by Dani Atkins
*
Darrell was sitting in my lounge, on my settee, watching my television, drinking coffee from one of my mugs, when I let myself into my flat that evening. None of that should have annoyed me, because I was the one who’d phoned and asked him to meet me here, even though we hadn’t planned to see each other that night.
But I couldn’t stop the frisson of irritation that ran through me. He was sitting there, totally oblivious to everything. And again, he could hardly be blamed for that, because I’d chosen not to tell him anything about the dead flower bouquet over the phone. I wanted to be standing right in front of him, looking into his eyes, when he tried to tell me it was once again probably one of his bench-pressing pals, just having a laugh. Because, frankly, this time that excuse wasn’t going to fly. For a start, how would any of them have known where I worked?
I shrugged out of my jacket, lobbing it over the back of a chair, and walked towards the settee. Darrell had his back to me, transfixed by whatever he was watching on the screen. I knew he’d heard my key in the lock, but apart from shouting out a greeting, he had yet to turn around.
‘Darrell—’ I began, only to be silenced by his upraised hand.
‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, his eyes still on the television.
My glance flicked from the hand, still lifted above his head, as though holding back traffic, to the screen. There was a small box in the lower corner of the picture with the word ‘LIVE’ in it, and beyond that a confusion of emergency vehicles, crowds of onlookers and, bizarrely, a very large crane.
‘No, I haven’t, I—’
He talked right over me. ‘There’s been an awful accident at that theme park near here. Some of the carriages on one of the big roller-coasters have collided. The casualties have been horrific, and there are still people trapped on the ride.’
I felt a momentary spasm of sympathy for the victims, mixed with guilt that I was prioritising my own personal drama over theirs. ‘That’s terrible,’ I said. I paused, waiting for him to turn around, expecting him to be sufficiently in tune with my emotions to realise something was troubling me. Something far closer to home.
A rescue helicopter swept into view on the screen and Darrell’s attention was sucked back to the enfolding drama at the theme park.
‘Would you please turn that off for a moment?’ I asked, my voice tight and controlled.
For the first time he must have heard something in it, or seen a shadow in my eyes when he finally turned to face me. His hand reached immediately for the remote control, but he didn’t switch off the set, he just muted the sound, and that annoyed me long after the conversation that followed was over and done with.
‘It’s happened again,’ I said, without preamble.
‘What’s happened again?’ Darrell asked, looking genuinely bewildered. For just a fleeting second I saw his gaze return to the television; the arrival of the helicopter was clearly more diverting than whatever was bothering me.
I reached into my handbag, plucked out the card with the black border and dropped it over his shoulder. Incoming: just like a small but deadly explosive. It landed face up on the cushion beside him. He didn’t reach for it or pick it up, but instead read it from the place where it had fallen. His eyes looked dark and turbulent, like storm clouds, as they met mine.
‘Tell me everything,’ he said.
There was very little consolation in knowing that my story was finally of greater importance to him than the roller-coaster tragedy.
‘Where are these flowers now?’ was his first question.
‘Paul threw them away for me.’
‘Paul? Who’s he? One of your colleagues?’
‘He’s the guy who works in the post room.’ Darrell nodded, and I knew the man who’d kindly sat comforting me that day had already been dismissed as an unimportant walk-on in this play. It was a trait of Darrell’s I’d noticed before, his inclination to judge a person’s importance by how they earned their living. My mother, New York Times bestselling author: very important. The man who delivered the post… considerably less so. I wondered what he’d say if I bothered adding that one day Paul Winterscotch would most likely own the company I worked for. It wasn’t relevant, so I said nothing.
‘I really don’t think your gym buddies were behind this one, do you? In fact, the more I think about it, why would grown men get involved in such an infantile prank? It seems highly improbable to me that they were ever involved.’
‘But they apologised for it,’ Darrell reasoned. ‘Why would they confess to something they didn’t do?’ He made a good point. ‘Anyway, there’s no reason to believe these incidents are related in any way.’
