He had been about to offer Kimberley the biscuits, but perhaps she, too, didn’t touch carbs. And would the coffee meet her exacting standards, or should he have made it from bottled water? Nervously, he poured her a cup, passed her cream and sugar.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, waving both away. ‘I’m on a diet. Aren’t we all?’
No, he thought, we’re not. And surely it was bad for Brooke and Erica to be surrounded by adults who saw food as the enemy. Ladling cream into his own cup, he motioned Kimberley to a chair, where she settled back withChandra cradled on her lap – a Chandra still yapping fortissimo. ‘Maybe she’d like to explore the garden?’ he suggested, hoping for a little peace and quiet, but Kimberley looked deeply shocked.
‘I wouldn’t consider such a thing! There are just too many risks – poisonous plants, for instance, or crap from other dogs. I prefer to keep her close to me, then I know she’s safe.’
It seemed a waste of four perfectly good legs, although he had no intention of arguing the toss. ‘So where do you get her clothes?’ he asked, with genuine interest, having never seen such extraordinary gear in any type of shop.
‘There’s this fabulous little boutique in Belle Vue, which sells matching designer outfits for dogs and cats and their owners.’
‘Cats?’ he goggled, trying to imagine his lost, lamented Charlie clad in pedal-pushers. How the devil did these poor animals pee if they were bundled up in trousers? And Chandra’s bladder situation would be still more dire, if the pampered little creature was forbidden to leave her mistress’s lap.
‘Absolutely. Most cats love dressing up as much as dogs. Chandra just adores her clothes and, every morning, she sits up on her hind legs, begging me to get her dressed. She has these really darling outfits, which cost nearly as much as mine, would you believe? I must spend a good five-thousand dollars a year, keeping au courant with the latest doggy fashion trends. And another five-thousand at the Pet Pavilion. She has “pawdicures” and massages and blow-dries and, if we’re going somewhere special, they spray her fur with gold and silver glitter, or even dye it fuchsia-pink – using strictly organic vegetable dyes, of course.’
‘Heavens!’ he exclaimed, busy working out the sums in his head. Ten-thousand dollars a year – roughly £7,500 – would pay for a part-time library-assistant, to help with community projects, or create funding for vital literacy courses, especially useful for his group, or replace the old, worn furniture in the Study Room and …
‘She even has her own cute little closet, with these tiny silk-padded hangers. And you should see her party dresses! One’s an exact replica of Marilyn Monroe’s favourite cocktail-dress. You wore it for your last birthday party, didn’t you, my precious?’ she added, now addressing the dog.
Chandra yapped an obedient ‘Yes!’, but Eric was rendered speechless. A birthday party for canines?
‘What a shame you weren’t here just a few weeks earlier, then you could have come. It was a really special day, Eric. We invited all her little doggy friends and I ordered two fantastic cakes – one for the doggies and one for their owners – both totally free of any kind of flour, or other nasties like preservatives. The doggy one was made in the shape of a big, pink, juicy bone, and contained nothing but organic salmon, organic chicken breast, a little touch of …’
He let the list of ingredients waft over him. Actually, birthdays were a painful subject, with his daughter’s less than a fortnight away. She had turned down every suggestion he’d made to celebrate the occasion. No, she didn’t want him to take her out to dinner, or take her bowling, or ice-skating – or take her anywhere. She had her own private plans, and could he please stop going on about it?
However, he ought to switch the conversation to his concerns about the girls – another tricky issue, but one that needed tackling. ‘Kimberley, forgive me changing the subject, but I am a little worried about Erica. In England, girls her age don’t generally wear make-up. Is it common over here? And don’t parents take a stand or…?’
Kimberley sipped her coffee reflectively. ‘I’d say it’s very common, although, of course, it depends a lot on the individual girl. Some don’t bother with even the faintest dab of lip-gloss, while others go in for the full works. My Brooke was always extraordinarily mature. Even as a toddler, she took an interest in how she looked and I encouraged that, deliberately. I think it’s important for girls to make the best of themselves.’
‘But isn’t there a danger in them’ – he paused, a tad embarrassed – ‘you know, being over-sexualized, when basically they’re children still?’
