The reason why Dad was out all night was because of (drum roll, please!) a lady friend. And not just any lady friend. A special lady friend. Why am I saying lady friend so much? Because Dad referred to Lisa as his lady friend about seventeen times over the course of the evening. Even weirder, she didn’t run screaming from the dinner table when he did.
I was in the kitchen finishing off my French homework (and watching DIY hair mask videos) when I heard Dad come in, along with the voice of a woman I didn’t recognize.
“Helen, you’re here!” Dad said brightly. I was low-key annoyed at Dad for his silence all day.
I grunted in response. “Where else would I be on a Wednesday night?”
Dad ignored my sarcasm, turning to someone in the corridor. “Lisa, meet my youngest daughter, Helen. Helen, this is my … lady friend.” Yes, it was as awkward as it sounded.
A petite dark-haired woman walked in. “Hey, Helen, it’s lovely to meet you. George told me a lot about you,” Lisa said.
It took me a second to realize that she was talking about Dad. George was the name he used at work. And when he was hooking up with women, it seemed.
“Will you join us for dinner?” Dad asked. So he’s allowed friends over and I’m not? Such a double standard!
I wanted to give him the cold shoulder for ghosting on me. But curiosity got the better of me. Who was this woman who kept Dad so busy that he couldn’t reply to a text?
“Depends. Are you cooking?” I asked.
Dad laughed too loud. “Of course I’m cooking, darling. Who else?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. It was my subtle way of telling Dad “we both know that the closest you get to cooking is switching on the espresso machine, but I’ll stay quiet this once”.
While Dad rummaged through the drawers trying to find the can opener, I got to know Lisa a little bit more. Even in her baggy jeans and crumpled blouse she was attractive. Her black hair was streaked with silver and scraped back into a ponytail. I couldn’t quite place her accent at first, which had a slight American twang to it.
Dad didn’t leave me wondering for long. By the time he’d finished heating tinned tomato soup and grilling cheese on toast, the only thing I didn’t know about Lisa Chen (aged forty-three, born in Queens, New York City, to two Chinese immigrant parents) was her blood type.
“So, how did you both meet?” I asked once we sat down to eat at the table. I had to ask something, otherwise they were in serious danger of gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes for the entire meal. They might even have kissed. And then there was no chance of me finishing my meal. Gag.
They looked at each other and giggled. My dad, the head of the Olympian gods, giggled. He must really be into her.
“Oh, it’s the strangest thing, Helen. I happened to be at George’s university for a conference on medieval Korean pottery,” Lisa said.
Conference? Pottery? I already regretted asking.
“I was in the campus cafe looking at pastries. Super strange, because I don’t have a sweet tooth in the least. But I suddenly felt like I needed a sugar hit.” Lisa paused to take a bite of her cheese on toast. Dad gazed at her like he wished he was the toast.
“I spotted the pastry display and noticed that they had one single, glorious cinnamon bun left. George was in front of me, but I never imagined this sophisticated James Bond type would want it too. I thought he’d order, like, a black coffee or something.”
Dad blushed when Lisa called him a “James Bond type”. I tried not to roll my eyes.
“But I also had my eyes on that cinnamon bun. When I ordered it, I heard this voice behind me say ‘No!’ I turned around, and there you were,” Dad said.
Since when did Dad crave pastry? The only time I’ve seen him eat anything was at our family gathering last Sunday.
They were holding hands now. Lisa ate her soup with one hand, and Dad held the other under the dinner table. Like they were in Year 5.
I crunched my cheese on toast, quietly seething. How come Dad could bring home someone he literally just met, but I was banned from having friends over EVER? It was ridiculously unfair.
I finished my dinner in record time, and went back to my room to finish my French homework/watching my YouTube videos. At least Dad would be too distracted with Lisa to triple-check my verbs.
As the sound of their conversation snaked its way upstairs, I realized it was the first time I’d heard Dad laugh since I moved in. Not the chuckle he made at his crap jokes or when I mispronounced a Greek word (who cares how you say “Odysseus”, anyway?). But a proper belly laugh.
