Page 24 of Wish You Weren't Here
‘I’m a grown woman, Steve, not a teenager sneaking in past my curfew,’ I remind him. ‘And you’re not my dad.’
Although he absolutely feels like it. Well, like a dad generally, not my dad, who has always taken the hands-off approach (at least that’s what we’ll kindly call it).
He gives me that look, the one that makes me feel about fifteen years old.
‘You should have let me know you’d be late,’ he says. ‘I was worried.’
‘Worried?’ I reply. ‘I was only on Call Lane, it’s hardly the Wild West.’
I suppose it is Friday, so that’s not unheard of, but it’s still a bit early for the usual chaos.
‘So, out with a friend,’ he says, his eyes narrowing. ‘Did you have a nice time?’
‘Yeah, it was nice to see him,’ I say automatically, and then immediately realise my mistake.
‘Him?’ Steve’s eyes are widening and narrowing like a camera lens trying to focus. ‘Him?’
Shit. I’ve messed up.
‘Yes, Him,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘My friend Him. Have I never mentioned Him before? Lovely girl, she talked way too much about video games, though.’
‘Right,’ he says slowly, like he’s filing away this new piece of information for future interrogation – I need to remember that I said that. ‘Do you want some food?’
I fake a yawn, stretching my arms over my head.
‘No, I’m exhausted,’ I reply. ‘I think I’m just going to head to bed.’
Without waiting for a response, I head for my room, shutting the door behind me. The single bed stares back at me, a constant reminder of Steve’s not-so-subtle attempts to keep me from bringing anyone else home. The faint marks on the floor where the double bed used to be are still visible, so it’s not even like he’s done a sneak job of it. Unless he wants me to see them, to remind me…
Well, the joke’s on him, because I manage in a single bed just fine, when I get the chance, or his double bed if he’s ever away for the night.
I flop down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. God, I really do need to get out of here. But I feel good about my plan, to grow up a little – to naturally evolve, but because I want to, not because people think I should.
Now, I just need to figure out how to make it happen.
12
I stare down the long driveway leading to my dad’s house like it’s the barrel of a gun – well, ‘house’ is a bit of an understatement (gun, however, is not). This house is a Grade II-listed Georgian manor, always simply referred to as ‘the manor’ by the family. It’s a grand place, rich in history, in a small village just outside York.
It’s beautiful, of course it is, but it’s also intimidatingly big. It’s made of solid stone that looks like it could withstand a siege – so obviously I’ve ruled that out, for when they’re annoying me.
The grounds stretch out on either side of the driveway – formal terracing, perfectly manicured lawns and a walled garden that requires a small army to maintain.
There’s parkland beyond that, with managed woodland framing a wildlife lake. It’s all so meticulously organised, and managed, that the place runs like a well-oiled machine. You would think a big house like this would feel lonely but, honestly, every piece of it feels alive.
I should feel more at home here, I suppose, since this is technically where I would have grown up if I’d stayed with Dad instead of going with Mum (although I don’t have any memoriesof living here). But every time I come back, I’m reminded how different our worlds are. This place is gorgeous, but it’s also the kind of beautiful that makes you feel small. I guess that’s why they have staff, because who could possibly manage this all on their own? Still, the idea of having people hanging around all the time, doing things for me, makes my skin crawl. I wouldn’t want that.
It’s been a while since I was last here. I never come willingly – usually, I’m summoned, like today, for a pre-wedding gathering ahead of the big day (that’s actually a big week, because why settle for a day when you can drag it out?). And of course it’s going to be a catered lunch, because nothing’s ever as simple as just popping over for a cup of tea and a chat in this family.
The invite – yes, an actual invitation to lunch with my family – said ‘smart casual’, which to me means black skinny jeans, a silk blouse and a leather jacket. But to the people inside this house, it probably means ceremonial robes and their second-fanciest tiaras.
I hate arriving through the front door because you don’t just walk in; you’re greeted by Alec, the house manager, who will lead you through the labyrinth of rooms to wherever you’re supposed to be.
Life hack though, if you’re ever here and something is going on, it’s easy enough to slink in through the side door with the caterers, so that’s what I’m going to do today.
As I turn the corner, I spot a van parked near the side entrance, with a team of people unloading things. There’s a man leaning against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. He’s got that bad-boy vibe – tall, with dark hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed, a leather jacket slung over his broad shoulders, and the kind of stubble that’s too perfectly maintained to beaccidental (honestly, even with stubble, I wouldn’t be surprised if Bea dismissed him on the spot).
‘Are you with the caterers?’ I ask as I approach him, pausing by the door.
