Most people can’t help themselves, it’s instinctive, they swivel their heads, attention pulls away from Millie and rests on her father. I hear him say, ‘I have a fucking ticket.’ Swearing is rife in the circles we mix in, holding back is seen as prudish and lower middle class. Still, I’m mortified. I guess I’m prudish and lower middle class. I don’t turn. I keep my eyes trained on Millie and watch her as she lands, not quite as gracefully as I’ve seen her in do in rehearsals. I notice her eyes slip to the doorway for a fraction of a second. She’s no longer in a garden, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, she’s a little girl with an embarrassing daddy.
The children scamper across the stage, toes pointed, legs stretched in front of them, a light, elegant pitter-patter. All I am aware of are his heavy footsteps slamming on the wooden floor as he threads his way towards the front of the hall. Why hasn’t he slipped into a seat at the back? I can hear him repeatedly say, ‘Sorry, ’scuse me, can I get past?’ He sounds impatient, a little sarcastic. His words are slurred.
At the interval, we stand in a frosty silence. Simon is swaying slightly. We have nothing to say to one another. Only the kindest of the mothers try to talk to us.
‘The costumes are quite something aren’t they?’ says Ellie’s mum.
‘The Year Twos looked like hookers,’ replies Simon.
I blush and sip my tea. Ellie’s mum pretends she’s seen someone else she knows that she needs to have a word with.
Delia’s mum picks up the mantel. ‘I love this troupe.’ It’s just a ballet class, not a troupe, but it seems rude to correct her. ‘It’s so inclusive. Rather lovely that all the children have been given roles, even though they don’t all have rhythm. You are lucky. Millie is so incredibly talented. If Delia had as much ability in her big toe I’d be thrilled, we just come here for the exercise really.’ She smiles at Simon. I think she’s trying to say something outrageous to draw attention away from his behaviour. It’s lovely of her but it won’t work. A modest grumble about your own kid’s mediocrity, whilst said kid is out of earshot, is nothing compared to interrupting the recital.
Delia reminds me of myself as a child. She looks uncomfortable in a leotard on stage. She looks uncomfortable full stop. Her mother thinks she’s helping her confidence by putting her on stage, but I think Delia would be happier at Brownies or in the library.
‘Which one is Delia?’ Simon asks.
‘She is in Millie’s group. She was on the far right hand side, most of the time. She’s very tall.’
Simon snorts, ‘Oh yeah. I know her. I think you’re wasting your money.’ Delia’s mum blushes. Simon is acting as though he doesn’t know the parent script, or at least if he does, he can’t be bothered to follow it. He’s supposed to say her performance was charming, that she was enthusiastic and full of character. I’m only glad he didn’t call her fat. Delia’s mother says she’s going to get another cup of tea.
‘Simon, what is wrong with you?’ I snap.
‘Is there only fucking tea?’
‘Will you please stop swearing. There are children around.’
‘Yeah, the place is full of supportive siblings, isn’t it?’ He stares at me with a cool intensity that manages to slice through his more obvious state, one of inebriation.
‘Have you been drinking already?’ I ask.
‘No biggie. Mick from work has had a baby – well, his girlfriend has. We went for a drink to wet the baby’s head.’
‘But you knew this started at five thirty. You didn’t have time to go to the pub. Did you leave work early?’ He’s clearly had more than one.
‘I was only ten minutes late. I didn’t miss much. Hell, Daisy, if I have to sit through another rendition of “Let It Go” I might literally beat myself over the head with that bunch of roses.’
I’d happily do as much, and my only regret would be that I had the thorns removed at the florist because I’m not careless enough to give my child a bouquet with thorns. The bell, announcing the second half is about to begin, rings.
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ says Simon.
‘No, you have to come in.’
‘She’s done her bit.’
‘She’ll be on stage again for the encore. That’s when the entire assembly dance together.’ He looks at his feet. ‘Please Simon.’
He shrugs and follows me back into the hall, like a dog following its master; a snarly dog that might turn and bite at any point.
Simon sat through the rest of the recital as required but was unable to muster any enthusiasm. Watching other people’s small, clumsy kids prance about on stage was only bearable if you got to see your own kid. He was ashamed that he’d missed Millie’s performance and yet also relieved. It pained him to admit, even to himself, but he was finding it difficult to be around her since they’d visited the fertility clinic. He loved her so much. It hurt. The doubt. The uncertainty. It felt like a wound.
He allowed his eyes to slide to the left, he looked at Daisy the way you might look at the sun. Never full on, it was too damaging, only with a side-eye glance. Martell must have got it wrong. He must have. No way. No fucking way would Daisy ever be unfaithful. But Martell had thought that they’d had a donor. They hadn’t. He’d thought Millie was born through IVF. She wasn’t. Blatantly he had only scanned the history which Simon had bothered to provide. The supposed expert had clearly made assumptions, mistakes. He couldn’t be trusted. Most likely the results of Simon’s tests were wrong. That was it. When they’d first had a similar round of tests he’d been told the chances of conceiving were ‘slight’, one doctor once used the word ‘negligible’. No one ever said his chances were non-existent. No one ever used the word ‘sterile’. Surely a mistake. Or maybe there had been a level of deterioration since. That was probable, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that women’s fertility dramatically decreased post-forty, it was surely the same for men. Right? These explanations were far more likely than the one the consultant had insinuated. Daisy would not be unfaithful. The idea was ludicrous. He was Millie’s father.
She didn’t look at all like him. She had blonde hair, fine and wavy, pale blue eyes. He had thick, brown curly hair and brown eyes, but he’d always thought Millie had got her colouring from her mother’s side. She didn’t look like her mother, either though, not really. Not at all. Yes, Daisy had blue eyes, but they were a darker blue and a completely different shape. Daisy had thick red hair. Simon looked about him. There were siblings of the performers sat with their parents in the audience. In many cases the children were mini versions of their parents, recognisably genetically connected, almost facsimiles, but in many other cases the kids didn’t look especially like their parents. Simon shook his head. This was madness. How had he let this thought take hold? He should just tell Daisy what the doctor had said. Admit he’d had the tests, that he was hurrying things along. That was no biggie. Then he could ask her straight out. She’d laugh. Well, that or punch him for thinking so badly of her, but that would be better than where he was now. She’d clear it up. He was sure of it. Almost.
He thought back to when Daisy had told him she was pregnant with Millie. Well, she didn’t tell him exactly. There wasn’t a cutsie moment when she announced it to him by wrapping up a couple of knitted booties, one pink, one blue, the way their friend Connie had done when she told her husband Luke that they were expecting their third. Simon had brought