The gods get drunk but not that drunk. But going home with someone he met at a bar? That could be possible. I honestly didn’t know Dad well enough to be sure.
I sent him a text later that day to see where he was up to, but I didn’t get a reply.
What. A. Hypocrite. If I went out all night and didn’t leave so much as a courtesy text, I wouldn’t see the light of day until after A levels.
I knew that there was no way Dad was in trouble, but that didn’t stop the nagging sense of worry. Even if he often forgets to lock the back door, he can take care of himself. He’s a god, after all! Plus all the gods have this weird psychic bond. If something went wrong, Aphrodite or Eros would have felt it right away.
But the thought bothered me all afternoon. I kept checking my phone between classes for a reply to my texts, but nada.
By the time school was over, Dad saw fit to reply to my texts:
Apologies for the radio silence. Battery died and I forgot my charger. Will you be home after school?
There wasn’t even a kiss at the end! And how dare he demand to know what I’m doing? He didn’t even give me a proper excuse. He could have lied and said there was a work emergency. Maybe there was a major breakthrough in the study of dusty bits of junk, I don’t know.
I was too annoyed to reply. It didn’t matter anyway because the answer was waiting for me at home.
NINE
Daphne was right. Well, half right.
The reason why Dad was out all night was because of (drum roll, please!) a lady friend. And not just any lady friend. A special lady friend. Why am I saying lady friend so much? Because Dad referred to Lisa as his lady friend about seventeen times over the course of the evening. Even weirder, she didn’t run screaming from the dinner table when he did.
I was in the kitchen finishing off my French homework (and watching DIY hair mask videos) when I heard Dad come in, along with the voice of a woman I didn’t recognize.
“Helen, you’re here!” Dad said brightly. I was low-key annoyed at Dad for his silence all day.
I grunted in response. “Where else would I be on a Wednesday night?”
Dad ignored my sarcasm, turning to someone in the corridor. “Lisa, meet my youngest daughter, Helen. Helen, this is my … lady friend.” Yes, it was as awkward as it sounded.
A petite dark-haired woman walked in. “Hey, Helen, it’s lovely to meet you. George told me a lot about you,” Lisa said.
It took me a second to realize that she was talking about Dad. George was the name he used at work. And when he was hooking up with women, it seemed.
“Will you join us for dinner?” Dad asked. So he’s allowed friends over and I’m not? Such a double standard!
I wanted to give him the cold shoulder for ghosting on me. But curiosity got the better of me. Who was this woman who kept Dad so busy that he couldn’t reply to a text?
“Depends. Are you cooking?” I asked.
Dad laughed too loud. “Of course I’m cooking, darling. Who else?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. It was my subtle way of telling Dad “we both know that the closest you get to cooking is switching on the espresso machine, but I’ll stay quiet this once”.
While Dad rummaged through the drawers trying to find the can opener, I got to know Lisa a little bit more. Even in her baggy jeans and crumpled blouse she was attractive. Her black hair was streaked with silver and scraped back into a ponytail. I couldn’t quite place her accent at first, which had a slight American twang to it.
Dad didn’t leave me wondering for long. By the time he’d finished heating tinned tomato soup and grilling cheese on toast, the only thing I didn’t know about Lisa Chen (aged forty-three, born in Queens, New York City, to two Chinese immigrant parents) was her blood type.
“So, how did you both meet?” I asked once we sat down to eat at the table. I had to ask something, otherwise they were in serious danger of gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes for the entire meal. They might even have kissed. And then there was no chance of me finishing my meal. Gag.
They looked at each other and giggled. My dad, the head of the Olympian gods, giggled. He must really be into her.
“Oh, it’s the strangest thing, Helen. I happened to be at George’s university for a conference on medieval Korean pottery,” Lisa said.
Conference? Pottery? I already regretted asking.
“I was in the campus cafe looking at pastries. Super strange, because I don’t have a sweet tooth in the least. But I suddenly felt like I needed a sugar hit.” Lisa paused to take a bite of her cheese on toast. Dad gazed at her like he wished he was the toast.
“I spotted the pastry display and noticed that they had one single, glorious cinnamon bun left. George was in front of me, but I never imagined this sophisticated James Bond type would want it too. I thought he’d order, like, a black coffee or something.”
Dad blushed when Lisa called him a “James Bond type”. I tried not to roll my eyes.
“But I also had my eyes on that cinnamon bun. When I ordered it, I heard this voice behind me say ‘No!’ I turned around, and there you were,” Dad said.
Since when did Dad crave pastry? The only time I’ve seen him eat anything was at our family gathering last Sunday.
They were holding hands now. Lisa ate her soup with one hand, and Dad held the other under the dinner table. Like they were in Year 5.
I crunched my cheese on toast, quietly seething. How come Dad could bring home someone he literally just met, but I was banned from having friends over EVER? It was ridiculously unfair.
I finished my dinner in record time, and went back to my room to finish my French homework/watching my YouTube videos. At least Dad would be too distracted with Lisa to triple-check my verbs.
As the sound of their conversation snaked its way upstairs, I realized it was the first time I’d heard Dad laugh since I moved in. Not the chuckle he made at his crap jokes or when I mispronounced a Greek word (who cares how you say “Odysseus”, anyway?). But a proper belly laugh.
I guess I should be happy that Dad met someone as boring as him. The woman made a career out of pottery shards, which told me everything I needed to know about her.
Maybe Dad is lonely. Maybe he does love a cinnamon bun from time to time.
Dad still felt like a stranger to me. But this woman that he’d known for less than two days seemed to know him better than I did.
Before I knew it, the Christmas holidays rolled around. As we weren’t going to get to see each other until Yasmin’s New Year’s Eve party, my friends and I decided to spend our last day together at Winter Wonderland, a Christmas-themed funfair in Central London. Even though I hadn’t known the three of them for long, I knew I’d miss not seeing them every day.
“The playlist for the party is looking sick,” said Yasmin as we queued up at the hot chocolate stand. “Don’t forget to send me your song ideas.”
“Deffo,” said Daphne. “I have a few slow dance numbers in mind.”
“Oooooh!” said the rest of us in unison.
“Who are you going to slow dance with, Daphne?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that Adam from Spanish asked me if I was going. I didn’t even invite him! He already knew about it,” she said.