A Kennedy - Serious Sweet

He’s either going to tell me about a problem, or something really great. There won’t be a medium option.

That’s OK. Alcoholics don’t do medium.

When she paused for breath, he started a fumbled, ‘That’s … I am. Well, Jon. Yes.’ And his tone was extremely careful, somehow — both painstaking and nervy. ‘I … I had to … I can’t.’

So it isn’t good news.

This cold unfurled through her torso and along her arms, which was disappointing because being sober and an adult meant you were supposed to get independent and not rely on other people to keep you happy.

‘I’ve tried. But I really …’ He sounds frightened. And numb. It’s tough to tell if somebody is lying or in shock when they offer you that kind of combination.

She asked him — because this is what you do when you care about someone, even when that someone is man: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t say.’

Which caught Meg slightly as an impact might — not a kick, but a strong shove.

I will keep civilised, though. I will be as I think I should and not chuck everything and tell him to fuck off, just to be done with all this messing about.

She even sounded civilised, produced this fairly convincing courtesy, ‘Can I help?’

And I would help. I want to.

‘You can’t … I can’t … And there’s a problem with my daughter and I won’t be able to … I wanted to phone because this … The day’s not over. There’s later. That would be quite a lot later, but would you be able. I sort of think if I don’t today and if I put it off, if we put it … I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’ It was not OK.

‘Things keep moving and I have to move because of them and I don’t want to and this has been a horrible day and I know you’ve had a … another horrible day. I truly am … I absolutely am …’ At this point there was an interruption from someone else, this distant other speaker, and Meg couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded as if a question was being asked and, of course, she then heard him say, ‘Nobody.’

And that was, of course, a name that suited her better than Sophia, or Margaret, or Maggie, or Meg, ‘That’s right — nobody. I’ll let you get on.’

‘What? No, no … It’s only that … I will call you again. Later. Later today. This evening. I won’t text. I will call you when I can call you and it will be today, I promise, I swear, and I will see you and we will do something and.. ’

There was a fumble of motion at his side of the call — a movement, perhaps, of hands that she knew and had liked and which were currently with him, there in his sleeves in another part of London.

I would have fucking helped.

Meg couldn’t hear what he said to her next — it didn’t quite sound like goodbye, but had the same effect.

She put down the silence he’d left behind himself and picked up her glass which was sticky. That served her right for ordering a kid’s kind of drink.

I’ll be fine, though.

Before midnight when we get to send sweet dreams, we’ll be all right.

Please.

I would like that.

I do think I need that.

Her drink was making her feel tearful, because it was unsuitable. An adult gets to move beyond orange squash and summery smiles and pretending a grown-up will help you know what to do next.

Meg waved to the barman and he stepped along to her section of the bar, ready to do what he could.

Here it is.

Jon was in his daughter’s bathroom, ‘I absolutely am …’ He was — again — letting his mouth start a sentence that he knew it couldn’t end. He was also mumbling, because he knew that his daughter was standing outside, beyond the door he’d locked for privacy and safety and so that he could be insane without anyone watching.

‘Dad? You’re on the phone in there?’ Accusing.

‘It’s nobody.’ Holding his mobile phone like a warm sin.

‘Dad?’ This was his daughter’s voice — dear voice — another dear voice — while he listened elsewhere and couldn’t say what he had to, because he felt too ill to try.

And because I have no balls.

I can’t do this. Not any of it.

‘I love you.’ This was his own voice — muffled blur of a voice –

and then he cut the call before there could be a reply.

I can’t.

Then this noise, a hacking sort of sob, lurched up from his chest and out and then once more and then he was bleating, yowling.

Inexcusable.

‘Dad?’

‘’M OK. Honest.’

‘Dad?’

Jon stepped to the sink and turned both taps full on, let their sound slightly mask his own as his arms cramped and he leaned over and further over and wished he could be sick rather than simply hollow.

Christ.

He cupped the water, let it be harsh against his palms, lifted it to his face and doused himself. In the process, he drenched his shirt, while his foot kicked at his phone, which had fallen and was somewhere on the carpet and no use to him.

Christ.

He didn’t use the mirror before he came out of the bathroom, but he guessed that he was not at his best as he blinked down at Becky and hugged her in, because that was the comforting thing for a father to do and because it would prevent her from studying him like the wet, mad animal he understood himself to be.

Christ.

‘Daddy’s here. Dad’s here.’ Her arms being wiry and tight around him in a way that was a great relief and also a burden. ‘Dad’s—’

‘What’s the matter?’ Her voice was a reproach against his chest, hot. ‘What’s wrong?’ He’d made her worried, which was not his intention.

‘I, ah … Bad day. Bad week. It’s a funny time. And … I can’t.’ She was patting at the small of his back and that was nice, a kind gesture. His breath heaved a few times at the idea of it, but he kept steady thereafter. ‘Becky, I’m—’

‘Has Mum done something?’ He loved that she sounded protective.

‘What? No. No. She’s on holiday, remember? No. That’s completely …’ He gently disentangled himself and offered her an expression he hoped would pass, while he stared off to one side at a reproduction of a poster for the movie The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover which was on Becky’s wall — Helen Mirren in complicated underwear and some fruit.

That would have been Terry the wanker’s choice — trying to be shocking. I pity the poor bloody actors in a piece of crap like that … Suffering all round. The indignities required of any trade. Who needs it? I don’t need it. Dear God, I don’t need it.

And I don’t want it to have to be my fault.

‘I shouldn’t be bringing this here, not to my girl.’ Jon kissed the top of her head — hair smells as it always did, of love and home and peacefulness — and he felt like a swine for planning, while he kissed, how he would get back into the bathroom and retrieve his phone. ‘My girl is wonderful.’ He’d forgotten it.

I’m really not in a position where I can afford to forget anything.

‘You don’t look OK, Dad. You look thin.’

‘I am thin. I’m always thin. That’s me — thin.’ He felt something like a smile afflict him and then slink off before it failed close inspection. ‘I know this is shit of me, but I have to go in a while. In a not very long while. I’m so sorry.’

He braced himself for her disapproval, but — rather more horribly — she provided none, led him back to the living room as if he were elderly and damaged. ‘You should eat.’

‘Well, no — you should. You look tired, sweetheart. And you really should eat.’