‘Would it seem ridiculous,’ I asked Nate, ‘for me to apply for a shop job?’
‘What kind of shop?’ He started to rearrange the contents of our dishwasher, as he always reckons I stack it incorrectly.
‘A new gift shop called Little Owl. It’s by that bistro in Stoker Road. You probably haven’t noticed it …’
There was a clink of crockery as he repositioned the top shelf’s contents to ensure effective cleansing. As my friend Michelle once put it, ‘A man who criticises your dishwasher-loading technique risks being shoved into it with the intensive setting whacked on.’
‘So, what d’you think?’ I prompted him.
He removed the forks from the appliance’s holder and put them back properly, with prongs facing upwards.
I jammed my back teeth together. People have committed murder over less. ‘Nate? Did you actually hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, sorry, darling.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Yeah. I think a little shop job would be really good for you.’
Little shop job!
I was replaying all of this as I scribbled that list two nights ago. I hardly knew what I was doing as I placed it by the kettle, then called Abby in a state. Of course I could stay with her, she assured me. She would come and get me, and would I please stop apologising? She met me in her car at 1.40 a.m. at the end of our road.
So here I am now – trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep in her spare room. The plump pillow is wet with my tears, and although somehow it’s better than being with Nate, I can’t help thinking: What the hell have I done?
Weekends are usually an opportunity to kick back, read the papers, walk Scout, maybe meet up with Eric and Sarah. Or Sinead and I would just go out for a drink ourselves: all the ordinary (but now, I realise, intensely pleasurable) stuff I’ve taken for granted all these years. Without Sinead here on Saturday morning – and with no work to go to – I simply don’t know what to do with myself.
Still, I can’t fall apart. I’m still Flynn’s dad and, if nothing else, I’m going to prove that I can run this home, this family, by myself.
Things start off pretty well, considering. Flynn emerges from his room a little before 10 a.m. There are no visible signs of tears or anger; on the contrary, he utters a gruff, ‘Morning’ as we pass on the stairs. I even dish up a proper breakfast – not that I’m expecting some kind of World’s Best Dad accolade for scrambling some eggs. However, we are coping, in that we are dressed, and nourished, and I have only checked my phone a handful of times to see if Sinead has been trying to contact me.
Of course she hasn’t. Idiot, I chastise myself.
Aware of behaving a little manically – in order to prove just how fucking fine I am – I suggest to Flynn that he fetches his guitar and we have a go at some new techniques. ‘Okay,’ he says warily. Minutes later, we’re sitting together in the living room while I show him a new take on the traditional twelve-bar blues he knows already.
He’s strumming away, albeit rather mechanically, as if he’s keen to get on with something else.
‘Hang on,’ I say, motioning him to stop. ‘It’d be good to change your emphasis, give it some whack on the second and fourth beat …’
‘What?’ he asks crossly, brow furrowing.
‘Let me show you.’ On my own guitar, I start to play a riff, aware of Flynn’s gradually flattening expression, his mouth setting in a firm line. I stop and look at him. ‘That was Chuck Berry. You can hear how he played about with the timing, the emphasis – that’s what gave him that unique sound—’
‘Dad,’ Flynn interrupts, placing his own guitar carefully on the sofa beside him.
‘Hang on, Flynn …’ I start playing some more. It’s helping a little, focusing on the music. Helping me to not fixate on Sinead, just for a few moments …
‘Dad!’ he barks. I stop, taken aback by his abruptness. ‘Look, um …’ He shuffles uneasily. ‘D’you mind if we don’t do this?’
I look at him. ‘You mean, try out this Chuck Berry riff?’
Flynn’s eyes seem to harden. ‘Well, yeah. I mean, why would I want to play like Chuck Berry?’
‘Because he’s one of the greats,’ I reply with a frown. ‘A big influence on Springsteen, actually. He even covered some of his songs. Hang on a sec …’ I place my guitar to one side, and get up with the intention of fetching my laptop.
‘Dad, please,’ Flynn cries after me. ‘No YouTube clips of old dead guys!’
I swing round to face him. ‘He not just any old dead guy. He was a major innovator—’
‘Yeah, I know who he is. I mean, was. Max’s dad’s got a record of his, that awful song … what’s it called again?’
I shrug, genuinely confused.
Flynn smirks. ‘I remember. “My Ding-a-Ling” …’
‘Oh, that,’ I retort. ‘That was just a stupid comedy record—’
‘Yeah, about his dick—’
‘Flynn!’
My son’s gaze meets mine, challenging me. Was he ever so belligerent when Sinead was here? I’m sure there were occasions, but I can’t recall any right now.
‘What’s up with saying “dick”?’ he asks, clearly pushing boundaries.
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ I mutter. ‘But it’s a bit unnecessary. Okay, shall we try that Stones riff instead—’
‘Well, that’s what the song’s about, isn’t it?’ he rants on. ‘Max’s dad was playing it when he was drunk one night. He was a pervert. He put spy cameras in women’s loos—’
‘Max’s dad?’ I exclaim.
‘No, Chuck-fucking-Berry!’
‘Okay, okay,’ I exclaim, deciding not to tick him off about unnecessary language on this occasion, although it’s definitely out of order, coming straight after ‘dick’ a few seconds ago. I have a swearing limit and he’s definitely topped it. However, things are heated enough as it is. Pick your battles, I’ve always believed, and I know everyone swears these days. The c-word seems to be as commonly used as ‘hello’ or, ‘how are you?’, not that I’m a fan of it being tossed about like confetti. But I try to be easy-going and liberal, often thinking, Christ – hasn’t my son had enough to deal with in life without me lambasting him over trivialities?
‘C’mon,’ I add, ‘we can play something else. This is supposed to be fun, not an ordeal for you.’ He wrinkles his nose at me, as if I have suggested a game of Ludo. ‘How about trying that finger picking again?’ I soldier on. ‘You were doing really well with that …’ He was too, by which I mean no onlooker would even guess he had any issues with his fine motor movements.
Flynn gets up and grabs his guitar by the neck, and for one split-second I wonder if he is going to bash me on the head with it. ‘Look, Dad, what I’m trying to tell you is – if you’d listen – I don’t want to do this anymore.’
You don’t listen to me. Will I soon be presented with a list of my faults from my son,