Broken Places (32 page)

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.

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.

Another matter on his mind was if and when to give her the pendant. Anything heart-shaped seemed wildly inappropriate, when her own heart was cold and closed. And her other presents were still in Stella’s case, which had not yet been delivered, despite another phone-call.

Wearily, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number once more, experiencing the usual delays as he was instructed by automated voices to press one, two, three, four, or five, then passed from pillar to post again, whichever one he chose. And, even when he was eventually connected to a real flesh-and-blood InterWest employee, she could shed no useful light on the whereabouts of his case.

‘It may never have left Heathrow, sir. Or, alternatively, it may have got as far as Minneapolis and then been sent back to London.’

Great news. He’d better return to the thrift-shop tomorrow and buy more mismatched clothes. Although, if he was destined to spend the whole three weeks alone, his appearance hardly mattered – except, of course, his daughter would be judging him at breakfast-time and late evening, and comparing him
unfavourably
with cool and stylish Dwight.

‘Cut it out!’ he muttered, venturing downstairs again for another glimpse of Malinal, who was now on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. Her position afforded him a brilliant view of her arse, but unfortunately she caught him gawping and scowled with such displeasure he made a speedy getaway.

He also decided to get the hell out and take himself to Seattle. Sightseeing was a more productive occupation than pestering a girl who hadn’t the slightest interest in him. Whatever Erica might say, there
were
buses to the city, and he could hardly return to England having failed to see a single famous landmark.

He was just sorting out his keys and wallet, when there was a loud ring on the bell. The gardener? The butler? The latest colour consultant?

He opened the front door to find a matronly woman standing on the step, clad in a smart dress and jacket; her wispy white hair puffed up round her head in a dandelion-clock coiffure.

‘Hello,’ she gushed. ‘I’m Peggy. And I bet you’re Eric, with that hair! Christine told me it was red, but I didn’t realize what a distinctive red.’

He nodded, curtly, weary of comments about his hair, which had been going on since babyhood.

‘I live opposite,’ the woman continued. ‘And I thought I’d just stop by to see if you’d like to come to church. It’s a lovely service, Eric, and I know you’d really enjoy it.’

That he doubted strongly. ‘Well, actually,’ he said, desperate for a get-out, ‘I was just about to leave for Seattle.’

‘But how are you going to get there? Christine said you didn’t drive.’

‘It’s OK, there’s a bus.’

‘A
bus
?’ In her mouth, the word sounded like a cross between a brothel and an abattoir. ‘Oh, you couldn’t get a bus, Eric. It will take for ever,
especially
on a Sunday. Anyway, it’s no fun for you being on your own, and I know Erica’s not here. I saw her leave about half an hour ago, with that little friend of hers, both of them in riding clothes, so they’ll obviously be gone some time.’

His first instinct was to protest; indignant at the thought of this woman spying on him from just across the street. Would his every move be scrutinized; his nosy neighbour get to know that he was rarely with his daughter? He was so used to living in London, where you could be murdered in your flat without anybody noticing, let alone offering help, he found the idea of a close-knit community distinctly disconcerting. What else had Peggy seen – his lascivious expression as he ogled the maid’s bum?

However, he remembered his manners and invited her in. If she were a friend of Dwight and Christine, he wouldn’t want it known that he’d left her standing on the step or – worse – shut the door in her face.

Having ensconced herself in a chair, she continued her
persuasion-campaign
to inveigle him into church. ‘Our pastor is really awesome, Eric. I’d love for you to meet him.’

‘Awesome’ seemed unlikely. In fact, it was a source of irritation to him that Americans should use the term so frequently, and even for ordinary 
people and run-of-the-mill events, whereas
he
reserved it for phenomena such as Niagara Falls, tsunamis, or God Himself – were He to exist.

‘And, although he’s not a Pentecostal, he does believe in the Prosperity Gospel, which
I
support wholeheartedly.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.’ He slumped back on the sofa, steeling himself for a proselytizing session.

‘What it means,’ she said, leaning forward earnestly, ‘is that God wants for us to be rich.’

Now he was genuinely puzzled. ‘But I thought the whole essence of Christianity was just the opposite – you know, all that stuff about camels and eyes of needles. And how about the passage in the Gospel where Jesus tells a rich man to sell everything he possesses and give the proceeds to the poor?’ Which Peggy had patently failed to do herself, judging by her house – as big and swanky as Dwight’s – and her decidedly upmarket clothes. But perhaps there
weren’t
any poor in this ultra-prosperous suburb.

‘No, Eric, you don’t understand. Jesus was merely telling the man to turn his solid assets into liquid ones. The more prosperous you are, the more it proves God loves you.’

In which case, he concluded, God couldn’t love him much.

‘Although you mustn’t think it’s all one-way. I give a lot of money to the church, but God never fails to repay me – a hundredfold and more. And, if other Christians feel they’re not adequately rewarded, all it means is that their faith isn’t strong enough.’

A pity, he thought, he wasn’t more opportunist, then he could augment his annual pay-packet simply by suppressing his religious doubts.

‘Actually, poverty is the work of Satan, so no way could Jesus approve of it. You only need to look at Barack Obama. His family were so dirt-poor, they had to rely on food-stamps to get by, but look at him now! God raised him from nothing to the highest position in the land – or in the world, for that matter.’

Surely, he reflected, it was Obama’s own hard graft that had brought him to the White House, rather than divine intervention, but he refrained from further argument; glad that he and Peggy at least shared an admiration for the Democrats. ‘Yes, my English friends were thrilled he won. We had quite a celebration on election night.’