I guess I should be happy that Dad met someone as boring as him. The woman made a career out of pottery shards, which told me everything I needed to know about her.
Maybe Dad is lonely. Maybe he does love a cinnamon bun from time to time.
Dad still felt like a stranger to me. But this woman that he’d known for less than two days seemed to know him better than I did.
Before I knew it, the Christmas holidays rolled around. As we weren’t going to get to see each other until Yasmin’s New Year’s Eve party, my friends and I decided to spend our last day together at Winter Wonderland, a Christmas-themed funfair in Central London. Even though I hadn’t known the three of them for long, I knew I’d miss not seeing them every day.
“The playlist for the party is looking sick,” said Yasmin as we queued up at the hot chocolate stand. “Don’t forget to send me your song ideas.”
“Deffo,” said Daphne. “I have a few slow dance numbers in mind.”
“Oooooh!” said the rest of us in unison.
“Who are you going to slow dance with, Daphne?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that Adam from Spanish asked me if I was going. I didn’t even invite him! He already knew about it,” she said.
“Everyone knows about this party,” said Noor. “You know what this means, right? Our outfits have to slay.”
“I’ve narrowed my outfit choices down to eight,” said Daphne. “And I’ve asked Mum to get me these gorge platform heels for Christmas.”
I asked Dad for a new pair of trainers. Should I have asked for party clothes instead? It sounded like everyone was going all out, and I didn’t want to be left behind.
Just as we reached the front of the queue, we heard someone calling Yas. We turned to see Jayden Taylor, walking towards us. No one looked more surprised than Yasmin. Even more so when he reached down to give her a hug.
“How’s it going, Yas? I didn’t know you were Isaac Mensah’s little sis,” he said. Yasmin managed to nod in reply.
“Isaac is killing it this term. I swear our football team would be nothing without him.” Again, Yasmin managed little more than a nod.
It was clear that Yasmin wasn’t going to invite Jayden to the party. She could barely form a syllable. One of us had to step in.
“You around on New Year’s Eve?” I asked.
“Yeah!” Yasmin suddenly remembered how to use her mouth. “We’re having a house party. Come?”
“I’m there,” said Jayden. “Just tell me where and when. You’ve got me on Snap, right?” After checking his phone to make sure he was following Yas, he gave her shoulder a little squeeze before walking away. Most of the girls in the queue watched him leave, too.
“Did … did that just happen?” asked Yasmin.
“Yep. Looks like the hottest guy in our school is gonna be at your party, babe!” said Noor.
I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, the hottest guy in school and his mates were coming to our party. YASSSS!
On the other hand, the hottest guy in school and his mates were coming to our party. Oh god oh god oh god.
What if someone tries to kiss me? What if someone doesn’t try to kiss me?
This party was the perfect chance for me to lose my snog virginity. So why did I feel so nervous?
TEN
Dear Mum,
Merry Christmas! I know you weren’t a big fan of the festive season, but this ti
me of year still reminds me of you.
Dad offered to drive me up to Grandma Thomas’s, which was a surprise. Did that mean he wasn’t surgically attached to Lisa (who’d become a permanent fixture in our lives) after all? Maybe it was motivated by guilt. He hasn’t tormented me about my homework recently because he’s hardly ever in.
Whatever the reason, I said no to his offer. Grandma Thomas has always despised Dad. Seeing them together is so awkward, Dad standing around in the living room while Gran pretends he isn’t there. I’m old enough to take the train on my own, so I’d much rather do that. At least this way I can choose my own music rather than being subjected to Golden Oldies FM, Dad’s radio station of choice.
Remember the Christmas with the blizzard, when all the trains were cancelled? We had to stay in London instead of going to see Grandma Thomas in Derby. I was devastated at not spending Christmas Day with the whole family (missing out on the presents didn’t have anything to do with it, of course).
You tried to recreate a Christmas dinner that was just like Gran’s. You even skipped being vegetarian for the day and roasted a turkey crown. But we fell asleep in front of the sofa watching The Wizard of Oz, woken up by the smoke alarm. Dinner was ruined. So you made it up to me by letting me choose what we ate. Everyone at school was so jealous when I told them that I had a never-ending stack of pancakes and ice cream on Christmas Day. Loads better than sprouts.
