Not Moving Out

Chapter Ten

Joe

‘You haven’t told him about us yet, have you?’ said Freya.

We had left Dad in the kitchen, and stepped into the hallway for a private chat because obviously I hadn’t told him about us separating and I had no idea why he had popped by. For a start, Dad lived in Colchester, which was nowhere near Brighton, and he never just stopped in for a casual chat because he was Dad. In all the years we had lived in Brighton, this was the first time he had ever showed up unannounced. It felt more likely that Ed Sheeran would pop in for a cup of tea than Dad, and so I hadn’t told him about the separation. I hadn’t informed Ed Sheeran either for basically the same reason.

‘No, of course not. It’s Dad. We never speak about anything important.’

‘I know. So why is he here?’

‘No idea.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘Well, I…’ I said, not sure what the plan was. Freya and I had only been separated for such a short time, and I would sometimes go for months without speaking to Dad, so the idea of telling him hadn’t even entered my head. ‘No?’

‘So he’s going to be here, perhaps stay the night, and you want to play happy families rather than tell him the truth?’

I could see her point. It seemed ludicrous not to tell him because he would have to find out at some point, but the thought of actually doing it made me feel queasy. It was Dad. We literally never discussed anything vaguely important or, heaven forbid, emotional. Even when Mum died, we barely talked about it, and her fight against cancer had been subjected to the usual family ‘best not to mention it’ treatment. Dad was old-fashioned, stiff, unapproachable, and we just didn’t have that sort of relationship. Freya and I could be separated for years, divorced, and I could have a new partner, and if Dad knew nothing about it, I don’t think either of us would be particularly concerned. I was about to say as much when Dad appeared in the hallway.

‘I’m putting the kettle on. Tea?’ said Dad.

‘Oh, go on then,’ said Freya with a bright smile.

‘Please,’ I said.

‘When will Dolly be home?’ said Dad. ‘I’d love to see her.’

‘She’s actually staying at her friend Maya’s house tonight,’ replied Freya. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s a shame. I probably should have warned you I was coming, eh?’ said Dad, before he ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Freya and me alone. She looked at me, and obviously knew what I was going to say, and so she beat me to it.

‘Fine. I know what you and your dad are like. I won’t say anything about us,’ said Freya, and at that moment I wanted to hug her.

‘Thank you. I’ll try and get him out of here as soon as I can. Promise.’

‘You’d better,’ said Freya as I heard the kettle come to a boil.

Dad and I had never been close, but we had always had Mum. If our family were a sandwich, Dad and I would have been the bread and Mum would have been the filling. She would have been the butter or mayonnaise, the cheese, meat and all the salad. She made us a proper sandwich, but without her we were just two pieces of slightly rubbish bread that had nothing to keep them together. When she died, Dad and I didn’t have her to make our relationship bearable so we just didn’t see much of each other. It was easier keeping our distance and, the longer we did it, the more our relationship seemed to have become set in stone. Which was why him turning up suddenly out of the blue was suspicious. The last time I had spoken to him was on his birthday, and that was short and cordial like all of our interactions. Now he was sitting in my kitchen, drinking tea, and I had to know why he was here.

‘So, Dad—’

‘Yes, Joe,’ said Dad, slurping on his tea.

I sat opposite him, and took a sip of mine. ‘Why exactly are you here?’

‘Like I said, I was passing.’

‘Passing? You live in Colchester, Dad, which is roughly a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. The last time you were south of London, the brightest minds were still debating whether the Earth was flat. Honestly, Dad, what are you really doing here?’

I looked across the table at my father, and it was hard not to see myself in him. We had the same eyes, similar hair, and sometimes I would catch myself standing a certain way or making a gesture, and I knew it was just like him. Growing up, I had been determined to be nothing like my old man, and I thought I had achieved it by going into comedy when he had worked in factories his whole life. I was different than him, lighter, more open, and hopefully a better dad and husband, but over the last few years I had seen the parts of him I had always found difficult infiltrating parts of myself. Dad had always been more comfortable mending objects than people. His love language was DIY or perhaps, even better, just keeping out of the way. After another sip of his tea and a moment of silence, Dad put his cup down and then looked across the table at me.

