by Karen Clarke
As if on cue, my phone whistled, alerting me to a text.
‘I expect that’ll be Marty,’ said Charlie, pushing his chair back as old Madame Bisset entered the café with a twinkle in her faded blue eyes. She lived in the village with her daughter and came in most days to show us the latest photos of Delphine, her spoilt and extremely fluffy Persian cat. ‘Another dating emergency?’
It was. I groaned as I read Dad’s message.
Think I’ve nailed my new image. What do you think?
With great reluctance, I opened the attached photo, my eyes widening so far they were in danger of popping out. ‘It’s definitely an emergency.’ I flashed the picture at Charlie and watched him recoil.
‘Christ.’ His voice sounded strangulated. ‘I think you’d better go.’
Two
Despite fleeing from the café, I found myself walking slowly back to the house, reluctant to face the vision of Dad now gracing the gallery of pictures on my phone, reflecting instead on how well I’d settled somewhere so different from where I’d been raised. It still made me smile, recalling the sense of excitement and new beginnings I’d felt on the drive from La Rochelle airport with Dad, across the curving two-mile bridge to the Île de Ré. I’d been lucky enough to spend several summers here growing up, thanks to a colleague of Dad’s owning a property he’d rented out cheaply to family and friends. We’d never have afforded it otherwise. The island – situated on the south-west coast of France – had long been a go-to destination for rich Parisians and A-listers (we’d once spotted Audrey Tautou buying morning baguettes at the market) and we’d fallen in love with the island and its villages, with their narrow streets and cycle paths, pretty harbours and long, white sandy beaches. Now I was back, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, though it was good to know I could visit Mum any time I wanted, at my childhood home in England.
As I entered the whitewashed house on the rue des Forages, the living room sprang warmly into focus. It wasn’t so different to the one back home, perhaps due to a lack of imagination on Dad’s part, with two deep armchairs in front of the fireplace and a sofa in soft blue fabric, lined with bouncy cushions. Deep shelves supported Dad’s books – mostly Stephen King and tomes about World War II – as well as framed family photos, including one of me aged seven, dangling from the branch of an oak tree in our garden like a capuchin monkey. A collection of pens bequeathed by my grandfather were neatly arranged on the oak mantelpiece, above which hung Dad’s favourite painting: a couple on the Orient Express, drinking champagne in a velvet-upholstered bar. He’d planned to take Mum to Verona on the replica train, and it made me sad to think this would never happen now.
I closed the door and turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, my mouth falling open at the sight that appeared in front of me. It was so much worse than the photo. ‘Dad, what the… what are you wearing?’
He jumped the last two steps and did a slow twirl as I stared, torn between hiccupping laughter and waves of affectionate despair. ‘What do you think?’ he said, as I fought to keep a straight face. ‘I’ve been looking for tips online. I hadn’t realised my style was what they call “dad dressing”.” He scraped quote marks with his fingertips. ‘Thought it was time to ring the changes and see what happens.’
‘But you are a dad.’ I held melodramatic fingers to my forehead. ‘Dads are supposed to dress like dads.’
‘You have to admit, I’ve been stuck in a rut, style-wise.’ He nodded to where his usual ‘Dad’ attire of short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans and leather jacket was strewn across the sofa, though I was touched to see his black boots – similar to the ones he’d worn in the police force – stood neatly side by side, the leather gleaming softly. Retired five years, he still hadn’t lost the habit of polishing his outdoor footwear. ‘I thought I’d go for a younger vibe,’ he said.
I frowned. Dad had never said ‘vibe’ before. Or taken much notice of what he was wearing, beyond asking if I thought he looked presentable before setting forth on another of his doomed dates. ‘Is… is this why you’ve trimmed your beard?’ I decided to focus on the least shocking part of his appearance.
‘Do you like it?’ He fondled the layer of grey-speckled bristle on his chin, which on its own was an improvement on his previous untamed fuzz. ‘I found a blog that gives style advice,’ he said. ‘The look I’m going for is: beard, quiff, slogan T-shirt, statement jacket and designer trainers.’ He was clearly quoting whichever terrible style blog he’d stumbled across.
