‘Looking forward to this. I love roast chicken,’ her father said later, rubbing his hands together with glee. While she prepared supper he regaled her with an amusing anecdote from his past, when he’d thrown a glass of Sauvignon over some ‘rude cove’s’ monogrammed Jermyn Street shirt when they were on a wine-tasting weekend in the Dordogne. ‘Lucky it wasn’t red,’ he said, chortling at the memory.
Now he stood, tumbler of whisky clinking with ice in hand, propped against the counter of the scuzzy eighties kitchen – varnished brown units, mottled fake-marble surfaces, cream Smeg fridge-freezer, gold-coloured taps – watching her every move, as usual. ‘Should you be cooking chicken with butter?’ he asked, peering over her shoulder. ‘Won’t it burn on the skin?’
Bel laughed. ‘When did you last cook a chicken, Dad?’
He gave her a friendly nudge. ‘Fair play. I suppose Louis taught you to do it like that.’
‘It’s just a recipe. I do have a mind of my own,’ she replied, trying unsuccessfully to keep a lid on her irritation at him breathing down her neck all the time.
Dennis stood back, eyeing her as if her mind were actually displayed on her body for him to assess. ‘Hmm. I’d say you’ve always been quite easily influenced, no?’
When Bel did not reply, he went on, ‘I mean look at Louis. You rushed into his arms as if he was the last man on the planet, when it was perfectly clear he was a chancer and only after your money.’ He spoke in a light, conversational tone, as if he were passing the time of day, not delivering a killer punch to Bel’s already punctured psyche.
Her breath caught in her throat. Wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen towel with careful deliberation, although her heart was pumping wildly against her ribs, she turned to him. His small, dark eyes were alight. It’s not true, she thought. He doesn’t mean it. Swallowing hard, she said, as coolly as she could, ‘Thanks, Dad. Good to have that clarified.’
Dennis was not fooled. Raising an eyebrow, he went on, ‘Well, face it, Bella. He bled you dry, then legged it as soon as a better offer presented itself.’
The ‘better offer’ swam, unwelcome, before her eyes. The girl – because she was hardly more than that in Bel’s opinion, although probably in her late twenties – was languorous and bordering on lazy in the restaurant, but she was also very pretty with her pouty smile and faltering English, and was always a hit with the customers.
Bel could not imagine, though, what the pair talked about when they weren’t having sex. Because unless Trinny had a plate in both hands she was permanently staring at her phone. Otherwise it would be tucked sexily into her back pocket over her full bottom. She seemed to know almost nothing about culinary matters and had scant interest in finding out more, her sole fascination being Instagram influencers and TikTok stars. Louis only ever talked about food, in all its forms. What is he doing with her? Bel asked herself, feeling jealousy tearing at her stomach, like a chainsaw, as she opened the oven door and slammed in the chicken. The answer was depressingly obvious.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked softly, pushing past her father to get salad from the fridge. The door of the Smeg was wonky and had to be secured at the side with a piece of silver duct tape, which had to be replaced every week or so. In that second, it seemed like the most important thing in the world to smooth the tape down exactly, with no air bubbles.
Her father, behind her, had gone silent. ‘God, I can’t say anything to you, these days, sweetheart, without you taking offence,’ he said eventually, sounding hurt. ‘It’s not very nice for me having someone around who’s always in a bad mood, you know.’
She turned, stung. She was trying so hard.
‘It’s not my fault you’re in this mess,’ Dennis went on. ‘You shouldn’t take it out on me, when all I’ve done is support you, given you a home … bailed you out to the tune of tens of thousands.’
Bel took a shaky breath. She didn’t know how to react. He was right: he had offered the financial help she’d badly needed, which she was determined, somehow, to pay back as soon as possible – she absolutely hated owing him. And he was right that she was upset a lot of the time. But he seemed unaware of – and unabashed by – the casually critical things that came out of his mouth.
As she shook the salad into a bowl and retrieved some peas from the freezer, she watched her father wander unsteadily to take his place at the kitchen table. He’s old … he’s drunk, she told herself, heart softening. It was true. His face was flushed and sweating, the broken veins standing out on his nose and cheeks – although Bel considered him still reasonably fit for his age, given his total disregard for his health.
‘Let’s not fall out, Dad,’ she said soothingly, splashing water into the pan with the peas.
Dennis looked up, surprised. ‘Fall out?’
‘Look, I’m really grateful to you for rescuing me, you know I am. And I’m sorry I’m often in a bate. Obviously things aren’t great for me at the moment. Finding a job and somewhere to live isn’t easy under my current circumstances.’
Her words were conciliatory, and Dennis nodded his approval. ‘There’s a roof over your head, food to eat, cash when you need it. Stop fretting, girl. You have a full-time job looking after your old dad, now.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You know I love you being here, even if you are a bit sulky at times.’
She forced a creditable laugh, but inside her guts curdled. ‘You’re quite capable of looking after yourself,’ she said brightly.
Dennis shook his head. ‘This knackered old body isn’t what it used to be, sweetheart. I wake every morning with a twinge here, a wee ache there … It’s proper shite getting old.’ He took another gulp of wine. ‘Your mother was the lucky one. She went too soon, of course, but she avoided all this crap.’
Bel was mindful of the long months of painful, time-consuming treatment, the agony her mother had suffered so stoically as the cancer moved to her bones. ‘She had her fair share of crap, Dad.’
Dennis frowned. ‘Yes, but it was easier for her. She was stalwart, good at coping. I’m not.’
Good at hiding how much pain she was in, more like, Bel thought, but didn’t say.
‘You’ll never find another job at your age, will you? Not one you actually want to do,’ she heard her father muse. And, despite the potential truth in his words, it made her want to scream. Instead she opened the oven door, rearing back as a gust of smoke from the old, dirty oven engulfed her, and pulled out the chicken to baste.