‘Brooke’s thirteen-and-a-half. I don’t consider her a child. She’s well on her way to womanhood, so I feel she needs to prepare herself; learn how to dress, look after her skin and hair and nails, create an immaculate polished look and stay slender, of course, through careful calorie-counting.’
‘It seems, well … rather sad, though, for them to be worrying about their faces and figures when they could be just enjoying life.’
‘Oh, they do enjoy it – immensely. Brooke gets a real buzz from coming shopping with me. Right from when she was little, our trips to the mall have helped to bring us close. I guess you could say we bonded in the fashion boutiques! We often flick through magazines together – you know, like Vogue and Glamour – and we always book joint sessions at the beauty salon and have sun-bed sessions side by side. You may not realize, Eric, but my daughter has extremely strong ideas about the image she wants to create for herself, and I support her two hundred per cent.’
He gagged on the word ‘image’ – its falsity, its shallowness – but this determined fashionista was still in full flow.
‘And your Erica’s the same – at least now she is, although I have to say she did need a little help at first. It was Brooke who alerted me to the fact that some of the girls were ribbing her about the way she looked, so I decided to step in and lend a hand. Poor Christine’s up to her eyes with that demanding job of hers and all the travelling she does, but I’m at home all day, so I have plenty of time to spend with the girls. And, actually, it’s given me enormous pleasure to help Erica find her feet, establish a basic beauty regime and work out her own individual style.’
Eric sat in silence, struggling with different emotions: anger with Christine for apparently neglecting their daughter; resentment towards Kimberley for encouraging these barely-teens to buy totally unsuitable attire and slather their faces with gunge, yet also a certain gratitude that she had cared enough to help Erica survive the hurtful teasing. He burned to state his own views about the superficiality of focusing on looks, but realized it was pointless, since for Kimberley they were paramount. None the less, it made him mad that children should be subjected to constant commercial pressures and encouraged to believe that following fashion and keeping up with trends were more important than developing ideals or working for some worthwhile cause. What, he thought, with sudden wry amusement, must she think of him, dressed as he was in his tatty old jeans and a T-shirt from the local thrift-shop, with BORN WILD emblazoned across the front – a somewhat inappropriate claim for a bloke as cautious as himself?
‘Erica’s just fine now,’ Kimberley observed, waving a superbly manicured hand in his direction, ‘so there’s no need to worry on that score. And Brooke’s been very good for her, you know – helped her with all sorts of things.’
He could guess what things those were – eyebrow-plucking, leg-waxing, powdering and primping. Didn’t Kimberley see the dangers of turning schoolgirls into nymphets? If he could feel aroused by Brooke – and the very notion appalled him – what about less scrupulous blokes, who might go ahead and act on their brute urges? But he could hardly bring up such a delicate subject, so, returning to his duty as host, he offered her more coffee.
‘Absolutely not! Coffee’s a major health-risk. New research has shown it can do more damage than heroin.’
‘Well, how about some juice?’ he suggested, draining his own cup. Despite his high coffee con
sumption, he wasn’t yet in need of rehab – or so he had assumed till now.
‘It’s kind of you to offer, but the high acid content of fruit juice is murder for my tooth-enamel. I find it safer to stick to iced green tea, which is better for my health in general.’
Lord, he thought, if she was so concerned about her health, would she sue him for grievous bodily harm if she happened to catch his cold? Fortunately, the Sudafed had dried up the secretions and, although his nose was still red, she might put that down to a penchant for the hard stuff. Actually, he could do with a double whisky right this minute, but since all beverages, hard or soft, were clearly lethal for her, he might as well change tack.
‘By the way, there’s something else I want to ask. I wondered what you felt about both our girls deciding to change their names? I must admit, I’m not too happy.’
