinness, administer an injection of apomorphine to a spaniel who’d gnawed his way into a drum of cocoa powder and devoured its contents, and see Tony Lomax again with his ageing collie, Bob. The sensitive matter of what to do when Bob passes away still seems to be a major concern.
‘The thing is,’ Tony says, ‘those pet cremation places say it’s just your dog they cremate on its own. And you get the ashes to keep. But how d’you know? I mean, who’s to say it’s just your dog in that little pot? It’s not like you can go there and make sure they do it properly, can you?’
‘Tony, we deal with these people quite a lot. They’re reputable and very respectful,’ I try to reassure him. ‘We can help and advise you when—’
‘And I live in a flat,’ he cuts in, ‘with a shared garden. I can’t go burying Bob out there. The neighbours wouldn’t like it.’
‘Bob’s as healthy as a dog of half his age,’ I tell him.
‘I’ve got to face facts and be prepared,’ Tony insists.
‘Yes, I know that. But I promise you won’t be left on your own to deal with this when it happens. You can ring me anytime or just pop in.’
In fact, today Tony showed up without an appointment (we always manage to squeeze him in) saying Bob was squinting, and could I check his eyes again? ‘There’s nothing wrong with his vision as far as I can tell,’ I explained, having examined him.
‘He’s just not quite himself.’
As is often the case, I suspect Tony just wanted a chat, some company and reassurance. I give him a worming tablet for Bob, just so he feels something’s been done. We have a few Tony Lomax types who are here far more often than necessary – but the Tony Lomax is our most regular, and however we try to help, it never feels like quite enough.
I try to push all that out of my mind as, after a quick chat with Lauren (we’re now able to laugh about mulletgate) I cycle the couple of miles, mainly through residential streets, to a basement cocktail bar named Foraged. It’s a cosy and intimate little place, all bare brickwork and arched roofs, with dim lighting and candles flickering in the booths. But I’m not here for cocktails. Foraged is co-owned by Rhona, my ex-wife, and her longtime boyfriend, Luc, and I’m here to talk about Esther.
Apparently – even though my daughter and I haven’t been in touch directly – I totally overstepped the mark on Sunday at Lauren’s. So Rhona suggested I drop by for a chat.
‘What are you drinking, James?’ booms Luc across the room.
‘Nothing for me thanks, Luc.’
‘Oh, come on. We’ve got a couple of new ones for you to try.’ He has biceps like grapefruits and can’t seem to be able to communicate without SHOUTING. I was hoping Rhona and I would be able to chat on our own, tucked away in a corner, but it looks like there’s no chance of that.
‘Honestly,’ I reply. ‘I’m only here for—’
‘How about a London Mule?’ he bellows. ‘Not too sweet, a hint of rhubarb I found growing over by Wormwood Scrubs. Or a Piston Slinger? That’s lime, bitters, foraged sloes …’
‘I’m on my bike, Luc,’ I remind him.
‘Just leave it here,’ Rhona commands. ‘Get a cab home. Live a little!’ Laughing, she catches Luc’s eye, and I get the subtext: He’s so uptight. Can you imagine what it was like being married to this guy?
In fact, it’s not that I’m being particularly virtuous. But I know it’s going to be a tricky conversation and that I need to keep a grip on my faculties.
‘Honestly, James,’ Rhona starts when Luc has had the goodwill to leave us alone. ‘I can’t believe you ridiculed Miles’s haircut when he was a teenager. D’you remember what your hair was like in 1989?’
‘That’s not the point, is it?’
‘It’s the year we met,’ she reminds me. ‘Remember you had a fluffy quiff you’d dyed blond yourself and it looked like a little yellow pom-pom?’
‘You must be thinking of someone else.’
‘No, I have the pictures,’ she says with a sly grin. ‘Remember when that flatmate of yours – the one who used to eat spaghetti with Marmite – tried to dye it brown for you and it went carrot?’
‘This is great,’ I remark, ‘getting together to do a full inventory of my terrible hairstyles. But is that why you asked me to come over?’
She chuckles and smooths back her sleek dark bob. Rhona was stylish, even back in the decade that style forgot. Jeans and a crisp white shirt were her uniform back then, with hair worn in a boyish crop until fairly recently. Now Luc has reappeared and places a Bloody Mary, Rhona’s preferred tipple, in front of her. ‘Thank you, darling.’ It has some kind of woody herb sticking out of it, which he lights with an oversized match. They like this here, the decorating of drinks with sprigs of things that they then set fire to.
‘I just wanted to know why you felt you had to attack Miles like that,’ she explains.
‘I didn’t attack him. I might’ve wanted to but—’
‘That’s the way Esther sees it,’ Rhona cuts in.
‘So why hasn’t she talked to me about it instead of filing her grievance through you?’
