Page 44 of Love at First Sight

‘Well,’ I say, crossing my legs and sitting up straight in the armchair by the couch, like pushing my shoulders back and keeping my chin up will help me hold on to my dignity. ‘The other week …’ I say, trailing off.

‘Yes,’ agrees Dad. I expect him to saywe all acted poorlyoreveryone had been drinkingorI still love you, even though I’m mad. But he doesn’t say any of those things. Instead he says, ‘Look,’ and I know that any sentence that begins withlookisn’t going to go anywhere happy.

‘This can’t go on,’ Dad continues. ‘I can’t for the life of me think why you’d try to get in the way of my happiness.’

‘Dad, I don’t—’

‘No,’ he cuts in. ‘Let me finish.’ He’s cold and determined, and I know I’ve lost. I can feel it. I’ve rung him up to be let down. I feel cold all over, even though I’m sweating. The avalanche is crashing down the mountain, and I am powerless to stop it. ‘Since your mum left,’ he says, ‘it’s just been you and me. I wanted to be there for you, Jessie, as your father, as the man in your life, as the person who loves you most in the world. But you’re grown, and it’s time for me to be happy with the woman I love. And you’re old enough to accept that without acting out like you do. It’s exhausting, and quite crappy to be around.’

I keep waiting for him to pause, to take a breath, so that I can object, say my piece, but all of this comes out in a steady stream, delivered in a way that means I don’t get a chance to interrupt and stop the inevitable.

‘As such,’ he says, and I’m holding my breath. If I inhale or exhale or move a muscle, my world will come tumbling down, because my father will say he does not love me any more and then I will have no one and nothing. ‘Simone and I have both agreed that it’s best you don’t come to the wedding. We don’t want another scene, not on our special day. And we can’t spend all the time leading up to it worrying about what you will say, or do. So it’s best to decide it now, so we can plan happily, without worry. Please do not come. I hope you will find a way to let Simone into our family, to accept that I love her and she’s one of us now. Maybe this will be the wake-up call that you need. I don’t know, Jessie. Regardless, it’s regrettable things have ended up here. It makes me wonder what I’ve done wrong, when all I ever did was try my best …’

The words stick in my throat.Don’t abandon me, I want to say.I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, I want to tell him. But I can’t.

‘We’ll talk once we’re back from honeymoon,’ Dad says, and then, unbelievably, he hangs up. And I sit there, in a house not my own, jaw slack, desperately trying to think of a way to undo what has just been done, and then crumpling into a heap when I realise that’s not what my dad wants. I am alone.

17

I don’t know how long I lie on the sofa, alternating crying with staring blankly at the ceiling. I’m fucking distraught, but with Henry upstairs I can’t go for a walk, or over to India’s. I can’t even have a drink to alleviate this feeling of not wanting to be in my own skin, not wanting to be who I am. I just lie there, barely even registering a text come through until it beeps for a second time to remind me. It’s Ali.

I can’t deal with this now, Jessie, not whilst I’m filming. It’s not a good idea, I need your full focus on Henry, especially during this time of transition with his dad. We’ll talk when I see you. Thanks.

No kiss, no emoji, just athankswith a full stop. It’s essentially a slap to the face.

Oh god, this is horrific. I clutch a pillow, pushing my face into it to stifle the sobs. Ali doesn’t want me doing Stray Kids, Dad has chosen another woman over me, my bloody mystery man from the stupid supermarket is dating my boss, and it all just feels so unfair. I’m heartbroken. What am I going to do? With any of it? I’ve pulled on a thread and everything is unravelling and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I must fall asleep, because the doorbell reverberating through the twilight sees me sit bolt upright. It goes again. I don’t even have time to think about how it’s late – it must be about 10 p.m. – and how I wouldn’t answer the door at my own home if I wasn’t expecting anybody. I just walk over to it, zombie-like, and fling it open.

‘Sorry,’ Cal says, standing there in his shorts and linen shirt, laden down by designer bags and their thick woven handles. ‘I tried calling, but no answer. I’ve been tasked with dropping all these off by Ali’s management? Apparently there’s so much it was blocking up their post room?’

I blink, aware that everything Cal says seems to be a question.

‘Oh,’ I say, not unused to the sight of somebody delivering an obscene amount of gifted stuff for Ali. She’s a walking clothes horse, after all – and on occasion, some of it even gets passed along to me, a non-clothes horse but still very grateful. ‘Come in, you can put them in her office.’

My eyes sting from the crying, and I find myself trying to hide my face in my hands so Cal can’t see what a basket case I am. I point in the direction he should go, though I’m sure he’s been here often enough to already know. He faffs about unburdening himself of the ten or so bags, and I watch him from behind. He’s broad, and must have recently had a haircut – how strange he seems different after only a few days – because there’s a faint tan line near his collar, around his lower hairline. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face that he wipes away with amassive hand and a sigh. I imagine what it would be like, to have a man of my own in a house of my own with my own child sleeping upstairs. It feels impossible. I don’t look away fast enough as Cal turns around, catches me staring.

‘Hey,’ he says, stepping towards me. ‘You don’t look well. Are you all right?’

I try to arrange myself into something sunshiney, a fake smile and crinkled eyes, accompanied by a light breezy voice. ‘Oh yeah,’ I start to say, but it comes out too high-pitched, in a way that obviously means the opposite, and we both realise it at the same time. The look of concern on his face makes me crack. I burst into tears. Proper big, heavy sobs that force me to bury my face in my hands.

‘Hey, come here,’ he says. He pulls me into him, and I fit neatly under his armpit – which is convenient for muffling the sounds of my breakdown. The fabric of his shirt is sopping wet with my tears in seconds. I can’t stop. I know I should. I do not know this man. He is not mine. To cry so fully in front of him should shame me, but I don’t have time for that. Cal cradles the back of my head and makes soft, soothing sounds. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, over and over again. ‘Whatever it is, we can figure it out. It’s okay.’

I don’t know how long we stand that way. Ages. Long enough for me to catch my breath, to stem the tears so that I can inhale and exhale without hiccupping. Cal is strong and stoic, in no rush to make me say I’m okay before I really am. It’s sort of nice, in the end, just to be held. It’sbeen so long since somebody did this for me – literally supported me, physically, and being strong is hard, doing it day after day.

‘Sorry,’ I say, when I can.

He pulls away and bends at the knee so we’re eye to eye. ‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘Ever, okay?’

I nod.

‘Tea?’ he asks. ‘Water, to rehydrate?’

I manage to let out a small laugh.

‘Both,’ I answer.

I splash some water on my face in the loo as Cal bustles about with mugs and taps and whatever else in the kitchen. When I reappear, slightly less blotchy than before, I sit down at the far edge of the sofa, legs curled underneath me, watching him grab milk from the fridge and find ice in the freezer for the water. He looks up at me with a smile. I smile back, grateful that somebody is here. Grateful that he is here. I’m comfortable with him. I have been ever since that Granny Smith in the supermarket. It’s as simple as that.

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