Girl on the Run (33 page)

‘Hi, Karen,’ I say brightly. ‘How was your conference the other week?’

‘Abby,’ she snaps, tossing back her hair. ‘I feel sorry for you.’

‘Oh. Er . . . do you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ She crosses her arms huffily and I realise her eyes are red. ‘Your father has issues.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘And I’m leaving him.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘There’s no need to look so pleased,’ she frowns.

‘I’m . . . I’m not,’ I lie. ‘Honestly, I thought you were, sort of . . . good for him.’
Yeah, right
.

‘Well,’ she says, stomping past and nearly knocking me out with the beads on her cardigan, ‘unfortunately,
he
didn’t. At least he never showed it.’

She spins round. ‘Abby, I think I’m going to have to tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Something about your dad. I’m sorry, but these things shouldn’t be kept a secret. It’s going to screw you up, but you’ve got to know.’

‘Have I?’ I wince.

‘Yes, you have. I think your father still has feelings for your mum.’

If Karen had any sense of the anticlimax of what she’s told me, it’d ruin her day. So I decide not to break it to her that I’ve known this for sixteen years and instead feign surprise and outrage on her behalf. Only she’d be thick enough to think it’s genuine.

As Dad opens the door, he looks slightly shaken, but tries not to show it.

‘Hi, love,’ he smiles weakly. ‘Come in. I haven’t started dinner, I’m afraid. Something came up.’

‘I met Karen on the stairs,’ I say tentatively.

‘Ah.’ A look of realisation crosses his face. ‘So you know.’

I nod.

‘I don’t think we were meant to be anyway,’ he mumbles.

We get a takeaway, which I know is supposed to be off-limits, but it was that or the dregs from his freezer, which amount to the world’s worst
Ready Steady Cook
ingredients: a frozen turkey from last Christmas and half a bag of peas.

After dinner, we settle on the sofa and chat, drinking cups of tea as I fill him in on the highlights of my trip. The edited ones, of course.

‘Sounds like a great holiday,’ he says. ‘I might come with you next time.’ Then he registers my expression. ‘Don’t worry, I was only joking.’

He takes my empty mug of tea and puts it on the breakfast bar.

‘Dad?’ I find myself saying, as though I’m about to ask if I can borrow his car.

‘Yes?’

‘Will you miss Karen?’

He looks shocked by the question – Dad and I have never been good with matters of the heart. Yet, he’s never had a girlfriend before, let alone been dumped by one. He returns to the sofa, saying, ‘I will miss her, yes. She wasn’t the love of my life, but I never wanted to grow old by myself.’

‘You make it sound like you’re a hundred,’ I say. ‘Besides, you won’t grow old by yourself. You’ll have me.’

‘You know what I mean,’ he says gently.

I stare at the television and suddenly feel a wave of longing for Tom. This time it isn’t in a sexy way, though. I just want to talk to him. And be held by him. I get a daydream I’ve been having for the last twenty-four hours: that I’m lying on the sofa with his arms wrapped around me.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever think you and Mum might get back together?’

He is clearly surprised by the question. I don’t know why I feel the need to quiz him about this when I never have before, though the emotional whirlwind of the last few days might have something to do with it.

‘I guess I hoped we would,’ he replies reluctantly.

‘But Mum never wanted to.’ I struggle to hide my deep disapproval of her actions, not just when my parents split up, but subsequently.

He looks at me, frowning. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

I smile sourly. ‘Oh, Dad. Why are you still defending her after all these years?’

He looks bewildered. ‘Why would I need to defend her?’ It’s as if the idea that she did anything wrong has never crossed his mind.

‘I know you still love her, Dad,’ I continue. ‘
She
knows you still love her. God, even Karen knew you still loved her.’

‘Karen told you
that
?’ He’s even more shocked, but I can’t bring myself to regret this conversation.

‘Everyone’s right, aren’t they? If it’d been up to you, you and Mum would never have split up. You don’t need to worry, Dad. I know it was Mum’s fault, not yours.’

