Twenties Girl
Page 130
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“Ah. Well, this may be ideal timing, then.” Dad hesitates. “I know this may sound odd. But I’ve got something I need to talk to you about and it’s rather important. Could we meet?”
TWENTY-TWO
This is weird. I’m really not sure what’s going on.
We’ve agreed to meet at Lingtons in Oxford Street, because it’s central and we both know it. And also because whenever we arrange to meet up, Dad suggests Lingtons. He’s unfailingly loyal to Uncle Bill, plus he has a Lingtons Gold VIP Card, which gets you free coffee and food, anywhere, anytime. (I don’t. I only have Friends and Family, fifty percent off. Not that I’m complaining.)
As I arrive at the familiar chocolate-brown-and-white frontage, I’m quite apprehensive. Maybe Dad’s got some really bad news to break. Like Mum’s ill. Or he’s ill.
And even if he hasn’t, what am I going to say about my bust-up with Natalie? How will he react when he realizes his flake of a daughter has invested loads of money in a business only to walk out on it? Just the thought of seeing his face crumple in disappointment-yet again-makes me wince. He’ll be devastated. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I have a plan of action.
I push open the door and inhale the familiar scent of coffee, cinnamon, and baking croissants. The plushy brown velvet chairs and gleaming wooden tables are the same as in every other Lingtons around the world. Uncle Bill is beaming down from a massive poster behind the counter. Lingtons mugs, coffeepots, and grinders are arranged on a display shelf, all in the trademark chocolate brown and white. (No one else is allowed to use that shade of chocolate brown, apparently. It belongs to Uncle Bill.)
“Lara!” Dad waves from the head of the queue. “Just in time! What do you want?”
Oh. He looks quite cheerful. Maybe he’s not ill.
“Hi.” I give him a hug. “I’ll have a caramel Lingtoncino and a tuna melt.”
You can’t ask for a cappuccino in Lingtons. It has to be a Lingtoncino.
Dad orders the coffees and food, then proffers his Gold VIP Card.
“What’s this?” says the guy behind the till, looking dubious. “I’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Try scanning it,” says Dad politely.
“Wow.” The guy’s eyes widen as something bleeps on the till screen. He looks up at Dad, a bit awestruck. “That’ll be… free.”
“I always feel a bit guilty using that card,” confesses Dad, as we collect our coffees and make our way to a table. “I’m doing poor Bill out of his rightful income.”
Poor Bill? I feel a tiny wrench in my heart. Dad is so good. He thinks about everyone except himself.
“I think he can probably afford it.” I glance wryly at Uncle Bill’s face printed on my coffee mug.
“Probably.” Dad smiles and glances at my jeans. “You’re dressed very casually, Lara! Is this the new dress-down approach at your office?”
Shit. I never even thought about what I was wearing.
“Actually… I’ve been at a seminar,” I hurriedly improvise.
“They requested casual clothes. It was role play, that kind of thing.”
“Wonderful!” says Dad, so encouragingly that my cheeks flame with guilt. He unwraps a sugar and pours it into his coffee, then stirs it.
“Lara. I want to ask you a question.”
“Absolutely.” I nod earnestly.
“How is your business going? Really?”
Oh God. Of all the zillions of questions he could have asked.
“Well… you know. It’s… it’s good.” My voice has shot up two notches. “All good! We’ve got some great clients, and we’ve recently done some work with Macrosant, and Natalie’s back now-”
“Back?” echoes Dad with interest. “Has she been away?”
The thing about lying to your parents is, you have to keep track of which lies you’ve told.
“She popped away for a little bit.” I force myself to smile. “No big deal.”
“But you feel you made the right decision?” Dad looks as if this really matters to him. “You’re enjoying it?”
“Yes,” I say miserably. “I’m enjoying it.”
“You feel the business has a good future?”
“Yes. Really good.” I stare at the table. The thing about lying to your parents is, sometimes you really wish you hadn’t. Sometimes you just want to dissolve into tears and wail, “Dad, it’s all gone wrooooong! What shall I doooooo?”
