My Favourite Part

45(b): father figures

"So," Dad starts, scouring the shelves for a bottle of something or the other, "you're Lisa's nephew, then?"

At the mention of the cover story, Eric freezes, and Oreo dust falls from his tense grip. He avoids my eyes quite intentionally, but I nod as covertly as possible, and cross my fingers under the table, hoping he catches it.

"Um, ye-es. Yes," he manages to say. Lucky for us, Dad's always got an agenda, and today he's getting to it quickly.

"So, you went to Oxford as well, then?"

Thank God Eric knows the answer to that one.

"Yes," Eric says with a light laugh of relief, "yeah, I studied English Lit. Pembroke College, Class of 2016."

Dad turns around with a wry smile and I already know what he's going to say next. Dear God.

"English Lit? That's a bit wishy washy, isn't it?"

Eric turns on the charm when he laughs and drapes a hand over the back of the booth. For a moment, he looks at ease.

"It gets a lot of flack, but it's a solid course – a lot of cultural scrutiny, classic literature."

Dad's already shaking his head. Despite having studied Engineering and ended up a pub owner, Dad is entirely pragmatic when it comes to my university career. He insists I'll go to Oxford and study Economics or something equally boring,  graduate, and be the next [insert most famous female economist here. Are there famous female economists?]

For peace's sake, I never correct him. Really, it's easiest to just smile and nod for a few hours on Christmas and Easter then go our separate ways.

"My Angie's applying there — for Economics. Aren't you, Ange?"

He's wearing his 'proud absent father' beam, and I feel Eric's confused eyes on me. I smile and nod.

"Mhm."

"Actually, have you made all your applications? Some of the Brighton students at the bar were talking about applications the other day."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. I hate when he pretends to be involved in my life – our lives.

"Yeah, Dad," I sigh, "deadline was a month ago – January 15th."

"Right, obviously," he laughs as though he has a clue, "and what Oxford college was it that you applied to again? St. Anne's?"

I try and look focused on the careful separation of the Oreo biscuit from the cream, hoping he'll think I didn't hear him and move on. But, of course, he doesn't.

"Ange?"

"Hm?"

"Oxford college – which one did we apply to?"

Looks like there's no way around this one. I drop the biscuit and drum my fingers on the oak table.

"We didn't apply to Oxford, Dad."

He looks at me for a moment, with his thin lips tugged to one side, waiting for me to say I'm kidding. When he realises that I'm not, his semi-smirk drops, and his mouth falls open.

"Wh- Angie! Have you told your mum? That you didn't apply to Oxford?"

I shrug. "She knows, Dad."

"Jesu- well, thanks for filling me in!" When he starts stammering and throwing his arms about, I hope that he doesn't get any more dramatic than this. The university question is already complicated enough, and now Eric's watching us like a tennis match, hands folded in discomfort as his eyes flit to-and-fro over the centre line.