Girl, (Nearly) 16: Absolute Torture! (22 page)

‘Just promise me one thing,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to do any of that hand-holding or kissing or anything with Phil. It’s not because you’re gay or anything. I’d hate it even more if he was a woman. Ugh! Gross!’

‘I totally agree,’ said Dad. ‘And likewise you and Fred must stay at an arm’s length at all times. Or I might revert into a bad-tempered Victorian tyrant and lock you in a tower and throw Fred to the hounds.’

‘It’s a deal,’ said Jess. Although it was reassuring to know that if she and Fred did forget this vow and accidentally brush up against each other, their penalty would at least be gruesome and picturesque.

They arrived at the beach. Fred was sitting on the rocks exactly where Jess had left him, with his hood pulled up. He was looking out to sea.

‘Fred!’ called Jess.

Fred turned and saw them, and staggered clumsily to his feet. He tripped over one of the rocks and sort of shrugged his shoulders about awkwardly before pulling down his hood and revealing his peculiar but mesmerising face, with its big grey eyes and satirical smile.

‘Fred, this is my dad. Dad, this is Fred,’ said Jess. They shook hands. Fred was almost as tall as Dad, and they smiled gawkily at each other.

‘And now, we’re going to meet Dad’s boyfriend,’ said Jess. She was afraid Fred might stare, or gawp, or giggle, or something, but he didn’t turn a hair.

‘Cool,’ he said, with a totally relaxed smile. Jess was so proud of him.

‘So where is Phil?’ she asked.

Her dad was looking out to the breakwater, where about forty surfers in identical black wetsuits were riding on the waves or crashing down into the foam. They were so far away, they looked like little black dots.

‘Over there – he’s seen us,’ said Dad, his eyes fixed on the faraway surf. Jess saw one of the black dots coming ashore. He threw his surfboard under his arm and walked towards them. It seemed to take for ever.

Chapter 33

As Phil got nearer, Jess thought he seemed to have acquired some extra glamour. Mind you, emerging from the sea in a wetsuit with a surfboard under your arm would bestow a glistening charisma even on a cross-eyed nerd. He was grinning broadly as he came up to them, and held out his hand to her with supreme confidence.

‘Jess! We meet again! I’d give you a big hug if I hadn’t just come out of the sea!’

‘Hello, Phil,’ said Jess, shaking hands. ‘Dad’s told me all about you two, and I’m thrilled. He should have introduced us properly right at the start.’

‘And this is Fred,’ said Dad. Phil turned and shook hands with Fred, too.

Please let Phil like me
, thought Jess.
And please let Dad like Fred. And please make Fred like Dad. And please make Phil like Fred
. Relationships were such a nightmare.

‘Let’s go back home and get Timbo to cook us a fabulous meal!’ said Phil.

Jess wondered for a moment who Timbo was. Then she realised it was her dad. It was a little bit strange to think Phil had a nickname for Dad. But then again – why not?

‘Your dad’s a great cook, isn’t he?’ said Phil. ‘Do you both like fish?’

‘I love all fish!’ said Jess.

‘Proper fish with fins and scales and stuff,’ said Fred. ‘But not rubbery things like squid or bits of hosepipe. My favourite fish is the tomato.’

‘Well, we’ll obviously start with tomato salad, then,’ said Phil. ‘How about fish pie for the main course, Timbo? With loads of crusty cheese on top?’

‘Boring old fish pie on an occasion like this?’ said Dad. ‘The first visit of my daughter and her – er – distinguished companion Fred? It has to be Indonesian stir-fry.’ Dad grinned, and Jess gave him the thumbs-up as they walked back up the beach.

‘So, Fred,’ said Dad, ‘how did you get here?’

‘It’s one of the sagas of British exploration,’ said Fred. He and Dad sort of went on ahead, partly because their legs were longer. Jess and Phil followed.

‘Are you just going to walk back like that?’ asked Jess, amazed as they reached the road and Phil was still barefoot and dripping.

‘Oh yes,’ said Phil. ‘The soles of my feet are like a rhino’s hide. This is nothing. You should see me running barefoot through the streets in November. It’s just kind of macho showing-off. So tell me, Jess, how’s your trip been?’

‘Well, to be honest,’ sighed Jess, ‘it’s been a disaster!’

‘Why?’ asked Phil. ‘Tell me all about it. Every detail.’

Jess launched into the whole affair. How she had wanted to go to Riverdene first, with Fred, how she’d lied, how she’d got into big trouble, and then the whole trip, with all the jealous torment about whether Fred and Flora were together. Phil listened closely and kept nodding and gasping and sympathising as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

‘Oh no! You poor thing!’

She told him how Granny had got cold feet about throwing Grandpa’s ashes into the sea, and how she’d had to do a ventriloquist act to cheer Granny up. And then how Mum had chosen the very worst moment to cry on Jess’s shoulder, when Jess was just longing for a bit of sympathy herself.

‘Oh Jess, you’re a saint!’ said Phil. ‘You can cry on my shoulder any time you like! Not now, obviously, because it’s already soaking wet, but in general – be my guest, darling.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jess. ‘I’m all right now, because Fred just turned up this afternoon out of the blue, which basically was the best moment in my life so far. Shortly followed by Dad telling me about you – the second best moment.’ They exchanged a grin. She decided to tease him a bit. ‘But what was all that stuff about your girlfriend running away with a body-builder?’

‘Oh, sorry!’ said Phil. ‘That was just a silly idea. We weren’t sure how you’d react. Your mum and dad have been trying to work out the best way of telling you. We’ve been discussing it for months. We didn’t want to upset you.’

