Dad, however, wasn’t much help when I decided to follow through. ‘Steak and chips,’ I told him cheerfully, ‘in front of
‘Oh, sorry, Poppy, I’m going to the hunt ball.’
‘Are you?’ I was astonished.
‘Yes, Mark sent me a ticket, wasn’t that kind? Just a single, but they’re a hundred quid a pop, so terribly generous. Especially after all that business with the hound. Aren’t you going, love? Half the county’s going to be there.’
‘Well, I was going to – he sent me some too – but I gave mine to Jennie.’
‘Ah, right. Not really your sort of thing, is it? Anyway, must go love, I’ve got to feed the horses before I shimmy into my glad rags.’
And he was gone. Leaving me irritated. And then I found myself growing more irritated as I put the children to bed. Not my sort of thing? Why not? Christ, I could party with the best of them! Just because Phil and I didn’t much – he was teetotal and liked an early night – didn’t mean
I told myself I’d be the smug one in the morning, though, when everyone else was nursing hangovers. Oh yes. In the pub. Laughing and reminiscing over bloody Marys. Hm. They’d all be there tonight, of course. Sam – no, don’t think about Sam. I’d successfully blocked him for days; resisted imagining him in his black tie, even whilst helping Jennie buy a new white shirt for Dan. I wasn’t going to give in now. Instead I helped myself to a large gin and tonic and told myself there was a good film on at nine and that I might even stay up till it finished. Live a little.
It was a surprise, therefore, when my doorbell rang much earlier, at eight, and I opened it to find my father on my front step, an overcoat over his dinner jacket. He seemed mildly taken aback to see me in my dressing gown. Looked me up and down, eyebrows raised.
‘Didn’t you get my message?’
‘What message?’
‘I left one on your mobile. About tonight. Mark rang to say Mary Granger was throwing up and would I like to bring anyone. Didn’t you get it?’
‘No!’ I could have kissed him. And hit him. So like Dad not to try again. Not to persevere. Just turn up and assume.
‘Well, I can’t come now,’ I said testily. ‘I’ve got the children.’
‘Can’t you get a babysitter?’
‘Of course not, it’s far too late.’
‘What about Jennie’s daughter, next door?’
‘She’s out with her boyfriend. And the little ones are at a sleepover.’
‘Oh.’ He looked vaguely stumped. Then: ‘Bring them with us?’
Ordinarily a suggestion like this from my father would be greeted with scathing derision from me. But genes will out, and in many respects I am my father’s daughter. Can, at the drop of a hat, revert to type. I stared at him.
‘OK.’
In my heart, I was far from sure I was going to run with this; but in the spirit of living dangerously was nonetheless interested to see how he’d execute it: keen to give him his head.
‘Right. You get changed, brush your hair and whatnot, and I’ll carry them into the lorry.’
‘The lorry?’
‘Well, the car hasn’t worked for weeks, Poppy.’
So my father drove his horse lorry. Blithely parked it in Tesco’s car park, no doubt, as if it were a Vauxhall Cresta.
‘So … we’re piling the children into a dark lorry, and what, leaving it in a muddy field? Where they’ll wake up cold and frightened?’
‘No, no, we’ll take them in the house, find a bed for them.’
‘Arrive at a black-tie ball with two sleepy children? Forget it, Dad. Have fun.’ I went to shut the door, but he was already in.
