Chapter 41
MINNIE
LONDON
Once again, I’m early – a feat in itself – but this time, I don’t circle Soho, I don’t let myself pause outside the entrance, and I don’t flee like a coward.
My position of choice is a coffee table and two armchairs, clearly visible from the stairs so he can’t miss me, and so I can leave easily if I need to.
I refuse to overthink this. I won’t have our reunion dangling over me indefinitely. My life is one giant mess right now so I might as well lean into it. A gets-worse-before-it-gets-better sort of thing.
At the very least, I know what I’m not going to do.
Hearing his perspective on what happened might kill me, so I’m not going to ask.
I won’t bring up his girlfriends humiliating me, the nights I fell asleep listening to Mum wailing through the wall, or how it feels to have the life I knew ripped from beneath me.
He doesn’t deserve to know, but I deserve to heal.
I don’t understand much at the moment – where my relationship is at, how solid my job is, what Mum thinks of me – but I do understand my dad’s integral to moving forward.
Jack taught me some breathing exercises, but I don’t need them. My leg’s bouncing and my heartrate’s skittering but the stress is manageable. I’m more alert than I’ve been in days. The tidal wave of guilt and anxiety has temporarily paused.
‘You’re early!’
I look up from playing with the menu and it’s him. It’s really him. In a trench coat even though it’s warm outside, like he’s been softened by decades in Monaco.
‘I’ve never known you to be early,’ he adds.
The Minnie of six months ago would’ve made a snarky comment about how he doesn’t know anything about me, but the Minnie of now doesn’t want confrontation. I opt for a nonsensical noise that comes out like an ‘aauumm.’ Excellent start.
Twelve years and you can’t even muster an intelligible word. You have two languages to pick from.
Do I get up? Hug him? Shake his hand? Wave? I make a snap decision and motion to the chair opposite. We’re not physical touch people, and I don’t want to be that close.
‘Traffic good?’ I enquire.
He unbuttons his jacket. ‘I walked, actually. I’m only over in Claridge’s. It’s a lovely day so I thought I’d get some fresh air.’
‘It is lovely. Unseasonably warm for September.’
It is awkward, of course it is, but it seems to be only on my side. My dad’s his usual camera-ready self – unruffled, perfectly at ease, immaculately dressed. But his teeth are still too white.
Fortunately, a waiter stops by our table, and the tension takes a short interval while we order. My dad raises his eyebrows when I decline a cake – I’m not a fat kid anymore (though I will stop by my favourite Scandi bakery after. I deserve it, this is a big deal and I haven’t eaten all day).
‘Thank you for meeting me here,’ he says once the waiter’s gone.
The tension’s back with full force. ‘Thank you for flying to London.’
‘It’s no problem. Gives me a chance to see your grandma.’
My grandma. My battle-axe, frightfully posh, little-girls-must-learn-to-hunt, I-will-call-you-Amelia-because-Minnie’s-not-a-real-name grandma. I haven’t thought about the other half of my family in years. Uncles, aunts, cousins, step-cousins. A stepmother. A stepbrother.
‘H-how is she?’
‘Oh, you know her. Turned ninety last week and is hellbent on moving house by herself. My brother said he caught her trying to lift the fridge.’
Sounds like her. A smile breaks out of its own accord. I was never super close to my dad’s side but I’m pleased she’s the same as I remember. ‘That’s good.’
‘I’ve really enjoyed watching you out there reporting for Channel 3,’ he remarks, picking lint off his jumper.
My skin crawls at the thought of him watching me fight for airtime, donning small skirts and vacuous smiles. Working my socks off to be reduced to a grid girl.
‘You’re very natural up there. Runs in the family, I suppose,’ he says with a self-indulgent smile. ‘Do you love it?’
I have to be careful what I say. He’s on the Ackland board, plus he’s pals with Bri Bri. ‘I love presenting, particularly opening up the sport to new people.’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘It’s lovely to see you back in it. It was such a huge part of your childhood.’
And whose fault was it that I left?
‘I have missed it,’ I confess. ‘The atmosphere, my friends, the travel.’
‘Not the cars?’
I concede a small smile. ‘And the cars. Well, not Ackland’s.’
His face turns grave. ‘Definitely not Ackland’s. And how’s your mum?’ he asks casually, like he hasn’t received dog turds from her in the post.
‘Alright. She’s an estate agent and dog breeder now. Lives in a cottage just outside Reigate.’ I don’t know why I’m reciting a whole Wikipedia page about her like I’m on trial. I’m nervous. Leave me alone.