‘And did this advice include dyeing your, er, quiff?’
‘Well, not specifically.’ Looking a little uncertain, he gingerly fingered the mud-coloured pelt on his head. Instead of sweeping back from his forehead as usual, his hair was gelled to a swirly heap at the front, horribly reminiscent of the poo emoji on my phone. ‘I thought it added a youthful touch, but I’ve left my beard grey so it doesn’t look as if I’m trying too hard.’
‘R-i-i-i-ight,’ I said, edging further into the room, half-wishing I’d stayed in the café so I didn’t have to deal with whatever was happening. ‘But your grey hair suited you, Dad. It was quite, you know, distinguished.’ I plundered my brain, searching for the right words. ‘That shade of brown looks a tiny bit harsh, even with your tan.’
‘It’ll wash out, it’s not permanent.’ Thank God. ‘I just thought I’d be adventurous and give it a go.’ He struck a pose as he flapped the edges of a silky gold bomber jacket lavishly embroidered with peacocks that Mum would have loved. It was closer to her size too, straining around Dad’s arms, and I wondered what she would say if she could see him now. Probably, Are you going to a fancy-dress party? ‘What do you think of the T-shirt?’
Blinking, I dragged my gaze away from the beady-eyed birds. ‘It’s very pink,’ I said, though I was more perturbed by the words emblazoned across the front: Lady wanted enquire within. ‘Do you think that’s the right message to be putting out?’ I placed my laptop bag on the dining table, noticing that its surface was cluttered with crumpled packages from various clothing outlets. He’d obviously had an online shopping spree – and possibly some sort of breakdown.
‘It’s vintage,’ Dad said, as if that excused the slogan. ‘And, let’s face it, I’m doing all this to attract a lady, so the message couldn’t be better.’
‘Oh, Dad.’ My gaze dropped lower, to a pair of indecently tight leather trousers. I desperately hoped he hadn’t stepped outside the house in them.
‘They’re really comfy,’ he said, doing a jig to demonstrate ease of movement.
My vision dissolved. ‘I don’t think the ladies want to see the outline of your, er…’ Unable to conjure a suitable word I let the sentence die, spotting the leopard-print trainers encasing his feet.
‘They’re designer.’ He hoisted a foot in the air, as if a closer look might convince me he hadn’t taken leave of his senses. ‘Apparently, that rapper wore them, the one married to the singer with lots of hair.’
‘Beyoncé?’
‘Maybe,’ he said, vaguely. Dad’s musical tastes were firmly stuck in the seventies – The Clash and Roxy Music were particular favourites, and he had a soft spot for Cher. Particularly that song where she’s on a battleship in her stockings, I’d overheard him say to Uncle Steven one Christmas, and they’d fallen into a brief but reverent silence.
‘But, Dad, you always said people should only wear trainers if they’re going running.’
‘Don’t you like them?’ He stood, hands on hips, looking like an ageing hip-hop singer as he studied his feet. ‘They feel a bit tight, mind you.’
My diplomacy skills were fading fast. ‘Is that a friendship bracelet?’
‘This?’ He admired his wrist, which was bound by a braided leather strap. ‘Do you think it’s a bit much?’
Where to begin? ‘At least you’re not wearing a back-to-front baseball—’ I stopped, noticing a distinctive shape poking from under one of the discarded packages. ‘Really, Dad? You’ve bought a baseball
cap?’
‘Actually, they’re called snapbacks.’ He snatched up the hat and squashed it on his head, but his quiff was too big and the peak reared up at the front. ‘I thought I’d get plain navy, so it looks smart.’ He tried to jam it down. ‘And I’d never wear it the wrong way round, it would look ridiculous.’
My throat tightened at the sight of him in his… get-up was the only word I could muster. ‘You look like a security guard who’s lost his uniform and raided a teenager’s wardrobe in the dark.’ I decided it was best to be honest, the way Dad preferred. There was no way I could allow my father – a former, highly respected police officer – to go anywhere near the public dressed like this. ‘I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s just not you.’
‘That’s the whole point, Natalie.’ He yanked the hat off and his quiff sprang back to life. ‘I’m not getting anywhere being myself.’