‘We were just talking,’ Rhona says defensively. ‘It happened to come up.’ She picks up her drink and sucks hard on the straw.
‘You don’t like him either,’ I remind her. Of course we’ve discussed Miles numerous times. I thought we were allies in this.
‘You know I’m not crazy about him,’ she says, ‘but they seem to have worked through their difficulties—’
‘Their difficulties? You mean him shagging someone else?’
‘—And I have to admire them for that,’ Rhona continues, giving me a stern look. ‘Don’t you think that’s admirable? And they are quite sweet together …’
‘What does that mean? That he can’t sit near her without twiddling with her hair?’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ she snaps.
‘Or that he got some friend to make her that leotard thing covered in Quality Street wrappers—’
‘It wasn’t a leotard, it was a basque …’
‘… which was obviously highly flammable, yet he sat her in front of a load of church candles to take her photo in it—’
‘The thing is,’ Rhona cuts in sharply, ‘he’s her partner and we have to accept and respect that, like it or not.’ Luc reappears and places a highball glass containing a curious pastel pink liquid in front of me.
‘Non-alcoholic,’ he booms, as if to make a point. For the guy who needs to live a little!
‘Thanks, Luc,’ I say as he plonks his gigantic frame in the booth with us, next to me.
‘Luc foraged the meadowsweet for that,’ Rhona says, jabbing a manicured nail towards my drink.
‘Really?’ I ask, keen to get back to the matter in hand, so I can go home, call Esther and try to smooth things over with her. I no longer care who was in the wrong. I just want to get along with my daughter.
‘Yeah, there’s a bit of marshland by the River Lea where it grows like crazy,’ Luc enthuses. ‘I could have filled a juggernaut with the stuff. Isn’t that amazing, in a city like London, that places like that exist?’
‘It really is,’ I reply. It’s not that I dislike Luc. It’s just that everything about him is so big: the booming voice, the muscular arms straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt and the hair that sits in a silvery swoosh like a giant metallic meringue. Mercifully, one of their young bartenders has arrived, busying away behind the bar, and is now waving over to Luc, wanting his opinion on some new concoction. He jumps up and bounces over.
After another fortifying swig of her drink, Rhona leans towards me across the table. ‘Look, James, it’s not just the mullet thing she’s concerned about.’
‘Oh. What else then?’
Her mouth twists. ‘She’s really happy for you, meeting Lauren, but she’s worried you’ve jumped headfirst into it.’
‘What?’
She pulls a pained expression. ‘I’m just saying what she thinks.’
‘But …’ I’m struggling to digest this. ‘I don’t know what that means. We’re just seeing each other. I’m not jumping into anything. I’m just having a nice time.’ It’s more than that. Way more. But I’m not even going to start to try and explain it.
‘She says you seem different,’ Rhona adds.
‘In what way?’ I ask, genuinely baffled.
‘Well, more reactive for a start.’
‘More reactive?’
‘Yeah, like on Sunday, when you went for Miles—’
‘Bloody hell, I didn’t attack him. I didn’t go for him. I just objected when he started ranting on that “not everybody needs to be academic, Charlie. Not everyone has to be huddled over their books …”’
‘Well, they don’t,’ Rhona says firmly. ‘That is actually true—’
‘So you’re on his side now?’
‘I’m just saying not everyone’s cut out to swot their way through five years of vet school …’
‘You swotted too!’ I remind her.
‘I didn’t work nearly as hard as you, though.’ How crazy is this, that we’re playing a ‘who was the swottiest’ game when we have a combined age of 104? And the only reason she didn’t have to slog away as hard as me is that she’s so darned smart, she breezed through it.
After graduating, Rhona teamed up with a friend, managed to find a backer and opened a tapas-style café that became a great success. They sold it at a vast profit, which enabled her to open Foraged with Luc. She is a powerhouse and has done very well for herself. I admire her for it, and mostly we get along fine. But at times like this it strikes me how she’s carved out the part of the fun, spontaneous, free-spirited one for herself – swigger of Bloody Marys on a Monday night, the one who was adamant about letting Esther choose her own school without any real discussion at all. Whereas I seem to have been cast as the ‘sensible’ parent, the worrier about stuff like exams and prospects – a role that’s as appealing as being the arse end of a pantomime horse.
‘Not everyone’s like you, James,’ Rhona reiterates. ‘Not everyone has their career path mapped out at thirteen and wants to spend their days jet-blasting a Jack Russell’s anal glad.’
I stare at her. ‘You don’t jet-blast a dog’s anal gland. I’m not Dyno-Rod. You gently squeeze it.’
As Rhona shudders, I pick up the pink drink and sip it. Despite its pastel hue that might suggest a flavour similar to strawberry ice cream, its taste is subtle – like a glass of stale water that’s been sitting on the bedside table for a week. Miraculously, the instant Rhona’s glass is emptied Luc reappears with another Bloody Mary for her. ‘How’s it going, guys?’ he shouts, looming over us.
