Page 51 of Great Sexpectations
He nods and beams, understanding the will and persistence of mothers.
‘Mum, seriously,’ I whisper.
But the sound I get on the other end of the phone makes my face drop. Why is she crying?
‘Mum?’
‘Josie, darling.’
‘What’s up? Are you OK?’ Fear rages through my veins.
‘I’m at Kingston Hospital, it’s your dad, my lovely. He’s not well.’
ELEVEN
My dad handed the company over to me when I was twenty-three. I had just returned from a year in Shanghai where I’d been finishing my degree and I came back ready to take on the world. I had veered away from the family business and Sonny’s chosen path of minor celebrity, figuring I’d get on the payroll for a big finance company and live a nine-to-five existence in a range of well-fitting suits with interesting salads and gym breaks at lunch. When I came back from Shanghai, I remember sitting at a kitchen table whilst Mum and Dad were trying to brainstorm ideas for their business.
I think we should be going after the gay community.
Not with pitchforks, obviously, but they were keen to expand their client base and wanted to provide fun and frivolity for all. They used to write their ideas down on bits of paper. Dad wrote the word LGBT down in big letters.
‘I think it’s different now, Dad,’ I said. ‘It’s LGBTQIA.’
‘How do you know this?’ he asked.
‘I’m worldly now. I’ve been around Asia. I’ve been to Thailand and I’ve seen things. I went to Sydney Pride last year too.’
‘Are you trying to tell us you’re gay?’ Dad asked very calmly.
‘No. I’m saying research your market. We should get you a proper website.’
‘What’s wrong with our website?’ Dad questioned, slightly offended.
‘It was made by Roger. Most of the websites he creates can’t get past firewalls.’ This was not a lie. ‘How about parties?’
‘Sex parties?’ Mum asked.
‘No, like not pyramid schemes, but target the people who need better sex in their lives. The gay community know what they’re doing and what they like, but take Linda who’s forty-five who doesn’t have a clue about what gets her off. Send Linda a gift pack and have her host a party with ten of her mates where they can have some wine, nibbles and a laugh over sex toys. If everyone buys something, then they tell their mates and… it’s called the power of referral, word of mouth. It’s the best sales tool in the industry.’
Up to that point, Mum and Dad hadn’t really known much about my life, my degree and my knowledge. But they shouted from the rooftops that they had a daughter at university. They’d have put that on the side of buses if they could. But I remember that morning around the kitchen table, the moment they gave me a marker pen and invited me to share that piece of paper.
I think about that now as I sit in a taxi heading for a South London hospital, Cameron sitting closely beside me. The sky of a winter’s night is dark and bitter, the roads shiny and bleak from the drizzle. We stop outside a shop, where a happy Santa dances for me. It’s not the time for dancing, Mr Claus. Cameron and I don’t say a word, but every so often he puts a hand to my knee to let me know he’s there. He’s been there since the colour drained from my face and my panic made me keel over. He caught me, he hailed a taxi. ‘It was Halloween three weeks ago,’ the taxi driver commented as he saw our costumes and we both laughed, even though I could hardly breathe after hearing what Mum just told me.
Dad collapsed during a tennis match apparently. Shortness of breath, tight chest, pale as a ghost. Please be OK. Please.
I get my phone out again and try Sonny and Ruby, but I know they’re filming and all phones are prohibited on set. Maybe I should try his manager. I send him the forty-ninth text I’ve sent him today.
‘How old is your dad?’ Cameron asks, trying to break the tension in the cab.
‘Late fifties. He’s normally quite fit, so this doesn’t quite register,’ I stutter, my eyes shifting from side to side. He’s not even on medication. He has the odd steak and bottle of red, but I never worry about him in that way.
‘He’ll be fine. We’re nearly there,’ he reassures me.
I am crying. I’ve been crying since Mum told me. Never mind goth-geek chic, my eye make-up has melted in rivulets down my face, so I’m a fully fledged member of KISS now and have made my way through two packs of tissues.
The taxi rolls to a stop and I jump out, noticing Cameron paying, as I sprint through the sliding doors and try to make out the labyrinth of signs. A&E, A&E, A&E. I race into the waiting area and run to a reception desk, but before I have a chance to speak, a hand goes to my shoulder.
‘Josie…’
