Debbie Harry
I’m spending my first full morning of suspension researching Ealing – just out of curiosity.
Ealing is the greenest borough of the city, apparently.
Abi lives there too, so it will be nice to have a glass of wine with her after work – that is, if I get the job.
What I learnt in the last month is to not get your hopes up before an interview.
‘I didn’t realise you were at home,’ I say, trying to fill the silence.
‘You know what baffles me?’ she snaps. Crap – she must know about the two slices of bread that I took from her Hovis loaf. ‘You still haven’t invited me to your wedding.’
For a moment, I’m taken aback. I never thought to invite Fifi because, well, I don’t really know her.
This is odd considering we have lived together for over a year, but it’s the truth.
All I can say about her is that she’s an introvert who likes canned soup and gets paid to eat in her pants. That’s it.
‘I didn’t think you would want to come.’
‘Everyone wants to go to a wedding. It’s the only opportunity to meet people when you’re in your thirties.’
‘You’re in your thirties?’
‘I’m 35.’
‘You look great,’ I say, surprised. I always thought she was younger than me. This Heinz diet is a miracle.
‘I’m 35, not 45.’ She throws the soup lid into the recycling bin.
‘You can come to our wedding,’ I say, even though I have no clue what I would do with Fifi there.
Where would I even sit her? She makes a little ‘Hmm’ sound as if not completely satisfied with my invitation.
She puts the soup into the microwave without another word.
Assuming the conversation is done, I turn back to my phone.
‘And you know another thing that bothers me,’ Fifi shouts, holding up her knife with a chunk of butter on it.
‘No,’ I say, not caring.
‘Why don’t you guys fuck?’
My jaw drops.
‘Excuse me?’ Maybe I haven’t heard her right.
‘You haven’t fucked in an excruciatingly long time.’ She licks butter off her finger.
‘We fuck,’ I say defensively. The microwave beeps.
‘No, you don’t, and you need to do something about it. I’m getting sick of him hogging the bathroom to wank. Oh, and stop stealing my bread,’ she says, then flees the kitchen with her soup and toast, leaving me flabbergasted.
*
In the afternoon, I receive an ominous text from Dad.
Hi Amy. Are you around after work?
Jean-Ivy and I have a gift for you.
Yes. After 5pm.
Good. Meet Pink Bar Maddox Street 6pm?
Ok.
I would usually think of any old excuse not to see Dad and Jean-Ivy, but after the bizarre exchange with Fifi, I’m keen to get out of the house.
I put my work clothes on and take my empty work bag with me.
If Dad found out his daughter was not just a teacher but a suspended teacher, it could trigger a heart attack.
We have our differences, but I’d like to keep him around.
Everything in the Pink Bar is pink: the chairs, the walls, the glasses, the feathered chandeliers, the carpet, the candles, and even the servers are dressed head to toe in bubblegum pink.
Dad and Jean-Ivy are sitting at the bar.
Dad looks like a rain cloud in Barbie World.
Jean-Ivy, draped in a red cloth, has one hand on my dad’s thigh, the other holding a champagne glass. Classic.
‘Your hair. It’s so . . . dark,’ Jean-Ivy says, in a non-complimentary way.
She wraps her wiry arms around me, and her rings and bracelets press into my back like tiny daggers.
She lets go eventually, and I get my oxygen back.
‘Sit here, little Amy,’ she says, pointing to the pink, fluffy bar stool beside her.
‘Champagne? Yes, champagne.’ She clicks the bartender for service. ‘Isn’t this place adorable?’
‘Yes. Adorable,’ I say, staring at the portrait paintings of pigs in suits on the wall.
‘How’s work?’ Dad asks.
‘Great. Very productive.’
‘Did you get that promotion?’ he says, forgetting that he had disparaged this promotion only a few weeks ago.
‘No.’
‘Oh, I thought it was a done deal?’
‘A man who has been at the school for longer got it in the end. A bit of a stitch-up, really.’ I have figured out the best approach when dealing with Dad’s expectations and inevitable disappointment is to blame the system.
‘Stay there for another 20 years and then hopefully they will give you the next one,’ Dad responds in his favourite condescending tone that scratches on me. I want to go home now.
‘So, you mentioned something about a gift . . .’
‘Yes.’ Jean-Ivy claps. ‘But first, let me show you our photos of Barbados.’
A champagne glass is put in front of me, and I drink half of it as Jean-Ivy gets out her phone.
She shows me a photo of her first-class seat, the pina coladas that were served in pineapples, a grinning waiter whose name they have forgotten now, a blurry sunset and my half-naked dad stooped in a pool, his grey furry belly sticking out of the water.
