‘What do you mean?’ he says as if he’s being attacked out of the blue. ‘What’s brought this on?’
I don’t tell him that what’s brought this on is twenty-two years of doing 75per cent of the parenting. And not just that: being the parent who actually had to parent our child. The one who arranged everything, who kept up with vaccinations and play dates and parents’ evenings. The one he always wanted when he was sick – and obviously I was happy to look after him,but – the one who spent nights sitting up and rubbing the back of our child as he heaved, then going to work the next day.
We can all do the nice bits. We can all do kisses and cuddles and snuggles and bedtime stories. But the other bits – the ‘can’t find time to eat your own food and even when you do, the kid grabs it out of your hand and covers it with mucus’ bits – are harder to endure.
Hal maybe had a taste of that. The odd cold or runny nose over a weekend. The trip out that didn’t go to plan. But most of the time it was as if he turned up on a Friday evening to steal the best bits of our son, and managed to get full kudos for being a ‘good dad’ without doing any of the really tough stuff.
I clamp my mouth and force the thoughts back inside. Because they are not fair. Hal always did everything I asked of him when it came to Louis. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t realise that sometimes he had to step up and do things when hewasn’tasked. That he had to remember when Louis needed to see the dentist, that he had to remember the name of Louis’s teacher. He should know what Louis’s predicted grades were on exams or where he was hoping to go to college, without having to repeatedly ask.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘Just tired, I think.’
To his credit, Hal nods and looks sympathetic, despite my outburst. ‘I was going to suggest pizza?’ he says, and the moment the words leave his lips I realise that I’m starving hungry. I ate a croissant this morning on the campsite before he was up, but that must have been about eight hours ago.
‘Yeah, sounds good.’
We’d passed a few cabins selling beach paraphernalia and ice creams, but I hadn’t spotted the little pizzeria on the corner a couple of roads down. It’s quaint, with blue-painted window frames and a covered terrace out front. The terrace is packed,but a waiter finds us a table inside where nobody wants to sit when the sun is shining. It’s fine by me.
We’re in what I hope is a companionable silence; something we’ve slipped into more than once on the long drives. It’s nice not to feel the need to fill the quiet moments all the time. I order a margherita pizza and a water; he goes for some sort of meat and olive combination which makes my stomach roll. While we wait, I scope out the customers – mostly couples. One woman with a baby in a high chair, his face splattered with tomato sauce. There’s a rumble of conversation which is eclipsed by the louder talking and laughing from outside whenever someone opens the door.
Hal has started to shred one of the beer mats, peeling the paper from the slightly sodden cardboard, and instinctively I reach out a hand to stop him. As if he’s Louis and I’m gently chastising him. His eyes meet mine and I draw my hand away.
‘Did you mean it?’ he says.
‘What?’ I’m afraid for a moment that he’s misinterpreted the touch. Did I mean to touch him? Was it a gesture of friendship, or something more?
‘The thing you said. You know, about father of the year.’
I look at him and he avoids my eye.
‘I mean, obviously it was a sarcastic comment,’ he continues. ‘But it’s the kind of thing people say to a guy who’s been completely shit. Or absent. Or both. I mean, I know I haven’t— I realise I’m not the father you probably envisaged for your kids back in the day. But I thought I’d done OK.’ He takes a deep sigh. ‘Actually, I felt like helping to raise Louis was one of the few things in life I’d got right.’ He gives a self-deprecating laugh, maybe hoping to lessen the impact of the words, but they’re out there now.
Is this really what he thinks?
‘Really?’ I say, then clarify. ‘I mean, you seem to be doing pretty well business-wise, so you tell me – although I don’t understand any of it. And you’re… I mean you’re happy, aren’t you? You have Betty, and a house, and what was her name –Georgina?’
‘Georgie,’ he corrects. He shrugs. ‘But that’s over.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He nods. ‘It’s OK. It wasn’t anything serious. And yeah, the business is OK.’
‘Well then!’ I try to inject some cheer into my voice.
Our pizzas arrive and we stop for a moment to thank the waiter. Hal reaches over and fills my glass from the carafe we’ve been given, and I hungrily saw off a piece of pizza and stuff it in my mouth. It’s cheesily glorious.
‘You avoided the question,’ Hal says a moment later.
‘What?’
‘Whether you meant it. You know. The comment about me. As a father.’
I shake my head, too high on carbs and dairy to get into it. ‘No. You were good. You still are, obviously.’
‘Really?’ He cocks his head.
I nod. ‘I mean, Louis turned out all right, didn’t he?’
‘He’s a good kid.’