He looks up in a jolt, as if my words fired a bolt of electricity through his heart. ‘Your mum’s . . . fault?’ he repeats slowly.

‘Yes – that your marriage ended.’

His face drains of colour. He suddenly looks ill. ‘It wasn’t
her
fault, Abby. Not at all.’

‘Oh Dad, don’t give me the same crap that she does – about you “
growing apart
”.’ I make inverted commas with my fingers, rolling my eyes. ‘I know the score. I know Mum could’ve chosen to stay. I know—’

‘You don’t know
anything
.’ He interrupts so furiously that my words come to a sudden stop, as if someone’s slammed the lid on a music box.

‘Dad,’ I whisper. ‘What’s up?’

He rubs his hand on his forehead as he contemplates what to say next. ‘Is this what you’ve thought all these years?’ His face is a storm of emotion. ‘That it was your mother’s fault we split up?’

‘Dad. You’re forgetting . . . I was
there
,’ I point out. ‘I remember the day we left. As in – Mum made us leave. I remember the whole thing.’

Tears well in his eyes and seeing my dad’s emotions stripped bare shocks me to the core. ‘Fine, Abby. She left me. Is that the end of the story then?’ he challenges me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What you’re missing out is
why
she left me. That’s the crucial question.’

‘Then . . . why?’

He looks out of the window, biting the knuckle of his thumb until it nearly draws blood.

‘Come on!’ I squeal. ‘You can’t say that and then not tell me. You can’t.’

‘Your mum always felt that there were some things a daughter should never know about her parents. It was she who didn’t want you to know.’

‘Know what? I’m not a child.’

‘But I can’t sit here letting you think it was all her fault while . . .’ He’s talking to himself, rather than me.

‘Dad,’ I say sternly. ‘Talk to me, will you?’

He turns to me, eyes blazing. ‘I had a . . . thing,’ he declares.

Realisation punches me in the stomach. ‘An affair?’ I ask.

‘Not an affair – it was one night. It was . . . stupid. God, stupid barely covers it! We both regretted it – and have done every day of our lives since. But that wasn’t the point and—’

‘So you had a one-night stand,’ I bluster. I’m totally, utterly stunned by this news – but my fall-back position is to stick to my guns. ‘Couples get over that sort of thing. You still could’ve worked it through. She didn’t need to leave. She could’ve—’

‘Abby, stop!’ He looks up as the tears spill down his cheeks and his eyes redden with shame. ‘It was with your Aunt Steph. It was with your mum’s sister.’

All families have secrets. But this isn’t just a bombshell – in one fell swoop, it has smashed one of the most fundamental assumptions I’ve ever made about my parents into tiny jagged pieces.

‘It was your mum who didn’t want you to know,’ Dad sighs. ‘You were only twelve when we broke up, and that in itself was hard enough for you to deal with. I think in the early days we told ourselves that one day – if you asked – then we’d be honest and tell you the reason. But you never did.’

‘I never asked because I thought I knew what had happened,’ I stammer. ‘Mum always said you’d just grown apart. She implied that it was all your little quirks, along with your being in the Army, that was behind it all.’

‘That became the easiest explanation. And, from my perspective, I suppose I tried not to think about it at all. What a coward I’ve been,’ he says, punching one hand into the other. ‘I was the one who’d caused all this pain, yet I went along with the myth that our divorce somehow happened by itself.’

I bite my nail. ‘Part of me wishes I didn’t know.’

‘Yes. But I couldn’t sit here listening to you blame your mother. I just couldn’t.’

I look at my hands and realise they’re trembling.

‘How did it happen?’ The words come out huskily as I struggle to find my voice.

‘I feel so ashamed,’ he whispers, his face ashen. Then he looks at me and tries to find his voice. ‘It was in the summer of 1995, when I was on leave. I’d been home two weeks when a friend, Thommo, called on his birthday to see if I could go out for a couple of drinks. I wasn’t even keen on the idea, but your mum urged me to go.’