‘Looks delightful,’ I say.
‘Jeany, we’ve got a reservation. Let’s just get on with the surprise,’ Dad says.
‘Is it a trip to Barbados?’ I joke.
They don’t laugh. Jean-Ivy theatrically gets up, goes to the side of the bar and lifts a black guitar-shaped case. Oh God, no. That better not be . . .
‘As an early wedding present, I want you to have my signed Debbie Harry guitar.’ Her eyes well up as she hands the guitar over.
I narrow my eyes. You’ve got to be kidding me.
The ‘signed’ guitar that Dad’s been trying to get rid of from his lounge for the last eight years.
It’s not even signed by Debbie Harry – we’ve repeatedly cross-referenced the autograph with ones from Google Images – but Jean-Ivy is dying on that hill, insisting it was Blondie in that club toilet in 1978.
How do I leave this place without taking it home?
‘I couldn’t take that from you, Jean-Ivy. I can’t even tap my fingers in a rhythm. You should give it to Woody; he’s in a band, and he’s your family,’ I say in my pathetic voice. I know Woody won’t take it because he also knows that it wasn’t Debbie Harry.
‘We may not be family in blood. But in here . . .’ She taps her heart. ‘Here, you are my family.’ Dad puts his arm around his second wife.
‘You’re very much our family, Jeany,’ he says.
‘The thing is,’ I try again. ‘I have nowhere to put something so valuable. I would hate for it to be damaged.’
Dad jumps in. ‘I’m sure you’ll find space, Amy.’ And he pulls that non-negotiable face of his. The one that I’m still marginally scared of, despite being a fully grown woman who pays her rent and has endured two smear tests.
Still, I try. ‘I really can’t take . . .’
‘Amy,’ Dad snaps. He crosses his arms and frowns at me like I’m a kid who has forgotten their manners.
I want to fight my corner, but it will be easier to take the guitar now and find a way to get rid of it than to keep arguing with Dad when he’s in this mood.
Heck, perhaps I could sell it on Vinted and use the money for a telescope.
‘Thank you. That’s very generous of you,’ I mumble. Dad excuses himself to the toilet. I catch him smirking to himself as he walks away. Bloody swindler.
Jean-Ivy turns towards me. ‘So, Amy. I need to ask about the seating plan at your wedding. I presume I’m sitting next to your father?’
I take another gulp of my champagne and pray that Dad will be quick. She wouldn’t ask me this if he were here.
‘You’ll be really near him,’ I say.
‘On the same table?’
‘In the same room.’
She pinches her mouth.
‘So, I’m not on the top table?’
‘You’re on the front table, the closest to the top table.’ I wish Dad would hurry up.
‘And so, Robert will be on the top table with your mum?’ she says fiercely. I want to tell her that, if it was up to me, I would have all the bridesmaids on the top table and all the parents together on a table inside a soundproof transparent box.
‘Josh is keen to keep it traditional,’ I say.
‘Traditional. Right. Well, I’m sure Charlotte will enjoy herself,’ she says with gritted teeth. She takes her glass in a very stiff hand and sips the champagne. I’m surprised that the flute doesn’t crack in two.
‘Jean-Ivy, I’m hoping we can all put the drama aside for my wedding,’ I say.
‘It’s not me,’ she squeals, but then Dad appears, and she instantly switches back to being delightful. Sometimes, I wonder if she is doing what Mum did – playing a role. Maybe it’s something all wives do.
‘Jeany, we’ve got to get to the restaurant now,’ Dad says, tapping his watch. ‘Look after that guitar, Amy.’ He pats me on the back. ‘Come on, Jeany.’ Jean-Ivy stands and adjusts her dress.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Your wedding dress fitting, darling.’ She’s mirroring my confused expression.
My stomach drops. NO. NO. NO. Lace, what have you done?
‘You’re coming to that too?’ I blurt out.
‘Poor lamb, you must be exhausted,’ she says as her cold hand slips down the side of my head. ‘Yes, I’m coming. I paid for the dress, didn’t I?’ Dad pulls her arm. ‘Yes, Bobby, okay. The table hasn’t got a time bomb on it.’ They leave arm in arm through the pink bar.
This is terrible. I call Lace, but she doesn’t answer.
What was she thinking? I knew Mum was coming, but not Jean-Ivy.
They cannot be in her tiny studio together.
It’s risky enough to have them in the same barn on my wedding day.
I’m still not convinced there won’t be blood on the dance floor by the end of the night.
I down my champagne, haul the guitar onto my back and leave the bar.