Page 21 of Not Moving Out
‘Joe, there’s something I have to tell you,’ he said, a serious expression settled on his face. Memories of the day Mum told me she had cancer jumped into my head, swirling around like nightmares that were so unfortunately true. The awful tears, and the unbearable weight of her words that sucked every last breath from my body until I could barely breathe.I’m dying, Joe. I couldn’t stand the thought of lightning striking twice. ‘I’m moving.’
‘What?’ I heard myself saying with a large dose of incredulity.
‘I’m moving.’
‘Okay, right,’ I said, a relief washing through me that at least he wasn’t dying. We weren’t close but he was still my father.
Dad had lived in Colchester all his life, born and bred, and the idea of him not being there felt sort of ridiculous, like taking an animal that was native to hot African savannas and popping them down in Iceland – the country, not the budget supermarket. I had always imagined that Dad would live and die in Colchester. He was probably just moving to a nearby village or something. His face that had been so serious, so heavy, suddenly smiled and became lighter. He looked, for the want of a better word, happy. It was very unsettling.
‘Moving where, exactly?’ I asked.
‘France,’ said Dad, and I looked at him, and I laughed.
‘France? The country? You? You’re joking, right?’
Freya walked into the room and sat next to me. She picked up her tea and took a sip. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, probably sensing the crazy energy in the room.
‘Dad said he’s moving to France,’ I said.
‘The country?’ said Freya incredulously.
‘I met a woman. Her name’s Juliette, she’s French, and we’re moving to France together. Provence, to be precise.’
‘Oh, right. Wow!’ said Freya. ‘That’s—’
‘You’re moving to actual France?’ I said, suddenly feeling something else other than shock and confusion. Dad was supposed to live out his life in Colchester. I was supposed to be a comedy writer in Brighton with Freya and Dolly. Mum wasn’t supposed to have died from cancer. Why was nothing what it was supposed to fucking be?
‘I am,’ said Dad with a brightness as if the light bulb that had been inside of him that had been dead for years had suddenly been replaced and turned on. It was blinding.
Dad went on to explain that he had met Juliette about six months ago, and they had just clicked. She was in Colchester visiting family, and after dating long-distance for a few months, they had decided to take the leap.
‘I just… I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘What’s she like?’
‘Juliette?’
‘No, Dad, Claudia Winkleman. Of course Juliette.’
‘She’s a bit younger than me. Sixty-two, to be precise. Divorced with four children—’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about her sooner?’ I said suddenly, and Dad looked momentarily uncomfortable. He paused before he answered.
‘To be honest, Joe, I couldn’t quite believe my luck that I could fall in love again at my age and that someone would fall in love with me. I suppose I was just waiting for something to go wrong.’
It was perhaps the most honest, emotionally vulnerable thing my father had ever said to me. I didn’t know what to say. This was Dad. This was me. I felt a lump slide down my throat. I wasn’t going to fucking cry, was I?
‘Well, I think it’s fantastic!’ said Freya. ‘Being brave enough to do something like that later in life is to be commended.’
‘Thanks, love,’ said Dad, before slurping more of his tea.
With Dad’s news rather killing my optimism about my new sitcom idea – because how could I possibly even think about that while Dad was telling us all about his new French girlfriend? – Freya arranged for dinner, while Dad told us more about Juliette. He even, incredibly, started speaking French, which was bizarre, and it seemed he had a new lease of life. Freya ordered pizza, and Dad regaled us with stories about the old farmhouse they were in the process of buying in France and how they were going to renovate it, and turn it into a luxury bed and breakfast. He even had a brand-new iPhone, which was quite the upgrade from his old flip phone, and he showed us some photos of their new place and it looked idyllic. Dad was like a new man. I couldn’t believe that all of this had happened in the last six months and it terrified me. If my father could completely change his life, what was stopping Freya from doing the same, and Dolly, too? What if everyone else around me changed and became better, happier, and I stayed the same or became worse? I was stuck being a comedy writer but if it failed, if I failed, what would become of me?
As it turned out, we spent so long eating and talking about France that Dad decided to spend the night. While Dad and I cleaned away dinner, Freya raced upstairs and put some new sheets on my bed for Dad, and moved all my things back into the marital bedroom, so he wouldn’t suspect anything. Eventually, it was time for bed after what had been perhaps the most surreal night of my life.
‘Night then,’ said Dad on the landing.
‘Night, Dad, and…’
‘And?’