“So… what did you want to talk to me about?” I say, to get off the subject.
TWENTY-TWO
This is weird. I’m really not sure what’s going on.
We’ve agreed to meet at Lingtons in Oxford Street, because it’s central and we both know it. And also because whenever we arrange to meet up, Dad suggests Lingtons. He’s unfailingly loyal to Uncle Bill, plus he has a Lingtons Gold VIP Card, which gets you free coffee and food, anywhere, anytime. (I don’t. I only have Friends and Family, fifty percent off. Not that I’m complaining.)
As I arrive at the familiar chocolate-brown-and-white frontage, I’m quite apprehensive. Maybe Dad’s got some really bad news to break. Like Mum’s ill. Or he’s ill.
And even if he hasn’t, what am I going to say about my bust-up with Natalie? How will he react when he realizes his flake of a daughter has invested loads of money in a business only to walk out on it? Just the thought of seeing his face crumple in disappointment-yet again-makes me wince. He’ll be devastated. I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I have a plan of action.
I push open the door and inhale the familiar scent of coffee, cinnamon, and baking croissants. The plushy brown velvet chairs and gleaming wooden tables are the same as in every other Lingtons around the world. Uncle Bill is beaming down from a massive poster behind the counter. Lingtons mugs, coffeepots, and grinders are arranged on a display shelf, all in the trademark chocolate brown and white. (No one else is allowed to use that shade of chocolate brown, apparently. It belongs to Uncle Bill.)
“Lara!” Dad waves from the head of the queue. “Just in time! What do you want?”
Oh. He looks quite cheerful. Maybe he’s not ill.
“Hi.” I give him a hug. “I’ll have a caramel Lingtoncino and a tuna melt.”
You can’t ask for a cappuccino in Lingtons. It has to be a Lingtoncino.
Dad orders the coffees and food, then proffers his Gold VIP Card.
“What’s this?” says the guy behind the till, looking dubious. “I’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Try scanning it,” says Dad politely.
“Wow.” The guy’s eyes widen as something bleeps on the till screen. He looks up at Dad, a bit awestruck. “That’ll be… free.”
“I always feel a bit guilty using that card,” confesses Dad, as we collect our coffees and make our way to a table. “I’m doing poor Bill out of his rightful income.”
Poor Bill? I feel a tiny wrench in my heart. Dad is so good. He thinks about everyone except himself.
“I think he can probably afford it.” I glance wryly at Uncle Bill’s face printed on my coffee mug.
“Probably.” Dad smiles and glances at my jeans. “You’re dressed very casually, Lara! Is this the new dress-down approach at your office?”
Shit. I never even thought about what I was wearing.
“Actually… I’ve been at a seminar,” I hurriedly improvise.
“They requested casual clothes. It was role play, that kind of thing.”
“Wonderful!” says Dad, so encouragingly that my cheeks flame with guilt. He unwraps a sugar and pours it into his coffee, then stirs it.
“Lara. I want to ask you a question.”
“Absolutely.” I nod earnestly.
“How is your business going? Really?”
Oh God. Of all the zillions of questions he could have asked.
“Well… you know. It’s… it’s good.” My voice has shot up two notches. “All good! We’ve got some great clients, and we’ve recently done some work with Macrosant, and Natalie’s back now-”
“Back?” echoes Dad with interest. “Has she been away?”
The thing about lying to your parents is, you have to keep track of which lies you’ve told.
“She popped away for a little bit.” I force myself to smile. “No big deal.”
“But you feel you made the right decision?” Dad looks as if this really matters to him. “You’re enjoying it?”
“Yes,” I say miserably. “I’m enjoying it.”
“You feel the business has a good future?”
“Yes. Really good.” I stare at the table. The thing about lying to your parents is, sometimes you really wish you hadn’t. Sometimes you just want to dissolve into tears and wail, “Dad, it’s all gone wrooooong! What shall I doooooo?”
“So… what did you want to talk to me about?” I say, to get off the subject.
