I don’t know why Dad was so cross. The only reason he owns trainers is so that he can leave them by the door in the hope that women might think he works out.
Anyway, both those times that he ‘sat me down’ his eyebrows were uncontrollable and I knew, as soon as he asked me to sit to discuss the fire incident and his eyebrows immediately sprung into irrepressible motion, that he was having one of those moments when he wonders whether there is actually something genuinely wrong with me.
Like I don’t question that every single day.
And honestly, I really was trying to concentrate on what he was saying but his eyebrows were jumping around all over the place. It really is fascinating how they have such agility.
Sadly, he has not passed this impressive talent down to me.
‘Are you even listening?’
‘Of course!’ I lied, unlocking my facial muscles from their state of concentration on this intricate eyebrow dance. I patted Dog absent-mindedly as he lay next to me, clearly hoping for a treat after this act of loyalty in the face of a Dad Inquisition.
Dad’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Anastasia,’ he prompted, leaning forwards and clasping his hands together in what I guessed was an attempt at giving an air of understanding.
‘Nicholas.’ Two of us could play the I’m So Serious I’m Going to Use Your Full Name game.
Dad took a deep breath.
‘I appreciate that moving schools is an upheaval, especially for a teenager. I’m not mad at you – I know it was an accident. But if there’s anything you want to, I don’t know, discuss ?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Teenage things?’
Oh lord. I bet he wanted feelings. This was ambitious. I wasn’t going to talk about that with my dad. It was embarrassing enough telling my two new and only friends, Jess and Danny, about each of the latest ways I had managed to embarrass myself and, by association, them too. I’d be lucky if I managed to hold on to those two for much longer the way things were going. Either way, there definitely wasn’t any sharing happening with my dad.
‘What teenage things?’
‘I don’t know!’ His eyebrows leapt frenziedly towards the ceiling. ‘Learning to be responsible?’
‘Don’t bother. I wouldn’t listen anyway.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you taking this seriously?’
‘Yes I am taking this seriously. I set someone’s hair on fire; it was dangerous and embarrassing. I will not be touching a Bunsen burner ever again without supervision. The whole school is going to hate me. I’m going to be a bigger loser than I was before. I hate my life.’
‘Well that’s what I mean,’ he said gently. Seriously, I do one tiny thing like set someone on fire and suddenly my dad feels the need to subject me to weird parental counselling. ‘It’s just . . . at the last school . . . you weren’t . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Miss Popular?’
‘That’s not what I was going to say,’ Dad said, slumping back into the armchair where he usually sits on a Sunday afternoon with his Irish whiskey. ‘You weren’t . . . settled. I just want to make sure that you’re more confident with this new place.’
I had to start a new school when we moved to London last year after Dad became a lot more in demand as a freelance journalist and he needed to be where everything was happening. Weirdly this happened after he wrote a really boring book about tanks used in the war or something which actually sold quite well. The book is dedicated to me but I’ve never read it, which really bugs him. If you ask me I should be the insulted one – yeah Dad, it’s every girl’s dream to have a book about TANKS dedicated to them.
Incredibly, somehow the serious tank book led to serious articles on famous people – and they all seem to live in London or come here a lot. But it means he is at home a lot more than he used to be which is good, although he does sometimes go to a celebrity party or whatever. Celebrities like Dad now because he writes big glossy features about them in trendy magazines rather than reporting on their sweat patches in a tiny column of a tabloid.
I think he felt pretty guilty about making me move but I didn’t mind. I didn’t really have any friends at my old school and even though I was a bit nervous about Dog settling down in London at first, he quickly made friends with a Pomeranian called Hamish down the road.
‘Thanks, Dad. I appreciate your concern. But really? You can stop worrying.’
He sighed, it being clear that I wasn’t going to divulge any of the teenage angst he was looking for. ‘Fine. Well, be more careful in future Chemistry lessons?’
‘If they let me enter a science lab again in my lifetime, yes I’ll be more careful. No Bunsen burners.’
‘I’m not going to ground you. It’s not like you ever really go out anyway.’
‘Great, good chat, Dad, thanks.’
He gave a last concerned eyebrow rise and then finally pulled himself up from his chair and left the room. I relaxed and traitorous Dog immediately followed him just in case he was going in the direction of the kitchen.
Sadly for Dog, Dad went to his bedroom to get ready for his big date. Recently Dad has been seeing someone new who he still hasn’t introduced me to. Not that I’m insulted.
Usually he’s never with them long enough for me to meet them. I just pick up the phone every now and then and hear a different woman go, ‘Oh hi, sweetheart, is Nick there please?’ and he makes a wild ‘say I’m not at home’ gesture in the background as I explain that he’s actually gone to Slovenia to find himself. I like to mix it up and throw in some pretty inspired reasons for his disappearance, such as he’s modelling his new line of swimming trunks in Beirut, or he’s in Peru training to be a Sherpa.
This can be risky however because if Dad overhears he throws things at me.
He’s been seeing this girlfriend for a few months now though. He’s really been quite disgusting about the whole thing. Combing his hair, wearing aftershave and dancing – dancing – as he goes around the house. Honestly, I had to ring Mum and tell her how embarrassed I was.
She was in India at the time so it was a bit crackly but I think I managed to convey my disgust. Mum is a travel journalist which means she’s away a lot but I don’t mind. Sometimes she takes me with her to these amazing places and then when she’s in England and hasn’t seen me in a while she comes to stay with us too.
Mum and Dad were never married – or even together for very long. They met when they were both junior reporters and in Dad’s words ‘Rebecca was totally in love’ with him and in Mum’s words she was ‘either very drunk, honey, or suffering from some kind of tropical disease that causes hallucinations’. Either way, I was the outcome, and luckily they’re really good friends which makes things a lot easier.
When I was younger I kept hoping they would get back together, like in The Parent Trap or whatever, but now I see that it’s actually a lot better this way. Mum says they could never be together because Dad is too opinionated and the way he sneezes creeps her out. Dad says they could never be together because Mum never washes up and once mocked John Wayne’s hat. I reckon it’s actually because they’re best friends, but hey, you’ve got to let adults believe what they want to believe.
‘It sounds like he’s in love, darling,’ Mum laughed down the phone as I explained