got your freedom back, nudge, nudge, wink, wink – the implication being, You dirty old dog you, why not go and play the field?
But playing the field wasn't as easy as all that. For a start, until meeting Emily, Mark hadn't had the slightest inclination to do so; but also, what people – even women – failed to understand was that Mark came as a package. It wasn't only him, it was his kids too. Love me, love my children. Not all the women you met were likely to want to do that. Mark wondered whether Emily would. He'd gone along with Rob's strictures not to mention the children, but it had felt a bit odd.
‘Here it is.’ Gemma passed over the jar. She hoisted herself onto the worktop. ‘Da-ad,’ she began in a wheedling tone Mark knew all too well.
‘Whatever it is, I'm going to say no,’ said Mark firmly as he cut up some peppers.
‘But Da-ad. You don't know what it is yet!’
‘Okay, what is it?’ Mark turned the heat on and put the wok over the gas.
‘Shelly's-invited-me-to-the-park-and-sleepover-tomorrow-night.’ The words came out in a nervous gabble. Clearly rehearsed, and desperate to get his assent.
‘Who's Shelly again?’
‘You know. Shelly. The one who does dancing with me.’
Oh. That Shelly. The one with the tattoo. And the ring through her nose. And the one who Mark suspected had persuaded Gemma to smoke on at least one occasion.
‘I don't think so, Gemma, do you?’ Mark chucked the vege tables into the wok.
‘Oh Da-a-ad,’ said Gemma. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don't want you hanging round the park after school,’ said Mark with half an eye on the recipe. He had found a sachet of black bean sauce in the cupboard and tore it open with his teeth.
‘But why can't I go to Shelly's?’
‘Because I say so.’ Mark hated himself the minute the words came out. He'd always sworn he wouldn't use that one on his kids. How parenthood makes hypocrites of us all, he thought. At least he hadn't done the one thing guaranteed to make sure she would stick to Shelly like a limpet, namely let Gemma know just how much he disapproved of her friend. ‘Besides, it's a school night.’
‘So?’ Gemma wasn't going to give up that easily.
‘So don't you have homework or something?’
Mark had chucked the sauce into the pan and turned the flame up a little – the stir fry didn't seem to be frying quite as quickly as it should.
‘Homework sucks,’ said Gemma sulkily.
Mark turned away to face her.
‘So does going to work, but I still have to do it,’ he said. Suddenly he was aware of the smell of burning. He turned round to see the pan had caught fire. ‘Holy shit!’ Mark turned the heat off and grabbed a lid to smother the flames, while simultaneously soothing Beth who had started to scream.
‘But Da-ad –’
‘Not now, Gemma.’ Mark surveyed the charred content of the pan. Apparently stir fry was much harder than he'd imagined.
‘You are so unfair!’ Gemma stomped off to her room. It was only the third time she'd performed that trick that evening. ‘Yup,’ said Mark.
‘What's up with Wednesday now?’ Rob wandered in from the shower, rubbing a towel on his head. He'd christened Gemma ‘Wednesday Addams’ the first time she'd dyed her hair black. And, realising how much it annoyed her, he'd kept it up.
‘Oh, the usual. I'm the meanest dad in the world for not letting her out with her mates.’ Mark was scraping the remnants of his stir fry into the bin.
‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Rob. ‘Burn the house down?’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Mark. ‘Domino's anyone?’
Emily sipped her drink, stared around the glitzy nightclub and sighed. The tubthumping music blaring out from DJ Rappa, The Sugar Daddy, who, despite the moniker, was actually a former accountant called Tim Seiver, was giving her a major headache.
Jeez. She was too old for this. But it was the sort of happening place that Callum liked. Though she still hadn't figured out how he'd managed to persuade her to come here after the whole work debacle. Somehow he'd sweet-talked her into it, and a late night at her desk for the third night running hadn't been immensely appealing. So here she was.
Emily leaned her head against the wall. It was cool and felt like a haven in this dark maelstrom of sweating bodies and flashing lights. Once she'd have thought it was the height of cool to be here. She'd have been wowed by the bright city-lights appeal of it all; impressed by the zedlebs all crowding over each other in a desperate attempt to behave in a sufficiently outrageous manner to merit a picture in Heat magazine.
Once.
Now she wondered what had happened to her. When she had become a lawyer, Emily had been fired up with youthful idealism inspired by what had happened to her dad. He had never got the compensation owing to him after the accident, thanks to the fat cats who always covered their lardy arses. She would make up for that, and fight for all the little people: the ones like Dad who sat for years living a kind of half life breathing the shallow breaths of someone infected with asbestosis. An old man before his time. He'd been so proud of her when she'd told him.
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Oh God, no, not here. She still wasn't used to these overwhelming surges of grief that took her when she was least expecting them. They seemed to come at any moment, unannounced, like a huge shock wave, each one larger than the last. Would she ever get used to the fact that he wasn't here any more? She wondered if he had been disappointed in her. He'd never said if he was, but she wouldn't have blamed him. The idealistic Emily her dad had loved had turned into a shallow narcissistic creature, seduced by the false glamour of a fake lifestyle and ropey job. How had she let that happen?
‘You are such a loser!’ Jasmine Symonds came storming past with Twinkletoes Tone.
Tony looked, as ever, like a rat caught in a run.
‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ he whined. ‘You know I love you.’
‘Aw, do you?’ said Jasmine. ‘Well, I don't love you. It is so over.’ She threw the contents of her bottle of Bacardi Breezer over his head, to the cheers of several bystanders. A couple of cameras flashed and Jasmine paused to pose – no doubt the whole scene would be being written about in next week's issue of Heat. Emily sighed. How had she ended up in this facile world? How?
‘What you staring at?’ Jasmine looked at her belligerently, and Emily quickly looked away. God, that woman was foul. Why on earth were so many people interested in her antics? Seeing she wasn't likely to get the fight she was clearly looking for, and to Emily's considerable relief, Jasmine turned round and disappeared into the crowd.
‘Ready to dance, babe?’ Callum came swaying up to her, no doubt stoked up after a visit to the gents. He was hyped and ready to keep partying all night. And she wasn't. With a moment of utter clarity, Emily knew that if she stayed with Callum for a hundred years, nothing was ever going to change. But