I sat down heavily on the armchair opposite him, ignoring the fact that there was plenty of room beside him on the settee. ‘Are you kidding me? You can’t possibly think they’re not connected. Even the handwriting looks the same.’
Darrell picked up the card, and spent a long time studying the formation of the letters. ‘Actually, it looks quite different to me.’
I sighed deeply. ‘What did you do with the first card? We should compare them.’
‘I burnt it,’ he answered, leaning back and folding his arms in an oddly defensive pose. Darrell didn’t smoke. His flat was totally electric and had no fireplace. If I ever wanted to light candles at his place, I had to bring my own matches, because he never had any. So burning the card seemed an odd and strangely overdramatic method of disposal.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think you’re wrong. I think they were sent by the same person. For a start, they were both addressed to me as The Bride.’
‘You are the bride. Well, you’re going to be soon,’ he said, chancing a small smile, which was way too early to introduce.
‘Well, clearly someone isn’t happy about that,’ I said. It was something even he couldn’t refute. ‘Paul suggested it might be a disgruntled ex?’
‘Paul the postman? He seems to have got very involved in this whole thing, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Actually, I found I did mind, but I really didn’t know why, except it felt as though Darrell’s objection to Paul might possibly be a smokescreen, thrown up to obscure the real issues here.
‘There’s certainly no one in my past who has any reason to be anything but delighted that we’re getting married,’ I said, my eyes searching his face, ready to spot a betraying lie. ‘Can you honestly say the same thing?’
Darrell rarely spoke about his previous relationships, and I’d never pushed him to reveal more than he was willing to offer. Prying felt wrong, and looking forward was always preferable to looking back. But this was different. And so, for the first time, Darrell reluctantly lifted up one corner of the veil he’d thrown over his recent failed relationship, just enough to convince me of something he so clearly believed. Whoever was trying to sabotage our impending wedding, it definitely wasn’t his ex.
*
In the weeks that followed, it was a line Darrell held and maintained like a defending infantryman, I recalled as I rolled on to my side, watching as the bedside clock clicked over into yet another hour. I had work in the morning, and was going to be completely wrecked if I didn’t get some sleep soon. And this was old ground, which we’d both walked backwards and forwards over many times before, looking for answers we never found.
Eventually, I fell asleep with a carousel of memories spinning in my head, memories that were guaranteed to ensure my sleep was not peaceful: anonymous notes, mutilated flowers, callers who hung up when the phone was answered, a slashed tyre on my car, and a long, raking scratch down one side of his. Nothing dangerous, admittedly, and while they could be unconnected, it still felt as if someone was so opposed to our wedding they’d resorted to cheap scare tactics lifted straight out of a thriller.
That night I dreamt I was standing in a church, wearing my beautiful Fleurs wedding dress. Darrell was smiling beside me, his eyes glowing with love, and in that peculiar way that dreams have, it didn’t seem at a
ll odd to find the ceremony being conducted by the maître d’ of the restaurant. We’d just reached the point in the proceedings when the congregation was asked if anyone had any objections, and if so, to speak now. For a moment there was the breathtaking relief of silence, but then a voice, which I almost recognised, called out from behind me. ‘Yes. I do.’ I turned, in what felt like slow motion, but before I could see their face, the church bells began to clang and chime.
My hand shot out from beneath the duvet to silence the alarm. It was time to get up.
4
‘I thought you said it was this way?’ Darrell shot me a quick meaningful glance, which I probably deserved. I’d been snapping at him all morning, and that just wasn’t like me, or fair to him.
I linked my arm through his, and turned us both around to study the illustrated floor plan of the airport, fixed to a nearby wall. I squeezed his arm gently, and he looked down at me, clearly waiting for the next volcanic eruption. There’d been several over the last twenty-four hours, so I could hardly blame him. Luckily, I managed to remember where I’d last left my smile, and pulled it quickly into place.