That million-dollar smile. ‘Good for her.’ He rubs his prickly jaw. ‘She always did talk about living rurally. I just thought she wanted to play at it. The Barbour jacket, the boots, the double-page spread in Country Life.’
‘Nope, she’s really done it.’
‘Wonderful. She finally got a dog too.’
‘She’s got six,’ I correct.
His white brows shoot up. ‘We talked a lot about getting a dog, but unfortunately I’m allergic.’
‘You’re not allergic, you hate them.’
‘I don’t hate them, they just… malt, and slobber. But I do have terrible allergies as well.’
This is so strange. We’re not old friends, he’s my fucking father. And why is he being so… indulgent. And altruistic. My dad is many things but selfless isn’t one of them.
Oh god. He’s drawing in a breath. He’s shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. I know what he’s doing better than anyone because that’s how I psyche myself up too. He’s about to address the elephant in the room. This is it. ‘Minnie, I—’
‘I don’t want to know,’ I snap.
He seizes up. ‘Don’t want to know what?’
‘All of it. Why, when, how. I don’t want it. It’s not going change anything or make anything better, so I’d rather not know.’
Maybe it’s the worst possible timing or the best, but our waiter decides to deliver our coffees. The air between us is a horrible icky limbo until he leaves. I take a sip of my burning latte – anything to break the stillness.
‘What do you want then, Minnie Moo?’ he asks gently.
Jesus, he whipped out ‘Minnie Moo’. I can’t stop my eyes from welling up. He can’t do that. He can’t benefit from nostalgia when he’s ruined so much. I won’t let him.
‘I want you to tell me I’m loveable,’ I hear myself say, making no effort to stem the tears leaking down my face. ‘That I can love and be loved in return. That I didn’t deserve to be discarded, and that no one will do that to me again. That I’m worthy, even if the only one who believes it is Mum.
‘I want you to tell me there’s nothing wrong with me. That all my hard work will pay off someday. But, most of all, I want you to tell me I’m not like you. I won’t do anything like what you did to us, because I’m not the broken one – you are.’
I shove my face in my hands, letting the relentless moisture seep into my sleeves. I didn’t mean to say all that in the middle of Soho House. It rushed out, and now it’s dangling in yet more horrendous silence, but this time punctuated by thick sobs.
I can’t look up. I know this man and he’s not going to make it better. What was I thinking confronting him like this? It’s sure to do more harm than good.
A warm hand touches my arm. I lift my gaze to see him crouched beside me.
He’s not crying too like I hoped he’d be, but at least he hasn’t done a runner which, historically, is his forte.
He’s regarding me steadily. Even through a blocked nose I can smell his familiar cologne.
It’s woody and reminds me of weekday mornings in our flat in Monaco.
The three of us, getting ready for the day together. I give another mortifying sob.
‘Minnie Macklin Roberts, you are your mother’s daughter,’ he says with a tender smile.
What? How dare you. I bare my soul and you compare me to your arch nemesis?!
I open my mouth to spew soggy rage.
He holds up a finger. ‘Let’s start here. I’m eternally sorry I hurt you and your mother. It was never how I imagined our separation playing out. You deserved far, far more. Now, we’ll leave that sorry there if you don’t want to talk about it, but know it’s there and it’ll keep being there.
‘I say you’re your mother’s daughter as a compliment.
You’re nothing like me; you never were.’ He gently tucks some hair behind my ear and it feels traitorously comforting.
‘She’s the strongest, smartest, feistiest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met.
There’s not one ounce of her that’s selfish or impulsive; the same can’t be said for your dear old dad. She’s not broken, and neither are you.
‘I think you could do with being a little more selfish,’ he considers as he gets to his feet. ‘It certainly would’ve helped your business.’
I can’t believe he brought that up. I can’t believe he knows. And I’m crying again.
‘I know you’d never have accepted my help – or anyone’s help. You’ve always been an independent thing,’ he goes on, looking down at me. ‘But just know you could have. You always can. I’ll forever be your father, Minnie, and that doesn’t change because your mother gave me an ultimatum.’
Even though I’m not a hugger, something comes over me that has me launching myself at him. I keep my face turned away to avoid smearing mascara on his nice cream jumper.
‘I love you, my darling girl,’ he whispers, squeezing me slightly, ‘and I never meant to make things difficult for you.’
I can’t say those three words back – probably never will – but I accept them with a tiny nod.
Sure, it feels like I’ve reopened a giant old wound and mortally embarrassed myself in front of half of London’s young elite, but I also feel something quieter, something smothered by relief that feels a bit like… progress.