Chapter 19 #3
“Sorry, I’m sorry, but can you feel that?
” He digs his phone out of his jacket pocket apparently to record what he’s been humming.
“This city does something to me,” he declares, pocketing the mobile again.
“I reckon my next record’s going to be my big break, I can feel it.
God knows where it’s coming from, but I’ve never written this many songs this fast. You have to give them a listen.
I can give you my number, then I’ll send you stuff, just let me know. ”
My chest seems laced up, but I nod. His number. I don’t know if I want it. Fortunately, I don’t have to answer because the bartender puts two plates of fish and chips in front of us. My dad starts eating.
I have absolutely zero appetite, but I force myself to take a chip.
“Seriously, though,” he continues, looking up at me. “What are you doing at that school? Morning assembly and study hour.” He laughs out loud. “Is that still a thing?”
I nod.
“Such a heap of conservative bullshit. Just obey the rules and keep your mouth shut. You won’t learn anything you need for real life there.
Oh, God, your mother will kill me. Don’t listen to your old man, don’t do what I did.
I mean, look at me. I’ve got nothing, no proper job, nothing but the wrong women .
. . But I have to make music. I have no other option.
The fucking States did me over. Godawful country—everything’s superficial, everything’s fake, but maybe it has to be that way.
My next album’s gonna be about that. The songs are more honest than anything I’ve written before. ”
He’s just talking about himself, Emma.
I want to scream at the voice in my head to shut up. But I can’t because it’s right. He hardly asks any questions, and when he does, it’s apparently only to dump on everything. Mum, Dunbridge Academy. It makes me so angry.
I just interrupt him. “Do you remember that song you wrote for me?”
My father actually falls quiet, and when he looks at me, I know he’s got no idea what I’m talking about.
“‘For Emma,’” I say. “I found this tape. It was in a box, in the cellar.”
“‘For Emma,’” he repeats slowly. “Yeah, yeah, I do, now you mention it. Shit, that was a long time ago. Back then, I thought the song would make it onto the album. But somehow . . . It didn’t fit.
An album has to tell a story, you know. But it might work on the new one. Aye, I remember. It really could . . .”
“You’d do it again, wouldn’t you?” I interrupt him a second time. “You’d leave Mum again and just walk out, right? You’d promise me that you’d come back and take me on tour with you, and then I’d never hear from you again.”
“Emma, you just don’t get it. Laura suffocated me—she drove me crazy. You just don’t know your mother. She’s totally obsessed . . .”
I stand up, and he trails off.
It’s not a conscious decision, it just happens.
My mind is racing, yet my head is empty.
I have to get out of here. I have to go.
Get away from this man who’s bad-mouthing my mum and doesn’t even register that he’s hurt other people.
He doesn’t care. There’s only him and his music.
Jacob Wiley, still just a guy with a guitar and no conscience.
And he doesn’t even try to stop me when I turn away.
I think this is when I understand. That he doesn’t give a shit. That it was a mistake to come here. That I’m not his daughter. Because he never wanted a daughter.
He might be saying something. I can’t be certain because the blood is roaring in my ears. I step through the door into the darkness and don’t feel a thing. I feel nothing. Not my racing heart and not the bitter feeling of knowing that this was a mistake.
I go weak at the knees as I recognize the figure who emerges from the darkness on the other side of the street. Henry’s here. I’d almost forgotten him. He was here the whole time, and now he’s coming toward me.
“Everything all right?” he asks, standing in front of me, even though I’m sure he’s known for ages that it’s not. “Emma, how did it go?”
I feel his hands on my arms, and I can’t bear them. I walk down the pavement, I feel the tears in my eyes, and I can’t cry now.
I can’t.
I. Just. Can’t.
So I run.
Henry
I’m glad he’s taken her to this little place where I can see them through the window, sitting at a table, and not to some flat.
He may be her father, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing.
So has Emma. I can tell by the tension in her body.
She’s barely moving as she sits in front of him.
They seem to be eating something, and I don’t care that I’m stuck out here in the freezing cold. I have to be here when she comes out.
When she suddenly gets up, I think she’s going to the loo. But she’s not. She turns away and heads for the door. Her dad watches her but stays sitting there.
My heart’s going at double speed as she appears. Her face is controlled, but her clenched fists show me that nothing’s OK.
She seems not to have seen me. Her eyes don’t look at me until I walk over the road toward her. For a moment, I see the quiet panic on her face, and I’m afraid Emma might burst into tears at any second, but before I’ve reached her, she’s banished all emotion again.
“Everything all right?” I ask as I stand there with her. Why isn’t she saying anything? “Emma, how did it go?”
She stares at me and I want to hug her tight, promise her everything will turn out just fine, whatever it is. When I lay my hands on her arms, I realize it was a mistake.
She flinches, tears glittering in her eyes. I stop as Emma steps a few feet to one side, ties back her hair, and starts running.
I hesitate way too long. But it’s obvious what she’s doing. Running so as not to have to feel anything. Because she feels driven and helpless.
My legs start moving even before I’ve made up my mind.
I run through Glasgow in the middle of the night, wondering what the hell happened.
All I see are streetlights, headlights, and bright shop signs.
Emma’s fast, but I’m fast too these days.
She took care of that. My heart is racing, my lungs are burning, but the adrenaline keeps my mind off them.
I catch up with Emma when she stops at a pedestrian crossing on a busy junction. I don’t think about it for a second, just grab her arm.
“Stop this,” I gasp. “Emma, please. Stop and talk to me.”
She wants to tear herself away when the lights change, but I won’t let her. I hate having to hold her back, but I can’t lose her in a strange city in the middle of the night.
“Talk to me,” I repeat, more insistently.
“I can’t, OK?” Her chest is pumping, and I can feel her suppressed trembling. “It was horrible. It was so bad. Is that enough for you?”
“Emma, I—”
“He was an arsehole. He didn’t give a shit. Mum was right. She was right all those fucking years. But I didn’t want to believe her. He didn’t have an explanation, Henry! He had nothing. He said he’d do it again, walk out again and . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so bloody sorry, but that means he’s not worth it. Nobody who just walks out on you is worth it. He’s a lousy arsehole and you deserve so much better than a person like that in your life.”
Her eyes dart around restlessly, and I can see the tear-stains on her cheeks.
My eyes are on her mouth, and God, I have to. I have to kiss her—I have to, I have to, I have to. I can feel her pain and I can’t bear it. I’m still holding her tight. We’re so close to each other that our jackets are touching. I’d just have to bend over slightly and our lips would be too.
Emma’s stopped breathing. I know because I’m holding my breath too.
Her mouth is slightly open, and her eyes flit over my face.
She digs her hands into my jacket pockets, maybe by accident, maybe on purpose.
In the end, it’s hard to say which of us leans in.
Maybe we both do, at the same time. Because we can’t help it.
Because I want her closer—because I need her closer.
Because it’s pointless trying to convince myself otherwise.
There’s only about an inch between our mouths.
But I can’t. It’s not right.
I remember Grace. Oh, hell, I remember Grace.
And I pull back.