This year, I have my fingers crossed for snow. Most of all, I can’t wait to see my nice, normal, slightly boring family.
Your side of the family is worlds apart from Dad’s. At Grandma Thomas’s house, there’s no danger of century-old feuds being brought up over dinner. We just eat too much food, argue about which classic film to watch and talk all the way through it anyway. Nothing weird ever happens there and I love it. (I mean, Great Aunt Rita may overdo it on the rum punch, take out her false teeth and pretend to be a witch. But that’s standard.)
This year’s Christmas dinner was much like all the others: busy and loud. It made me realize how quiet my house in London is – I can go days without seeing Dad or Aphrodite. With all the chaos, it wasn’t until this morning that I got to spend some time alone with Grandma Thomas. Just like it used to be.
I woke up way earlier than usual. Gran was still in her quilted dressing gown and undertaking her main chore of the morning – making Boxing Day soup from the Christmas turkey leftovers.
“Madam is awake, is she? I’ll get the breakfast on,” Gran said disapprovingly. Like sleeping past eight a.m. on a school holiday made me lazy. Maybe she has more in common with Dad than I thought?
I put the kettle on and hoped no one would see the two and a half sugars I was sneaking in. Then I remembered that you weren’t here to chide me on my sugar intake, and I felt that intense pang in my stomach I sometimes get when I think about you. I suppressed a sniffle while Gran prepared breakfast.
“I remembered to pick up your favourite,” Gran said, motioning to the bread bin on the counter. I discreetly wiped my eyes and opened the bread bin.
Hard dough bread! The white stodgy loaf spread with salted butter was literally all I ate when I came to stay with Grandma Thomas as a kid. You were never a fan, but Gran and I could eat it all day. Sometimes with strawberry jam or with tomato soup. I never really had it in London. It would be weird to eat it anywhere but Grandma Thomas’s kitchen table, spread with soft butter from the crystal dish.
I squealed and immediately carved myself a doorstep slice of bread.
“Why you looking so marga, child? I don’t know what that father of yours is feeding you in London, but you are as bony as a bird. I bet it’s beans on toast every night.”
Gran never missed the chance to critique every element of Dad’s parenting, from how much sleep I was getting to how much I was (or wasn’t) eating. Can you believe Gran still hates Dad?
No matter what I said or how I said it, Grandma Thomas would paint him as an immature man-baby who ruined your chances of marrying someone decent, like a doctor or pastor. All I have to say is: Grandma Thomas ain’t ever told a lie. But he isn’t as bad as she makes him out to be. I think you knew that too, Mum.
“Don’t worry, Gran, I’m eating loads,” I said, through a mouth full of bread and butter.
“That reminds me. I’ve got some ackee and saltfish in the freezer with your name on it. You mustn’t let that greedy father of yours eat it either. He always was fond of my cooking,” Gran said with more than a hint of smugness.
I used to find it hard to believe that you were related to Grandma Thomas, let alone raised by her. You loved nothing more than a spicy tofu stir fry and only let me have sweets on Saturdays. Gran, on the other hand, doesn’t think a meal is complete without meat and always makes sure the biscuit tin is fully stocked.
You look completely different, too. You were tall and reed-like, while Grandma Thomas barely pushes five feet. Gran’s accent carries a faint Jamaican lilt, while you sounded like a born and bred Londoner. Gran’s hair was relaxed, cropped and dyed the same shade of nut brown as long as I’d known her. You changed your hair whenever you felt like it, braids, wigs, your natural Afro – whatever suited your mood.
But after being away from Gran for a month, I can see your similarities. When I arrived at Gran’s house, the first thing she said was “are you hungry?” just like you used to say when I came back from a friend’s house or visiting Dad over the school holidays. You both love to feed me, even if you did so in different ways.
