Chapter Twenty-One #3
“He’s not my friend,” I reply, and he and Mum glance at each other.
We sit down at a wooden table and a waiter brings us each a menu, and there’s silence.
Oh, God. Now I’m feeling nervous.
“So, um…” I begin, then stop. What I want to say is “Why are you here?” But it might sound a bit rude. “What…brings you to London?” I say instead.
“We just thought we’d like to visit you!” says Mum, looking through her reading glasses at the menu. “Now, shall I have a cup of tea…or—what’s this? A frappalatte?”
“I want a normal cup of coffee,” says Dad, peering at the menu with a frown. “Do they do such a thing?”
“If they don’t, you’ll have to have a cappuccino and spoon off the froth,” says Mum. “Or an espresso and just ask them to add hot water.”
I don’t believe this. They have driven two hundred miles. Are we just going to sit here and talk about hot beverages all day?
“Oh, and that reminds me,” adds Mum casually. “We’ve bought you a little something, Emma. Didn’t we, Brian?”
“Oh…right,” I say in surprise. “What is it?”
“It’s a car,” says Mum, and looks up at the waiter who’s appeared at our table. “Hello! I would like a cappuccino, my husband would like a filter coffee if that’s possible, and Emma would like—”
“A car?” I echo in disbelief.
“Car,” echoes the Italian waiter, and gives me a suspicious look. “You want coffee?”
“I’d…I’d like a cappuccino, please.”
“And a selection of cakes,” adds Mum. “Grazie!”
“Mum…” I put a hand to my head as the waiter disappears. “What do you mean, you’ve bought me a car?”
“Just a little run-around. You ought to have a car! It’s not safe, your traveling on all these buses. Grandpa’s quite right.”
“But…but I can’t afford a car,” I say. “I can’t even…What about the money I owe you? What about—”
“Forget the money,” says Dad. “We’re going to wipe the slate clean.”
“What?” I’m more mystified than ever. “But we can’t do that! I still owe you—”
“Forget the money,” says Dad, a sudden edge to his voice. “I want you to forget all about it, Emma. You…you don’t owe us anything. Nothing at all.”
I honestly cannot take all this in. I look from Dad to Mum. Then back to Dad. Then, very slowly, back to Mum again.
And it’s really strange. But it almost feels as though we’re seeing one another properly for the first time in years. As though we’re seeing one another and saying hello and kind of…starting again.
“We were wondering what you thought about taking a little holiday next year!” says Mum. “With us.”
“Just…us?” I say, looking around the table.
“Just the three of us, we thought.” She gives me a tentative smile. “It might be fun! You don’t have to, of course. If you’ve got other plans—”
“No! I’d like to!” I say quickly. “I really would. But…but what about…”
I can’t even bring myself to say Kerry’s name.
There’s a tiny silence, during which Mum and Dad look at each other, and then away again.
“Kerry sends her love, of course!” says Mum, as though she’s changing the subject completely. She clears her throat. “You know, she thought she might visit Hong Kong next year. Visit her father! She hasn’t seen him for at least five years, and maybe it’s time they…had some time together.”
“Right!” I say, feeling totally stupefied. “Good idea.”
I can’t believe this. Everything’s changed. It’s like the entire family has been thrown up in the air and has fallen down in different positions, and nothing’s like it was before.
“We feel, Emma,” says Dad, and stops. “We feel…that perhaps we haven’t been…that perhaps we haven’t always noticed—” He breaks off and rubs his nose vigorously.
“Cappu-ccino,” says the waiter, planting a cup in front of me. “Filter cof-fee, cappu-ccino…coffee cake…lemon cake…chocolate—”
“Thank you!” interrupts Mum. “Thank you so much. I think we can manage from here.” The waiter disappears again, and she looks at me. “Emma, what we want to say is…we’re very proud of you.”
Oh God, I think I’m going to cry. “Right,” I manage.
“And we…” Dad begins. “That is to say…we both…your mother and I…” He clears his throat. “We’ve always…and always will…both of us…”
He pauses, breathing rather hard. I don’t quite dare say anything.
“What I’m trying to say, Emma…” he starts again. “As I’m sure you…as I’m sure we all…which is to say…”
He stops again and wipes his perspiring face with a napkin.
“The fact of the matter is that…is that…”
“Oh, just tell your daughter you love her, Brian, for once in your bloody life!” cries Mum.
“I…I…love you, Emma!” says Dad in a choked-up voice. “Oh, Jesus.” He brushes roughly at his eye.
“I love you, too, Dad,” I say, my throat tight. “And you, Mum.”
“You see!” says Mum, dabbing at her eye. “I knew it wasn’t a mistake to come!” She clutches hold of my hand, and I clutch hold of Dad’s hand, and for a moment we’re in a kind of awkward group hug.
“You know, we’re all sacred links in the eternal circle of life,” I say with a sudden swell of emotion.
“What?” Both my parents look at me blankly.
“Er, never mind.” I release my hand and take a sip of cappuccino, and look up.
Jack is standing at the door of the coffee shop.