Page 10 of Great Sexpectations
I pause for a moment.Because that would be bad.
THREE
‘Then you tell him to get his arse back from Bradford? I am not wasting good money on that boy… I will drive there and get him myself…’
I have a lively Uber driver today considering it’s 7 a.m. I am curious about the nature of this argument at such an early hour but also conscious that his anger is fuelling some very haphazard driving choices that make his dashboard air freshener swirl around like we’re at sea. I am a big fan of Uber’s commitment to passenger experiences. Today, Tamwar is offering me a mandarin and ginger scented drive. My favourites put tissues in the magazine flaps, some have phone chargers. My absolute fave was an older gentleman who had a laminated sign requesting people don’t foul or have sex in the back of his car. Tamwar doesn’t carry such signage but hangs up his phone and huffs and puffs, running his fingers over his chin.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear that, love. It’s my son. First year at uni and pissing it all away.’
‘Oh, don’t mind me.’ Please indicate at roundabouts, though.
‘Did you go to university?’ he asks me.
‘I did. I went to Leeds, so near Bradford.’
‘You look like a smart girl. Good night? Must be if you’re coming home at this hour. I like the costume.’
He has good taste in films, so this means I will leave him a five-star rating. ‘Thank you, Tamwar. Busy night for you?’
‘Well, with Halloween, you always get an interesting couple of days. Mostly drunk kids who’ve been out on the town and leave parts of their costumes behind.’
‘Anyone leave anything interesting?’
‘All sorts. Whole tub of sweets. A rubber severed hand, two pairs of devil horns and a hockey mask.’
I laugh. ‘I’m up here on the left, the house with the hedges.’
He slows the car down and studies the place in detail, the cars to the front of the drive. ‘Just what I thought. See… if my boy applies himself at university, then he can afford a house like this one day, am I right?’
I don’t tell him otherwise. ‘He’ll get there, Tamwar. Having fun is also part of the experience.’
‘Depends how you have your fun. I bet you never got so drunk that you climbed through a drive-thru window at Burger King, stole some chips and then had to be removed by firemen.’
‘No. That is funny, though,’ I reply, trying to stifle my giggles.
Tamwar doesn’t seem to think so. ‘When you get out, take a look in my boot and see if there’s anything there you want… Halloween special,’ he says, jokingly.
I clamber out and do as I’m told, then stand in the middle of our street cradling a severed hand as I wave Tamwar away. I hope he goes easy on his son because at least they have a family story of legend to share when he’s older.
As I approach the house, it looks a little sadder in the twilight of an autumn morn. Dad’s pumpkins have caved into themselves and the witch on the garage is no longer illuminated or standing, lying face down in the ivy, as if she had the most excellent night.
I do love this house and I think it may be one of the reasons I came back to live here. When my parents left their former business, they wanted so desperately to fit in to some suburban existence so they bought this huge ivy-clad detached house on the outskirts of South London’s Wimbledon. It’s where I grew up, had all my playdates and parties (including my eighteenth; someone threw up in the fireplace) and where my parents tried hard to carve out a safe and loving family life for my brother and me. I mean, it wasn’t even in the postcode of normal. In reality, they jumped from porn into dildos. I remember boxes of them lined up as they used our dining table as a postage and packaging station. For years, Sonny and I had no idea what they were. We used to pretend they were lightsabers and fight each other on the stairs.
As I put my key into the front door, it opens and Dad stands there, a vision in some dazzling white tennis wear.
‘Bleeding Jesus… you gave me a shock,’ he says, jumping back in fright.
The one thing about my dad is that when he goes for a look, he commits. Last night, authentic vampire, this morning, Centre Court ready. ‘As I live and breathe, aren’t you Roger Federer?’ I joke.
He smiles. ‘I am,’ he says, adopting a bad fake Euro accent and a lunge. ‘I am the Swiss GOAT of tennis. You should see the swing of my serve.’
‘Maybe another time, Rog. You’re out early?’
‘They run a special deal at the fitness club: swim, tennis, sauna and a breakfast roll. You should talk, walk of shame,’ he says cheekily.
‘Ha-ha-ha,’ I reply slowly. ‘Nothing of the sort. Thursday night party means some of us have to work the next day. I have that call with the guys in Shenzhen at 9 a.m. so I wanted to freshen up and get in the office. How’s Mum? How has she taken the news?’
It’s the morning after the big engagement at the party they weren’t invited to.