‘Oh, it’s just a bit of fun, Eric. They’re exploring different identities, that’s all. Brooke wants to be a fashion model, so she’s considering names like Jordan and Marisa, and where’s the harm in that?’ Kimberley gave a tinkling laugh. ‘The irony is, I named her after Brooke Shields, thinking she’d be a good role-model for any daughter with high aspirations. I mean, Shields was famous from such an early age. She started modelling as a baby of eleven months and was earning ten thousand dollars a day by the time she was fifteen. But, of course, my Brooke thinks her namesake is totally old hat and is much more into superstars like Miley Cyrus and Paris Hilton. And, as for Erica,’ she added, ‘I guess calling herself Carmella makes her feel she’s a Spanish prima donna and, if that helps to boost her self-esteem, it can’t be a bad thing.’
Didn’t this woman realize, he thought, with irritation, that a change of name could go much deeper and actually be a statement of defiance? In Erica’s case, it appeared to be a deliberate move to dissociate herself from him, and perhaps a way to challenge Christine, too, since she, of course, had helped to choose the name. But why enter such troubled waters with a featherbrained female who couldn’t see beyond the obvious? And, in any case, Chandra had started yapping again, with an even higher decibel-count.
‘You’re just the perfect alarm-clock,’ Kimberley cooed; the dog responding with another volley of yaps. ‘She always knows when we ought to leave and she’s exactly on time, as usual, aren’t you, my little precious? So, if you’ll excuse us, Eric …’ Kimberley stood up; her coffee almost untouched, apart from a crimson lip-print branded on the rim of the cup. ‘It’s a good hour’s drive to the stables, so we’d better make a move. The girls usually ride locally, but Brooke begged me to take them to this particular ranch and I hate to say no to my daughter. And it’s quite a famous place, you know, with fantastic trails through the pine forests and …’
As Kimberley continued to rhapsodize about the forests, mountains and valleys, he felt even more excluded; confined to tame suburbia while the others explored this wider landscape.
‘Expect us back by seven, but, you never know, we may run into traffic, so I’ll call you if we’re delayed, OK?’
Seven! The empty hours yawned and dragged in prospect, and this was only day two. How would he endure three endless weeks if Erica was so determined to go off on her own? Tomorrow he must sit down with her and insist that she saw sense. It was patently absurd for him to have travelled all this way, only to have her deliberately avoid him. Yet her contemptuous opinion of him as freakish, weak and badly dressed had undermined his confidence; made it hard to be assertive. Each time he vowed to reason with her, her injurious words would stop him in his tracks. Why should she even want to see a father she despised?
‘I’ll just get Brooke and Erica,’ he said, alerted by the ‘alarm-clock’, which was now barking in full-throated protest, while its mistress stood waiting by the door.
Having called the girls down, he accompanied them out to the car, watching as the dog was strapped into her special seat – a fancy affair, complete with fur rug, silken cushion and individual seat-belt. Erica and Brooke sat beside her, in the back, still deep in conversation.
‘Enjoy yourselves!’ he said, feeling a pang of loss and loneliness as the car pulled away and vanished round the corner. Neither girl had turned round to wave goodbye.
However, hardly had he gone inside when another car drew up, and out stepped a slim, young woman with long, dark hair rippling down her back. Eric watched with interest. Had Fate taken pity on his solitary state and sent him a gorgeous playmate? Certainly, she was walking towards the house, as if she were expected, and the radiant smile she gave helped alleviate his joyless mood.
‘You Eric?’ she enquired.
‘Er, yes,’ he said, admiring her trim figure and appealing lack of makeup. A naked face, at last.
‘Me Malinal.’
‘Oh – I see.’ The maid! Not much chance of dalliance if she had the whole huge house to clean. Besides, he was thrown by her sheer style. The word ‘maid’ suggested some underprivileged, shabby soul who would shuffle in on foot, not a well-dressed woman driving a snazzy car. None the less, he did his best to detain her, ushering her in to the kitchen with his most persuasive smile.
‘How about a coffee? I have some brewed and ready. Why don’t we sit down for a bit, so you can tell me all about yourself?’
‘Please?’
A look of total incomprehension crossed her elfin face. A language problem, clearly. Should he spend the next three weeks doing a crash-course in Mexican? Failing that, he would have to rely on gestures, so, having pointed to the coffee pot, he picked up a clean cup and made a drinking motion.