Now Grandma Thomas is stirring up a pot of cornmeal porridge, grating in fresh nutmeg and sweetening it with condensed milk. Like you, she never weighs or measures anything, but it still turns out just right. Did you know that you and Gran cook with the same radio channel on, Mum? It’s humming in the background and the heady scent of nutmeg is in the air. It’s the most at home I’ve felt in ages.
Love for ever,
Helen xxx
ELEVEN
I was back home from Grandma Thomas’s for about thirty seconds before everything kicked off. The unexpected bit? This time, it had nothing to do with my bonkers family.
Dad picked me up from the train station, but I don’t know why he bothered. Did he ask me a single question about my Christmas break? Of course not. He spent the whole drive chatting about what he had planned with the Lady Friend. Salsa-dancing lessons, a romantic New Year’s Eve getaway in the countryside, blah blah blah. I couldn’t decide if Dad raving about her was better or worse than hearing a concise breakdown of the latest Antiques Roadshow episode.
Dad was halfway through repeating one of Lisa’s hilarious anecdotes when my phone began to bleep like crazy. The group chat was on fire! I started to unlock my phone, but guess who had a problem with that?
“Helen, it would be wonderful if you could resist the siren call of your device for twenty minutes,” Dad muttered.
“But I just need to check something!” I bet it had something to do with the party. Outfit choices, song playlist suggestions, that sort of thing. All essential discussions that I HAD to be a part of.
“If you can’t go twenty minutes without checking your phone, then I have half a mind to confiscate it. It’s far from healthy, Helen.”
I put my phone back in my pocket, if only to shut Dad up before he launched into a lecture on dopamine and shortened attention spans. I had the urge to put in my earphones and block out his droning with Rihanna. But it wasn’t worth the risk of having my phone nicked. Again.
Several minutes later and my phone was still vibrating with new notifications. This had to be more serious than which Little Mix bangers were going on the party playlist. What was going on?
Once I got home, I ran up to my room and checked the group chat. I scrolled quickly through the conversation that started an hour before. By the time I’d caught up, I felt terrible for Yasmin. Her party was ruined.
We needed to have an emergency meeting (and milkshake because Yasmin was going to need the sugar boost). I wrote
a quick message in the group chat:
So sorry Yas :( Let’s meet in the milkshake place near school and figure something out x
Half an hour later, we slurped choco-caramel shakes with extra fudge sauce while Yasmin explained what happened.
“We thought Mum and Dad would be in Ghana until January third,” Yasmin said while holding back tears. “But Dad strolled in this morning! Isaac and I couldn’t believe our eyes.”
“Why did he end up coming home early?” I asked.
“Because of his dumb job,” Yasmin said. “Apparently he spent the entire trip stressing about the building works on his latest property development. Mum said if he was going to spend all of Christmas on the phone to the site manager then he may as well come home and sort it from here.”
“So he’s definitely going to be around on New Year’s Eve?” Noor asked.
Yasmin nodded her head. “Sorry, guys, but there’s no way I can throw a party.”
“Gosh. You’re lucky they didn’t come home a few hours later. Can you imagine your mum and dad bursting in on your house party? I would actually die,” said Daphne.
“I feel like dying anyway,” said Yasmin, pushing away her barely touched milkshake. “I have to message every single person I invited and tell them the party’s off because my dad is home. It’s so humiliating!”
By “every single person”, she meant Jayden of course.
“I had the perfect dress sorted, too,” Noor said wistfully.
There goes the best chance at having my first real kiss, I thought.
No one wanted to say it and make Yasmin feel worse, but we were all gutted.
“You’re all welcome to come round to mine, girls,” said Daphne, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m sure if we play music loud enough, it’ll drown out Mum singing with her friends.”
“Sounds better than being at my house,” Noor said, slumped in her chair. “My little brother won’t stop talking about poo. It’s a phase, apparently.”
I felt so bad. What could I do to make Yasmin feel better?
Suddenly, everything clicked into place. Dad was out on New Year’s Eve. Aphrodite was sure to have plans on the biggest party night of the year, too. Could we have the party at my house?
Oh My Gods Page 6