‘You mean with the ladies?’
‘Of course I mean with the ladies.’
I wanted to say it had nothing to do with his clothes and everything to do with the type of ladies he was targeting – the sort who were wrong for him. Too young, too old… too French, in most cases. Dad still hadn’t got to grips with the language and could barely ask for directions, never mind hold a fluent conversation with someone who didn’t speak English.
‘You have looked in the mirror?’ I said, instead.
‘Obviously.’ He jettisoned the hat onto the table and removed his jacket with a dejected shrug. ‘I did wonder whether I looked like a bit of a clown,’ he said. ‘But the blog’s a good one, Natalie. It’s won an award, so I assumed the chap who wrote it knew what he was on about.’
‘Which blog?’ I crossed to his laptop, discarded on the sofa on top of his jeans.
‘He used to be a style editor for that HQ magazine.’
‘It’s GQ, Dad.’ I looked at him as I cleared a space and sat down.
‘Are you sure?’
‘See for yourself.’
As he leant down to shake the laptop from its slumber, I caught of a whiff of aftershave strong enough to repel an army of wasps. ‘Christ, what’s that smell?’
‘It’s called Purple Seduction.’ Dad straightened, rubbing his neck self-consciously. ‘It’s a signature scent, whatever that is,’ he said. ‘It made me sneeze twelve times in a row.’
Laughter rose, even as my eyes watered. ‘Surely that was a sign you shouldn’t be wearing it,’ I said. ‘Honestly, Dad, what are you like?’ I scanned the article as he eased himself beside me, leather trousers creaking.
I stifled a giggle as I read the first two paragraphs.
‘What’s so funny?’ Dad craned his neck.
‘You’ve got it the opposite way round.’ I jabbed the screen. ‘You’ve read it wrong, see? This is how not to dress if you’re over a certain age and want to look cool.’ It actually said how not to look like a twat over fifty, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud.
‘What?’ Dad grabbed his reading glasses off the side-table and leaned over to read, while I tried not to choke on laughter and Purple Seduction. ‘These are the tips you should have been reading, look.’ I scrolled down and indicated a bullet-pointed list of sensible outfits, alongside a photo of a handsome, fifty-something man, wearing black jeans and a plain white T-shirt under a leather jacket. ‘This is pretty much what you already wear,’ I said. ‘He’s even got grey hair, like you.’ I gave Dad’s collapsing quiff a sideways look. ‘I mean, maybe your jeans could be darker, and you could use a few new shirts, but otherwise you look fine as you are.’
‘God, I’m such an idiot.’ He sat back with an air of defeat and I tried to concentrate on his face, with its familiar laughter lines around twinkling, kind blue eyes, and not the unnatural-looking thatch on top of his head. It had never been that shade, even before he’d gone grey. It had been the same reddish-brown as mine, and pretty much the same style when he was younger, but not as curly. Mum used to say she’d envied his hair, as hers was thin and mousey if she didn’t colour it (usually blonde, though once she’d tried to dye it black but it went patchy and looked like Alsatian fur).
‘You’re not an idiot.’ I shut the laptop and patted his knee, relieved there was a simple explanation for his ‘new’ look. ‘You’re just trying a bit too hard.’
‘But maybe some women go for this look.’ As he tugged at the hem of his T-shirt the zip of his leather trousers flew apart and he yanked a cushion over to protect his modesty. ‘I bet Mick Jagger doesn’t have this problem,’ he muttered.
‘That’s because he’s Mick Jagger.’ I slipped my cardigan off. Bright sunshine flowed through the windows, warming the cream stone walls and parquet floor; a reminder that summer wasn’t far away. ‘Most women would run a mile if you turned up looking like that.’
He huffed out a dejected sigh, and not for the first time I tried to reconcile this version of Marty Bright with the one who’d been in the police force for thirty years, dealing with things most people would never have to, and the father who’d guided me through childhood with gentle encouragement. Unflappable was the word most often used to describe my dad, whether at work or at home. He’d barely even batted an eyelid when Mum suggested they should separate three years ago, agreeing with her that it was time they had a fresh start.
