My Favourite Part

45(a): robbie's inn

Dad owns the coolest pub in Bristol. It's called Robbie's Inn, but I should clarify that his name isn't Robbie: it's Dom — birth name Domenico. That's what we call him when we want to piss him off. Although, something about his red face and jaw-so-terse-that-it-could-snap tells me he's sufficiently pissed off already.

"Evangeline, who's this? D'you wanna tell me what exactly is going on?"

He's reining himself in well enough, but I can tell that he's one misspoken word away from a hissy fit and heart attack. He's clenched his fists while he awaits my explanation, and I'd bet my life that he's ready to throw them Eric's way if I don't choose my words carefully.

Okay. Okay, breathe, Evangeline. This isn't as bad as it looks. It's just... a 'Meet the Parents' much, much earlier than I expected.

Judging by Eric's frozen frame and wide eyes, it's much earlier than he expected, too. We've only just started talking properly again, and after whatever happened on the balcony yesterday, he's not ready for this. Frankly, neither am I.

"Dad, this is Eric, he's, um..."

Come on, Evangeline. Think, and think fast.

"He's Babe's cousin! Mum told you I was going to basketball camp with Babe, didn't she? In Edinburgh?"

Technically, Mum should have, but I know for a fact she didn't – divorce made her spiteful of him in that way. Dad prides himself on being an omniscient being of some sort, and if there's one thing Dad hates more than a perceived threat to his daughters, it's not being in the know.

"Yes, obviously," he huffs. His fists are loosening — this is my chance.

"Well, um, Eric came to pick us up. Babe and I were supposed to come back today to surprise Mum and Lisa and Bea by coming back a week early, but Babe met this girl and wanted to stay 'til next week. Her name's Gillian," I blurt, "or Jessica, I think. To be fair, it could be both. You know Babe and her girls, heh. Anyway, um, Eric said he'd still drive me home, so we're, um, driving home. To London."

At first, I'm sure I've given myself away with all the jabbering – I babble when I'm nervous. He'd know that if he knew me; Mum would have called me out in seconds. But he doesn't.

I look over at Eric trying my hand at telepathic communication with a smile that's too big, and eyes too wide, and he panics for a moment but swiftly gets the message.

"Pleasure," he greets once he's stirred back to life, sticking a hand out for Dad to shake. I watch Dad grip his hand cautiously and shake it with firm suspicion, and think about how differently I pictured this moment in my head.

It's a stand-off. Dad's giving Eric his most inscrutable glare, and Eric's doing his best to put on an 'I'm Babe's cousin and not your daughter's boyfriend/TA' look. Whatever that looks like. Currently, it looks like a slightly squirrelly smile. Still, I think Dad's buying it.

"I thought you were more into ballet than basketball."

I don't register his words right away – he's still staring Eric down and grasping his outstretched hand even though the shake is over.

"I haven't done ballet since I was about nine, Dad," I say, and my voice quivers slightly when I attempt a laugh.

Finally, he releases Eric's hand, which Eric immediately snaps behind his back.

"You've met her mother, then?" Dad asks him, nodding his head towards me.

"Uh, I have, yes."

Dad eyes him for a moment longer, taking him in from his floppy blonde hair to his linen shirt to his boat shoes. Knowing Dad, he's already judged him and written him off as a 'posh prick'.