Lisa Owens - Not Working

“Oh, the buddleia. No, no, that’s all fine,” I say and direct him away from further questions by gesturing toward the incoming Chianti.

“So, you enjoyed the cruise?” I ask, as it’s poured.

“We did,” says Dad. “They had an absolutely outstanding singer who performed in the evenings. Large body mass, like the fellow who died.”

“John Candy?” I guess. “Richard Griffiths?”

“No, no, singer. Italian. Beard.”

“Oh, Pavarotti?”

“Exactly. This individual”—he shakes his head—“absolutely outstanding. Good enough to be on the London stage.” He says this with the authority of a seasoned West End hit-maker.

“Well, he probably wasn’t, ” I say, “hence performing on a cruise.”

Dad purses his lips. I feel a bit mean, and quickly move on. “It was strange not spending Christmas with you. The first time ever.” I trace my knife along the restaurant slogan on my placemat-cum-menu: Mangia bene, vive felice!

Dad nods. “Well. Good to try something different.”

The wine is anemic and sweet, and I’ve been drinking it like juice: with frequent, thirsty sips. “I think they water it down,” I say, partly because I believe this might be true, and partly to mitigate the stark fact of my already half-empty glass versus his untouched one. “So, anyway, how was the meeting?”

“Fine,” he says.

“What was it again?”

“Oh.” He stops to take a long, noisy pull of his wine. “It was, ah…to do with potential changes to the way things are run. Restructuring.”

“Really,” I say pointlessly.

“Yes,” he confirms in kind.

“What…sort of changes?”

He enters into a lengthy explanation, and though I really do try to listen, I’m already lost a few acronyms in. I nod and crease my brow, and squint at my glass, trying to gauge how long is long enough to wait before refilling.

“…a possible redundancy package.”

“Right,” I say, nodding more vigorously now to make up for the fact I’m reaching for the bottle. “Wait — redundancy? Redundancy package for who?”

“Nothing’s definite,” he says. “I said if .”

“If what?”

“If these new measures come in.”

“If these new measures come in, what?”

“Here we go!” says the waiter. “Who’s having the lovely salad?”

“Dad,” I say, leaning back as the plate is set down. “Could you please repeat the bit about what happens if the new measures come in?”

Without tasting his soup, he picks up the shaker and salts it with vigor. “There may be redundancies. I might be affected, but it’s early days.”

“Oh no! I mean, okay. So…how are you feeling about it?”

In the gurning, strangled voice he reserves for moments of high hilarity or stress, he says, “It doesn’t really matter how I feel.”

“Hey!” I put down my fork. It feels forced and false, an overdone gesture. “It matters to me.” He shrugs as he slurps up a steaming spoonful. I return to my fork and waltz a slice of tomato through the vinaigrette.

“They want to be careful about mice,” says Dad, nodding toward the flour sacks piled haphazardly in corners, part of the rough-and-ready vibe.

“Probably stuffed with straw,” I say. We eat without speaking for a while.

“Don’t tell your mother what I just told you.”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.” I watch as he scours the bowl of every last smear with some bread. “Why won’t you tell her? Don’t you think you should?”

“She won’t understand. I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace.”

Though this is probably true, I feel a karmic need to stick up for her. “She might surprise you?” He shakes his head and we sit looking into our empty dishes. “How was the soup?” I ask.

“Bit salty.”

“Any sign she might be thawing — you know, on the me front?” I ask, after another silence.

“How was everything with the starters?” says the waiter, seizing our plates.

“Fine, thank you,” we say in accidental unison as he glides away.

—

“Who wants a little something sweet?” Our friend is back with some smaller menu cards.

Dad looks to me to answer, which makes me briefly, unbearably sad. I check the time: somehow we have only been here for less than an hour, so although I really don’t want dessert, I say, “Sure, we’ll take a look.”

“Ooffff,” says Dad, rubbing his belly, which has grown a little fuller than seems healthy for the wrong side of sixty. “I don’t think I could have a whole one. Maybe we could share?”

Via an onerous process of elimination (“What do you want?” / “What do you want?” / “I’m happy with anything.” / “So am I.” / “Maybe not the panna cotta?” / “Agreed. Not the panna cotta.” / “The lemon tart — was that a face you made?” / “Happy to have it.” / “Oh, I was going to say not that? But if you want it, we can…?” / “Very happy not to have it.” / “So that leaves three — go on, you choose.” / “Honestly, they sound equally good to me. I couldn’t choose between them. You choose. Any. But not the tiramisu.” / “And apple crumble’s boring, so shall we go sticky toffee?” / “Fine.” / “You’re sure you don’t want lemon? I think you wanted the lemon, and when I said I didn’t, maybe you were just agreeing to be polite.” / “I’m happy with anything. Lemon is fine. Sticky toffee is fine.” / “Sticky toffee, then?” / “Sticky toffee it is. / “Sure?” / “Sure. I only want a taste anyway.”) we order the sticky toffee pudding. While we wait, I try again to broach the subject of my mother.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” I say. “There doesn’t seem to be a way to make it all right.”

“She’s a strong-minded woman, Claire,” he says. “She’s still grieving. I think you’ll need to wait this one out.”

“Could you try talking to her for me?” I say.

“I have. I am. I will,” he says.

—

Dessert appears. In less than a minute of frenzied gouging and scraping the plate is practically spotless, and our spoons gleam brighter than when they arrived.

“Do you think he’s a homosexual?” says Dad in a stage whisper, leaning in eagerly, hands clasped under his chin. The look in his eye says, I know I shouldn’t, but …His lips are crusted, dark from the wine. I scrape at mine with a fingernail.

“What?” I say, although I heard full well and know he means our waiter.

“Never mind,” says Dad, falling away.

When the bill arrives, I root for my purse and say, faintly, “Can I…?” safe in the knowledge he will say no.

—

On the walk back to the Tube station, I practice saying, I love you, Dad. Don’t worry about work. I’m here for you no matter what happens, over and over to myself.

“Huh?” says Dad.

“What?” I say. Then, quickly, “Thanks so much for dinner.”

“Take care now, Claire. Send my regards to Luke.”

I offer a kiss up to him like a question; he bows his head to accept it, and as he pulls away, there is the sudden burn of his coarse shaven cheek rasping mine.

When I told him I was handing in my notice without a new job lined up, my father didn’t miss a beat.

“There might be something for you here. One of the administration girls, Karen, is leaving soon to retrain as a beautician.”

I imagined commuting from the city to the suburbs, bonding with my dad over office politics while we ate sandwiches and drank bad coffee. It was, in a strange way, tempting.

“It’s a really kind offer—”

“Now: it’s not an offer. You’ll have to go through the official channels. I can’t make any guarantees.”