‘Joe, there’s something I have to tell you,’ he said, a serious expression settled on his face. Memories of the day Mum told me she had cancer jumped into my head, swirling around like nightmares that were so unfortunately true. The awful tears, and the unbearable weight of her words that sucked every last breath from my body until I could barely breathe. I’m dying, Joe . I couldn’t stand the thought of lightning striking twice. ‘I’m moving.’

‘What?’ I heard myself saying with a large dose of incredulity.

‘I’m moving.’

‘Okay, right,’ I said, a relief washing through me that at least he wasn’t dying. We weren’t close but he was still my father.

Dad had lived in Colchester all his life, born and bred, and the idea of him not being there felt sort of ridiculous, like taking an animal that was native to hot African savannas and popping them down in Iceland – the country, not the budget supermarket. I had always imagined that Dad would live and die in Colchester. He was probably just moving to a nearby village or something. His face that had been so serious, so heavy, suddenly smiled and became lighter. He looked, for the want of a better word, happy. It was very unsettling.

‘Moving where, exactly?’ I asked.

‘France,’ said Dad, and I looked at him, and I laughed.

‘France? The country? You? You’re joking, right?’

Freya walked into the room and sat next to me. She picked up her tea and took a sip. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, probably sensing the crazy energy in the room.

‘Dad said he’s moving to France,’ I said.

‘The country?’ said Freya incredulously.

‘I met a woman. Her name’s Juliette, she’s French, and we’re moving to France together. Provence, to be precise.’

‘Oh, right. Wow!’ said Freya. ‘That’s—’

‘You’re moving to actual France?’ I said, suddenly feeling something else other than shock and confusion. Dad was supposed to live out his life in Colchester. I was supposed to be a comedy writer in Brighton with Freya and Dolly. Mum wasn’t supposed to have died from cancer. Why was nothing what it was supposed to fucking be?

‘I am,’ said Dad with a brightness as if the light bulb that had been inside of him that had been dead for years had suddenly been replaced and turned on. It was blinding.

Dad went on to explain that he had met Juliette about six months ago, and they had just clicked. She was in Colchester visiting family, and after dating long-distance for a few months, they had decided to take the leap.

‘I just… I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Juliette?’

‘No, Dad, Claudia Winkleman. Of course Juliette.’

‘She’s a bit younger than me. Sixty-two, to be precise. Divorced with four children—’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about her sooner?’ I said suddenly, and Dad looked momentarily uncomfortable. He paused before he answered.

‘To be honest, Joe, I couldn’t quite believe my luck that I could fall in love again at my age and that someone would fall in love with me. I suppose I was just waiting for something to go wrong.’

It was perhaps the most honest, emotionally vulnerable thing my father had ever said to me. I didn’t know what to say. This was Dad. This was me. I felt a lump slide down my throat. I wasn’t going to fucking cry, was I?

‘Well, I think it’s fantastic!’ said Freya. ‘Being brave enough to do something like that later in life is to be commended.’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Dad, before slurping more of his tea.

With Dad’s news rather killing my optimism about my new sitcom idea – because how could I possibly even think about that while Dad was telling us all about his new French girlfriend? – Freya arranged for dinner, while Dad told us more about Juliette. He even, incredibly, started speaking French, which was bizarre, and it seemed he had a new lease of life. Freya ordered pizza, and Dad regaled us with stories about the old farmhouse they were in the process of buying in France and how they were going to renovate it, and turn it into a luxury bed and breakfast. He even had a brand-new iPhone, which was quite the upgrade from his old flip phone, and he showed us some photos of their new place and it looked idyllic. Dad was like a new man. I couldn’t believe that all of this had happened in the last six months and it terrified me. If my father could completely change his life, what was stopping Freya from doing the same, and Dolly, too? What if everyone else around me changed and became better, happier, and I stayed the same or became worse? I was stuck being a comedy writer but if it failed, if I failed, what would become of me?