It had been on the cards for a while. With Dad working crazy hours over the years, it hadn’t come as a massive surprise that my parents had drifted apart and had little in common but me once he’d retired. Mum had become increasingly wrapped up in fundraising for the charity shop she managed, while Dad enjoyed long fishing trips with his police buddies at weekends. Even so, I’d cried for an alarmingly long time when they finally broke the news and was still convinced they should have fought harder to save their long, and mostly happy relationship, instead of being so… polite about it. No prolonged shouting matches, brittle silences, or laying the blame at each other’s feet – more a sad acceptance by both parties; though I’d felt Mum’s disappointment that Dad didn’t object, even if he hadn’t. He’d simply moved in with Uncle Steven for a while, before dipping into his pension fund to buy the house on Île de Ré, which he’d snapped up for a bargain price as the owner had wanted a quick sale. He’d always planned to retire here, based on those happy holiday memories of us at Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, where Mum and I used to climb the two hundred and fifty-seven steps in the lighthouse to look at the view, while Dad fished for lobster in the bay. Unfortunately, Mum had never been keen on his retirement plan (‘Holidays and home aren’t the same, Marty.’) which, in my eyes, had been the leading cause of them going their separate ways. Dad hadn’t even tried to persuade her, telling me she ‘had every right to live her life in whatever way made her happy’. (Mum had said the exact same thing about Dad.)
Used to dealing with people from all walks of life, he’d settled in well, claiming to enjoy the quiet pace of the island outside the holiday season. I’d worried that he’d miss his job and his colleagues, but the one time I’d visited before moving over, he’d had visitors, and I’d had to stay at the little guest-house next door. His ex-colleagues and friends were delighted to have somewhere to escape to, and although Dad loved hearing news from home, I believed him when he said he didn’t miss his job. Most officers who’d been in the force as long as Dad were burnt out by the age of fifty. They’d seen too much, been swamped by paperwork and hampered by government cutbacks.
‘I got out at the right time,’ he was fond of saying, and I knew he meant it. He seemed content to fill his days fishing, reading, socialising at the local bar, and making notes for his book about the day-to-day reality of front-line policing in Britain.
It was only when Mum started seeing a life coach called Gareth late last year and ‘making over’ her life – which Dad took to mean dating again – that he’d announced, shiny-eyed over dinner one night, that he thought he might be ready for a new relationship.
My insides had gripped at the thought. It wasn’t that I thought eith
er of my parents should be single for the rest of their lives, but they hadn’t seemed interested in meeting anyone new. They hadn’t even got divorced, and still wore their wedding rings (‘because it was easier’) but I supposed that wouldn’t be the case for very much longer.
Unfortunately, Dad was so far out of his comfort zone, he was on another planet. Having not dated for decades, he hadn’t a clue how to go about it – until I’d jokingly mentioned he should sign up to a dating website. He’d barely been off it since, like a boy in a sweetshop, unable to believe he had access to all the goodies on offer, even if he didn’t know what to do with them. Also – though I only acknowledged it to myself in the dead of night – his enthusiasm for putting himself out there had brought home my own determinedly single status since splitting from Matt, and how little desire I had to do anything about it.
‘What about all this stuff?’ Dad gave his trousers a disconsolate prod. ‘I paid for first-class delivery.’
‘Send it all back.’ I indicated the heaps of packaging. ‘I’ll help, if you like.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry I dragged you away from your work.’ Rising, he swiped up his jeans and looked at them fondly. ‘Have you had any luck with that magazine?’
‘Not yet,’ I said lightly, trying to give the impression that it was only a matter of time before Nicolas Juilliard begged me to write something for Magnifique. ‘I did my piece for Expats though,’ I fibbed. ‘And a magazine in the UK is doing a series about women who’ve uprooted to a different country, so I’ve put something together for that.’ I didn’t mention they’d already turned me down, saying, ‘We’re looking for somewhere more exotic or unusual, necessitating a total culture change – like giving it all up to marry an African tribesman!’
Crossing the channel to live with my dad was hardly exotic or unusual – though the culture change was real. I’d never eaten so many pains au chocolat in my life.