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just incredibly nervous about this reunion.’
‘Really?’ he questioned, gently tipping the end of my nose with his finger, before bending down and giving it a quick kiss. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘It really hasn’t helped that Mum has been sliding in the dagger of doubt at every opportunity,’ I said, frowning as I studied the complex diagram, still trying to find a helpful ‘You Are Here’ marker.
‘Dagger of doubt?’ said Darrell, with a teasing chuckle. ‘That’s a very evocative description for a cold-hearted accountant to come up with. Perhaps you’re more like your mother than you realise?’
‘I certainly hope not,’ I declared, leaning closer to the map and finally finding a tiny red arrow to indicate our location. ‘Because if I am, I’d probably be ramming that dagger straight through my father’s heart the moment he walks into Arrivals.’
‘She does still seem very bitter, even after all these years,’ Darrell agreed. ‘Just remind me never to get on the wrong side of her.’
I smiled weakly, thankful he obviously still didn’t realise that, actually, he was already practically there. I’d hoped the last week would have helped a little in getting them to bond. We’d seen Mum practically every evening, and Darrell was doing everything in the ‘How to be a perfect son-in-law manual’. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was still trying too hard?
Only two nights ago I’d emerged from the shower to find he was already in bed, a copy of one of my mother’s earliest books in his hands.
‘I don’t know how come I never read these as a kid,’ he’d said, looking up briefly from his place with a slightly shamefaced expression. ‘I always thought they’d be a bit girly and sissy-ish, but actually they’re bloody good.’
I smiled, my heart suddenly full of love for a man in his thirties who chose a story of wizards and dragons as his bedtime reading… just for me. How could you not melt at that?
Perhaps Mum would never love him. Perhaps she’d never understand that his awkward laugh and the jokes and quips and bluster were only because he wanted everything to be perfect. And having a mother-in-law who approved of her daughter’s choice would have gone a long way towards that.
Not that she’d said anything negative to me about Darrell over the past week; but she hadn’t actually said anything positive either. The same could not be said about her former husband. She had plenty to say about him, except none of it was good.
‘I really hope he’s not intending to bring that blonde bimbo with him. Because there’s no way you’re going to want her leering back at the camera in your wedding photographs. What’s her name? Cindy, Barbie… some sort of plastic doll’s name, isn’t it?’
I’d only just managed to squash my smile down. ‘Candy,’ I said, keeping my head down so she wouldn’t see the mischief dancing in my eyes. ‘Her name was Candy, but actually I believe they broke up a couple of years ago. He’s been single ever since.’
I risked a quick glance. My mother was flicking through the photographs of the floral arrangements I’d chosen for the reception tables. ‘Well, he probably drove her just as crazy as he did me,’ she said, passing the enormous wedding portfolio back across the table to me. ‘I like the flowers you’ve picked, by the way.’
This time I let my smile show, because it was a small and encouraging thaw in her icy disapproval of anything at all to do with my wedding, or getting married in general.
I slid the bulging folder back into the large tote bag I carried with me wherever I went. My mother’s comments revealed far more than she realised. Because I’d never told her anything about the woman who’d moved into my father’s apartment above the bar, around the time I graduated from university. The only way she could have known either her name or what she looked like was if she’d done some surreptitious Facebook stalking. If she had, I was quietly impressed, because she usually left anything to do with social media down to her publishers. If Darrell had had a Facebook page, I would definitely have done the same, to try to learn more about the woman who was clinging like a barnacle to the remnants of her relationship with the man I was soon to marry. But Darrell claimed social media was one of the most pointless advances in technology. ‘All everyone does is post photographs of their dinner or their cat,’ he’d once scathingly declared.
Darrell was studying the Arrivals board above my head, and I felt my stomach collide uncomfortably with several nearby organs when he announced, ‘His plane’s landed. Come on then, let’s go and find him.’