As it turned out, we spent so long eating and talking about France that Dad decided to spend the night. While Dad and I cleaned away dinner, Freya raced upstairs and put some new sheets on my bed for Dad, and moved all my things back into the marital bedroom, so he wouldn’t suspect anything. Eventually, it was time for bed after what had been perhaps the most surreal night of my life.

‘Night then,’ said Dad on the landing.

‘Night, Dad, and…’

‘And?’

‘I’m really happy for you. Glad you’ve found someone.’

‘Thanks, Joe.’

‘Guess I’ll be seeing even less of you once you move.’

‘You’ll always be welcome in France. Once we get everything sorted.’

‘A cheap holiday at the family B & B. Now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d be saying,’ I said, and we both chuckled, even though the whole thing still felt completely barmy. ‘I can’t wait to meet Juliette.’

‘Yeah, she’s coming over in June.’

‘Okay, all right. I still can’t believe all of this, Dad.’

‘You know the funny thing, Joe? Neither can I.’

‘Really?’

‘I always thought that after your mum I’d see out my days in Colchester. I had no reason to think I’d meet someone else, and certainly not from France. Life can surprise you sometimes.’

‘It certainly can,’ I said, and for a moment I thought about telling him about me and Freya, but before I could he opened his mouth and said, ‘Well, good night then, Joe. See you in the morning.’

‘Right, night, Dad.’

I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to hug me, but instead he gave me a quick clap on the shoulder before he wandered off to brush his teeth, and I walked into Freya’s bedroom still completely and utterly gobsmacked. My father was like a new man, and if we weren’t careful, we might start discussing things like love and relationships instead of always reverting to silence or football.

Freya was sitting on the bed and I gingerly walked across and sat next to her. It was uncomfortable. I could wait until Dad was asleep, and then sneak into Dolly’s bedroom and sleep in there, but what if Dad got up in the night and for some reason looked in Dolly’s bedroom or woke up before me and saw me coming out? I knew it was silly, but I couldn’t tell him so the best solution was to share Freya’s bed. It was only one night. How awkward could it be?

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning to face Freya. ‘I can sleep on the floor if you like.’

‘Just stay on your side,’ said Freya, somewhat coolly. ‘And we’ll be fine.’

‘Got it,’ I replied, as Freya stood up and got ready for bed.

We both moved around the room and into the en suite brushing our teeth, and Freya made a big deal about going into the toilet/shower room to get changed before emerging in full pyjamas and a bra – as if just seeing a flash of side boob would mean I’d be unable to control myself. It was like all the years we had been married meant nothing. She turned off the light before I clambered into bed next to her. Luckily our bed was quite large and there was plenty of space for both of us, and with a sort of no-man’s land between us. I’m sure if Freya had her way, she would have erected some sort of temporary barbed-wire fence, just to be on the safe side.

‘Good night,’ I said.

‘Night, Joe,’ Freya replied, and we lay in the dark, so close to each other, and my father was in my bedroom, and the house had never felt stranger. Before I fell asleep, I thought more and more about my new sitcom, House Shared . Perhaps it was my last chance to get something commissioned and really make something of myself because, if this didn’t get anywhere, Dolly would be off to university, Dad to France, Freya to goodness knows where, and what would I have left? I had to make it work, and so despite the obvious moral implications of not telling Freya and using our marital pain for some sort of professional gain, I knew I had no choice. I rolled over and in the faint light I could just make out the shape of Freya’s shoulder next to me. She sighed, moved and then rolled over so she was facing me.

‘Stop looking at me,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not. I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘The future.’

‘Sounds terrifying.’

‘It might be.’

‘Or maybe it will be brilliant.’

‘Maybe.’

A pause.

‘I can’t believe your dad is moving to France.’

‘It makes me wonder.’

‘What?’

‘If there is a version of this world where my dad lives in France and runs a bed and breakfast with a French lady called Juliette, perhaps there is a version of life where you and I are happy again.’

I could just about make out the shape of Freya in the dark, but I couldn’t see the details of her face. She didn’t say anything and then, after a minute, she rolled away from me again, so she was on her back looking up at the ceiling.

‘Night, Joe,’ she said quietly.

‘Night,’ I replied, and then we both tried to get some sleep.