It was weird to get this grown-up perspective on herself for a moment.

‘You idiots.’ She grinned. ‘Still, I do appreciate it.’

‘And you did arrive all of a sudden, a day early,’ said Phil. ‘I suppose we panicked.’

‘Dad could panic for England,’ said Jess.

They arrived back at Dad’s house and everybody waited while Dad rummaged in his pockets for the keys, panicking for a moment in case he’d lost them.

‘He always loses his keys,’ confided Phil. ‘Especially when my feet are freezing.’

Eventually Dad found them and they all piled in. Phil went off upstairs for a shower, and Fred asked, rather awkwardly, if he could use the loo. There was one on the ground floor, and when Fred had gone, Dad turned to Jess and whispered, ‘Fred is funny! I like him very much.’

‘And I adore Phil!’ said Jess. ‘Thank goodness! We like each other’s boyfriends!’ And they shared a quick, ecstatic hug.

‘Right,’ said Dad. ‘I’m going to cook supper, but you’re going to help. Chop these onions.’

‘Does Phil live here?’ asked Jess.

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘We moved down here to St Ives to be close to his mum. She lives up in Channel View. He keeps an eye on her – he drops in every day, and stays the night if she’s poorly. He’ll probably stay with her tonight, because she wants her porch light fixed.’

Fred reappeared, looking round the house appreciatively.

‘Isn’t Dad’s house lovely!’ said Jess.

Fred nodded. Jess wondered if she and Fred would have a house together one day. If so, she wanted it to be high and white and blue and cool like Dad’s house.

‘OK, Fred, chop these tomatoes, please,’ said Dad.

Once cooking, Dad became strangely confident and relaxed. He threw things about, sang to himself and stirred and fried with panache. His silver ring flashed – the new one that Jess had noticed earlier. She understood now. It was a badge of happiness – without any nasty young wives or rival babies being involved. Perfect!

When it came to cooking, Fred was ham-fisted. His first tomato exploded and covered him with pips, and his second sailed across the room and splatted against the fridge door. Jess found this immensely lovable, but made secret plans to send him away on a cookery course as soon as she’d made her first million. Or maybe they would have a personal chef.

Eventually Phil reappeared in jeans and a checked shirt. He had a 150-megawatt smile. It lit up the room.

‘You’ve seen me in my surfing gear, now you see me in my lumberjack gear,’ he said, adopting a butch posture. ‘Now then – glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, anybody?’

‘Oh, yes please!’ said Jess. ‘It might help me get rid of my spots.’

‘You have no spots! What about you, Fred?’ said Phil, pouring out a glass for Jess.

‘No thanks,’ said Fred. ‘I prefer Coke, actually. I like to stoke myself up with explosive gas at every opportunity.’

‘Glass of wine, Timbo?’ Phil asked Dad.

‘Mere wine?’ said Dad. ‘On the occasion of my only daughter’s first visit to her old pilchard of a parent? I suggest Buck’s Fizz.’

‘What’s Buck’s Fizz?’ asked Jess.

‘Orange juice and champagne!’ said Phil, opening the fridge and getting out some of the freshly squeezed juice.

‘You can have a glass each,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t want any teenage drunkenness. Actually I don’t want any middle-aged drunkenness either.’

Phil mixed the Buck’s Fizz with style, pouring orange juice with his right hand and champagne with his left, and not spilling a drop. He deserved a Nobel Prize for Cocktails.

‘Were you ever a barman, Phil?’ she asked.

‘I’ve done a bit of everything, darling,’ he replied, getting to grips with the Buck’s Fizz. ‘I design things. Cocktails, weddings, fast cars . . . they don’t all get made, mind you.’

‘Phil used to be a designer in London,’ said Dad. ‘He used to make fabulous costumes for the carnivals there. In fact, when we met all those years ago, he was dressed as a kangaroo.’

‘I love carnivals,’ said Phil. ‘Sequins, feathers, outrageous wigs, earrings that flash . . .’

‘I love dressing up,’ said Jess eagerly.

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place!’ said Phil. ‘I’ve got a whole trunk upstairs. Full of stuff. Timbo uses the costumes to inspire his paintings sometimes.’

‘Oh, can we have a look?’ asked Jess. ‘After supper?’

Fred looked a bit dubious. But Phil grinned and winked roguishly at Jess.

‘Excellent idea!’ he said. ‘I even managed to get Timbo to dress up on his birthday. We had a fancy-dress party. He came as a turbot.’

‘I didn’t have a proper tail, though,’ said Dad. ‘Just sort of silvery, scaly trousers.’

‘And what about you, Fred?’ asked Phil. ‘Do you like dressing up?’

‘Certainly not!’ said Fred. ‘I was born fully clothed in a smart suit made of grey flannel.’

‘Don’t be a wuss!’ said Jess. ‘I’d love to dress you up as a girl.’ Jess was addicted to comedy shows on TV, especially ones involving drag acts.

‘You can keep your pervy ideas to yourself,’ said Fred, with a grin.

‘No, go on, Fred, be a sport!’ insisted Jess, laughing. ‘I think you’d look hilarious – you know, with a long blonde wig. Have you got any blonde wigs, Phil?’

‘I’m not one to boast,’ said Phil, ‘but I’ve probably got the best collection of blonde wigs in the county.’

‘He’s also a lifeboatman, you know,’ said Dad, dishing up the dinner. ‘He’s not all froth and bubble.’