I’d been surprised Darrell didn’t appear to have a better working knowledge of the airport. We’d got in the wrong lane for the short-stay car park, meaning we’d had to circle the entire complex before eventually finding the correct place to park. We were early (way too early, but of course that was to be expected), but when I’d asked him which was the best restaurant for grabbing a late breakfast, he didn’t seem sure. Nor did he know the quickest way to the Arrivals hall.
‘It’s because I usually come by taxi, I rarely eat at the airport, and when I’m here I’m obviously heading for Departures,’ he reasoned, when I’d challenged why he seemed more lost than the tourists milling around us. It was a reasonable explanation, and the fact that I was seizing on the smallest thing to be angry about was more a measure of my own anxiety than his inability as a guide.
It had been over four years since I’d last been to Spain; since I’d last seen my father. As a child, I’d dutifully visited him for four weeks every summer after the divorce. I have vivid memories of being put on a plane in London by one parent, and being met at the gate in Malaga by the other. They weren’t great holidays. He was busy building up the bar, and I was lonely, missing home, Mum and my friends. When I was thirteen years old, after a particularly bad stay, I screwed up the courage to tell him at the airport that I didn’t want to come back the following year. The look of pain in his eyes still haunts me to this day.
Of course, when I turned eighteen, having a father who owned a bar in Spain made me almost as popular as having a bestselling children’s author for a mother had done as a child. There’d been several holidays with school and university friends around to dilute the awkwardness, as we both sadly realised that somehow, in the intervening years, we’d practically forgotten how to be father and daughter.
*
The first thing that shocked me about my dad, as he walked with a crowd of sun-bronzed holidaymakers into the Arrivals hall, was that I almost didn’t recognise him. I hadn’t seen him for years, and the last time I did, he’d had that worrying look of a man who probably spent as much time drinking in his bar as he did working behind it. Back then, his thinning hair was still being worn swept over a hairline that was creeping ever higher. And the buttons on the colourful floral shirts he’d taken to wearing were stretched and gaping over a s
tomach that had enjoyed many pints and paellas with equal gusto.
So, not surprisingly, the middle-aged man with the closely cropped hair and the trim waistline who smiled and waved his arm through the air when he saw me was a bit of a shock.
We walked towards each other through the crowds, Darrell steering me out of the path of numerous small wheeled suitcases, which I would certainly have tripped over. My whole body was thrumming, like electricity humming through a cable. Darrell could feel it, and squeezed my hand so hard the diamond of my engagement ring must have dug painfully into his palm.
My father and I came to an awkward halt in front of each other, neither of us sure what the appropriate greeting should be. To hug, or not to hug? That was the question. Sensing an awkward gap that needed to be bridged, Darrell extended his hand.
‘Hello, Mr Walters. I’m Darrell, Suzanne’s fiancé.’
Their handshake seemed to unlock the rigor mortis of the moment, and when it was over I leant towards my father and his arms went around me. ‘It’s so good to see you again, Suzy,’ he said into my hair, his voice gruff. It was the closest I had come to crying in front of him for a very long time.
*
Over the years, my parents had perfected the art of yin and yang parenting. If he zigged, she zagged. If he went left, she went right. If he blew hot, she was guaranteed to be glacier cold. So it was surprising to discover that on this one hugely important and significant detail, they appeared to be in total agreement. My father didn’t seem to like Darrell either.
It took me a while to realise this. It certainly wasn’t obvious on the drive from the airport to the hotel I had booked for him. Not the same one my mother was staying in – I’m not that stupid. The afternoon traffic was heavy, absorbing most of Darrell’s concentration, so most of the journey was devoted to politely skirting over superficial details – mostly about the wedding, as though he was just a distant relative we’d invited to make up the numbers, rather than Father of the Bride, and the man whose arm I would be leaning on as I walked up the aisle in less than two weeks.