‘Great,’ I reply.
He clamps a meaty hand on my shoulder. ‘You worry too much about Esther and Miles. It’ll all turn out fine.’ Of course Luc, never having had kids of his own, knows all about the gut-wrenching worry they can trigger.
‘Yeah, I’m sure it will,’ I mutter. I know this is your bar, Luc, but please go away.
He bobs down to crouch beside me, in the way that a teacher might when addressing a primary school child. ‘The thing is, she’s a great girl.’
‘Yes, of course she is,’ I say tightly.
‘She’s amazing, so talented,’ he adds, which is starting to rile me – not because I’m averse to anyone bigging up my daughter but because he’s implying that I don’t ‘get’ my own child. Okay, so I wasn’t delighted when Esther was set on going to Willow Vale: a ‘democratic school’, as they say in the marketing brochure, ‘because everyone has a voice’, and where pretty much everything – even turning up – is optional.
‘So, when they do go to lessons, they’re really motivated,’ Rhona explained, totally sold on the idea. But what about all the times they didn’t go? What would they be doing then? ‘Playing!’ she announced. ‘What’s more important than play, James?’
‘Fine,’ I said; of course it was important. I wasn’t going to disagree with that. But I still couldn’t get my head around the idea of the kids doing whatever they liked all day long, because I know I’d have arsed around with my mates, climbing trees, listening to music, having the odd sly beer and a smoke and showing up for a lesson something like once a fortnight. That’s just human nature, surely? The only reason I finally applied myself was because I knew I’d need good grades to get into vet school.
So here we are again, with totally different views (what does she mean, that Esther and Miles are quite sweet together?) and no way, really, of compromising. I get up and pull on my jacket. ‘Well, I’d better head back,’ I start.
‘I don’t want you to feel got at,’ Rhona says, frowning now.
‘I don’t. It’s fine—’
‘How are things with Lauren?’ she asks.
What, the woman I’ve ‘jumped in headfirst with’?
‘Things are great,’ I say tightly.
‘So you’re having a nice time, the two of you?’ she asks, clearly fishing for details.
‘I am. Yeah.’
‘Good for you.’ She chuckles indulgently. ‘There we all were, worried about you having a completely crappy time in Corsica all on your own …’
‘Well, I was okay,’ I say, blandly, keen to leave now.
‘Seems like it,’ Luc offers with a barking laugh.
Now Rhona turns serious. ‘Look, James, I know Miles can be a pain in the arse. But Esther loves him.’ As if it’s as simple as that. But then, I suppose it is – because our daughter is a grown woman now. We can’t choose who she loves. As it seems we can no longer influence her in any way, perhaps Rhona actually handles things better than I do. She’s realistic, I suppose. And maybe she’s right and I do worry about Esther too much. I mean, if Esther chooses to have a baby with Miles, then I guess I’ll have to accept that too.
This is why my working life is so much easier and less heartbreaking than my family life. Because no matter how stressful or absolutely tragic a working day can be – having to put an animal to sleep, and consoling the devastated owner – at least with veterinary work, you have some kind of control over how things turn out. Not always, admittedly. But you do your best. You make a diagnosis, and you know from your training what treatments are possible and advisable. You weigh up any risks, and estimate the costs, recovery time and long-term effect on the animal, and you discuss all of this with the owner.
Effective communication is a big part of what we do. (Believe it or not, at work I am known as a good communicator.) At work I generally know the best course of action to take. And if I’m unable to make things better or save an animal, then at least I know I’ve tried every option, and that nothing else could be done.
With young adult offspring there’s no taking the best course of action. It’s more that you try to persuade and cajole them; you might even nag or beg them, and end up making a show of yourself at your girlfriend’s special lunch. But ultimately, your powers are limited and mostly you have to just step away and watch helplessly from the sidelines. And what’s all this about Esther being concerned about me and Lauren? It can’t really be that – about me jumping in too fast. It must be bothering her somehow, that I’m seeing someone. I can’t for the life of me figure out why.
Rhona reaches for her Bloody Mary. ‘Sure you don’t want to stay for a proper drink?’
‘I’m okay, honestly,’ I say.
‘Well, great to see you, man.’ Luc slaps a shovel-sized hand against my back. ‘You look a bit tired, though. You’ve been working too hard, not making enough time for this new girlfriend of yours …’ He waggles a brow and they both laugh.
‘You should take some time off,’ Rhona advises. ‘Do some fun stuff …’ She turns to Luc. ‘Weren’t you complaining that no one will ever go foraging with you?’
‘Yeah, we could go together, James,’ Luc enthuses. ‘There are so many incredible places around here.’
‘Sounds great,’ I reply, making my escape before I accidentally admit that I’d rather eat my own hair.