Page 33 of Can I Tell You Something?
Dad and I, however, have much more important plans.
“Hannah and I are off to do the big shop,” he calls out to the entire house. “Anyone joining us?”
“No, boring,” Ryan yells back from his bedroom. He’s always preferred his food be delivered as directly to his mouth as possible. Doesn’t care where it comes from or how it was made.
I, on the other hand, have year round dreams about French supermarkets. I picture myself roaming the aisles, filling my trolley with cheese, bread, and cured meats. I live for jars of rose petal jam, pistachio cream, and whipped hazelnut spread. And the crisps. Don’t even get me started on the crisps. French crisp flavours are elite.
“I’ll be spending the afternoon in the hot tub with a Nora Roberts secret baby romance if anyone needs me,” Mum says, appearing in her bathrobe. Her Nora Roberts obsession was my gateway into romance novels, though the secret baby trope doesn’t do it for me, personally.
“You want to come and see what the fuss is all about?” Dad asks Cameron, who is sitting at the dining table with his laptop.
“I have a bit of work to finish before tomorrow,” he replies. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
“Suit yourself,” Dad says.
Once Dad’s back is turned, Cam blows a kiss in my direction, and I catch it in the air and smack it to my mouth like the sappiest, most love-drunk girl on the planet.
Truthfully, I’m glad he’s staying behind. The pre-Christmas Big Shop has always been a Dad and me thing, even when I was a little girl. It’s a twenty-minute drive down the mountain to the nearest town with a large supermarket and over the years we’ve accumulated a few traditions of our own. We sing along to the local radio station on the winding drive, a mix of songs in French and Christmas classics you’d hear in the UK too.
When my grandma was still with us we used her ancient deathtrap of a car, but we scrapped it after she died, and not a moment too soon. Dad now hires one at the airport, some heavy duty Land Rover type thing with snow tyres, heated seats, and that new car smell. And most importantly, plenty of space for all our shopping.
I ignore my phone on the drive in favour of the view, acutely aware of the fact that as my workload picks up, I might be in the same position as Ryan, unable to make it back for these trips every year. Up until now, they’ve always been a given, a privilege afforded to people with time off work, and parents who’ll pay for the airfare. If I want to progress, I’ll be expected to work all the hours of the day to prove my worth.
“What you thinking about, kiddo?” Dad asks as trees whizz past.
“Just work. How much I’ll need to do to move up.”
“You know my firm has your name on the door, right?” he teases.
“That’s enough Dad, you know I want to get promoted on credibility, not nepotism. I’ve barely graduated and you’re talking about partner. No pressure.”
“You know that’s been a dream of mine since you took an interest in law, but you’ve got plenty of time. Don’t worry your life away on things you have no control over.”
“I’m not doing that, Dad.” I try my best to reassure him. “Honestly, I’ve been loads better.”
“I know you have, darling, but I also know you’ve been working really hard. You’re allowed to live a little.”
I’m not lying. I am doing well, but even when I was at my lowest point, I constantly tried to convince my parents I was OK. When I couldn’t get out of bed, when the thought of going to classes broke me out in a cold sweat. When it seemed like my only option was dropping out of university, or transferring to another school. When I cried all day, every day, I still said I was fine.
My breakdown happened when my second boyfriend, one of Ryan’s old friends from school, broke my heart. When we ended up on the same course at university, we were an instant match. He was funny, handsome, smart, and loved by everyone we knew. I was besotted and set for life, or so I thought.
We dated through the first year, but when summer rolled around, he spent it not with me, but with another girl in our class. In Rome, the very city I’d suggested we visit together. I’d found out when she tagged him on her Instagram.
When I confronted him about it, he simply said he’d met someone else, and I should get over it. As if I could pretend my boyfriend hadn’t cheated on me with my friend and not had the audacity to end it properly, almost exactly a year after my previous boyfriend had done something similar.
To have one man cheat on you is awful, but when it happens twice, well, then your brain is liable to convince you that you’re not worth much.
I moped around the house all summer, then had my first panic attack the day school started again. I was terrified I’d see him, terrified I’d see her, convinced everyone was talking about me behind my back.
But that was a long time ago. I climbed out of that hole, spent some time with a therapist, and I vowed I’d never let a man come before my plans or my happiness again.
“As for this place, the house,” Dad continues, “you can come here whenever you like. You and your brother. It will be yours when we’re gone, and hopefully your kids after that one day.”
“Kids? Partner? You need to slow down. Let me live a little,” I tease, parroting his words.
While Dad finds a parking spot, I dig my phone out of the passenger side compartment and smile when I see a message from Cam.
Cam:Have a great afternoon x