Vehemently, she shook her head. Perhaps she shared Kimberley’s conviction that coffee turned you into a junkie, or simply had too much to do to sit about partaking of refreshment. Presumably the latter, since she donned a pair of rubber gloves and began attacking the kitchen surfaces with impressive application.
He persevered, however, using shorter sentences and spelling out each word with careful clarity.
‘Where – do – you – live?’
‘Have – you – known – Christine – long?’
‘How – often – do – you – work – for – her?’
The only response to all three questions was an air of even greater puzzlement, accompanied by a distinctly dismissive shrug. Fate had let him down – again. Not only was he in her way, but they couldn’t even communicate. In fact, he was beginning to feel awkward in her presence: he the leisured vacationer, drifting around with nothing to do, while she slaved away with bleach and cleaning-cloths. He considered offering to help, but doubted if she would welcome his assistance, or indeed his company. Crazy to imagine he would have any chance of attracting her, when he was a good two decades older. And, in any case, she probably had half Mexico in passionate pursuit.
All hope of romance fading, he removed himself to Christine’s office, taking advantage of his ex’s offer to borrow her computer in her absence. He was tempted to email all his friends back home, but what the hell could he say? He was having a fabulous time? How great it was to see his daughter again? And how exciting to be in Seattle amidst the bright lights and the skyscrapers?
Instead, he Googled ‘Daddy-Dates’, a dodgy-sounding project he had read about in this morning’s Seattle Times, in which fathers ‘dated’ their daughters, partly to spend time with them on an intense, one-to-one basis and so get to know them better, but also to ensure that their daughters were well treated on any future dates with boyfriends. By setting an example of attentiveness and respect, the fathers primed the daughters to expect the highest standards from all subsequent men in their lives. To tell the truth, the word ‘date’ made him nervous – too sexualized again – and, in any case, he detested the thought that Erica might be going out with boyfriends when she was still so young and vulnerable. Suppose her drink was spiked with a rape-drug and she ended up pregnant – or dead? However, there was just the smallest chance that the site might recommend some outings or excursions that would actually appeal to her.
&n
bsp; But, scrolling down the list of suggested ‘dates’, his spirits sank lower with each one.
Take her to the mall and let her choose her favourite outfit.
Useless. She was already doing that with Kimberley and Brooke, so she would hardly want Dad to tag along.
Take her sailing on the ocean, or boating on a scenic lake.
And supposing she fell in? With a non-swimmer for a dad, she would almost certainly drown.
Take a drive to the beach and swim by moonlight.
Brilliant. He’d be standing shivering on the strand, while she dived in, alone.
Teach her how to fix the car, change the oil and tyres.
Perfect if he had a car, or had ever learned to drive.
Call it a ‘Mystery Date’ and so heighten her anticipation.
Anticipation? She was bound to turn it down, as she had his other suggestions.
Next, he consulted the booklist. The Dads and Daughters Togetherness Guide might be helpful if she actually wanted to be with him and, as for Strong Fathers; Strong Daughters, that was a non-starter for a dad she’d dismissed as ‘totally weak’. In fact, he was beginning to feel more and more inadequate – not to mention guilty. If Erica ended up an addict or no-hoper, he would be to blame, since he was well aware that children involved in a divorce were more likely to fail at school and develop drug and alcohol problems.
Kicking back his chair, he got up from the desk and began pacing round the room. It was so hard to be a father. Was he meant to be a friendly mate, or a moral anchor, or a rigid disciplinarian, or combine a bit of each? Although, he had to concede, it was probably equally hard to be a teen. He had gleaned a lot about teenagers from working in the library; come to see that many of them were self-righteous yet self-loathing, judgemental yet insecure, brash yet idealistic. And while they could be secretive and sullen, they also tended to overreact hysterically to every emotional hiccup and frustration – which was what made him loath to discuss the whole fraught issue of Christine’s pregnancy. On the one occasion he’d mentioned it, Erica had slammed out of the room, so, since then, he’d held his peace. None the less, he did feel an obligation to try to assuage her fears on the subject. Maybe it would be wiser, though, to wait until their relationship was on slightly firmer ground – if it ever was.
Broken Places Page 31