‘And?

‘We got horrendously, disgracefully drunk, as silly young men do when they haven’t seen each other for a while.’

‘But you don’t drink,’ I say.

‘Not now. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since this happened.’ He pauses. ‘We bumped into Aunt Steph and one of her friends; I think she was called Cheryl. Thommo fancied her anyway – and insisted we stuck like glue to them for the rest of the night. He ended up getting together with Steph’s friend and, well, we were left trailing round after them. The rest of the night’s a blur.’

I don’t know whether this is true or if he’s saying it to spare me the details. He looks at me, sensing my scepticism. ‘What I will say is that we ended up at Steph’s house, steaming drunk and unable to think straight. It was then that, well . . . don’t make me go on, Abby.’

I swallow, feeling quite ill. ‘Was it only a kiss or . . . more?’

He looks at his hands in shame. ‘More.’

Tears spill down my cheek. ‘But
why
? How could both of you be involved in such a betrayal?’

‘I’ve thought a lot about that over the years,’ Dad says sorrowfully. ‘In Steph’s case it was never a secret that she’d spent years in your mother’s shadow. She was less clever, less beautiful, less charismatic. She and Gill were never rivals, but with hindsight, Steph’s feelings of resentment must have always been there, bubbling under the surface.’

‘But what about you?’

Dad sighs, misery etched on his features. ‘That’s a very good question, love. One there’s no answers to except the crudest kind: alcohol, excitement and sex. Such fleeting and weak reasons – ones I’ve forfeited a life of stability and happiness for.’ He frowns again. ‘I made a terrible, terrible mistake. I’d never been unfaithful before – I’d never even thought of it. But that became an irrelevance. And I’ve paid the price for it every day of my life since.’

‘How did Mum find out?’

‘Steph told her, two weeks afterwards. She said she was tormented with guilt and couldn’t live with the secret. I don’t know what she expected Gill to do: shrug her shoulders and say, “Never mind, sis”? I mean, some women may be able to live with their husbands doing the dirty on them – but with their own sister? I can understand how Gill couldn’t stomach it, can’t you?’

I nod. ‘Absolutely. It must be, well . . . unforgivable.’

There are so many emotions spinning in my mind I don’t know where to begin unravelling them. I look at my dad, torment scribbled on his face, and feel fury at him – and pity – in equal measure. Then I think of Mum. My brilliant, batty mum who could have told me years ago that it wasn’t her fault, but chose to spare me the details and put up with the blame I heaped on her.

‘Steph had been talking about emigrating shortly before all this, but she was never really the adventurous type, so nothing ever happened. But in the aftermath, I think she’d have done anything to escape. Your mum and I separated as soon as she found out, though it was years until we got round to the official divorce.’

‘Why was that?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a tiny part of us held on to some hope. I know I did. And I think even your mother would have liked to be able to pretend it had never happened. But who could?’

I run a hand through my hair, feeling numb. ‘I couldn’t have got it more wrong, could I?’

‘I don’t expect you to forgive me, Abby.’ Fat tears slip down his cheeks and my stomach contracts. ‘I’ve never even forgiven myself. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.’

I feel a surge of anger, disgust and hatred – feelings that are stronger and more bitter than anything I’d ever imagined myself capable of, especially towards my father. Then I look at him sitting on the sofa, weeping the tears of a man who has paid the ultimate price for his mistake – and who’ll never recover.

I scramble to him on the sofa and put my arms around him, squeezing him as hot tears sting my skin.

‘There’s one thing I was right about though, isn’t there?’ I whisper, pulling away from him and looking into his bloodshot eyes. ‘You’re still in love with Mum, aren’t you?’

He inhales deeply and slowly. ‘More than she’ll ever know.’

There are only two months to go before the half-marathon, yet the last place I want to be is at the running club. It’s too traumatic in the light of the events on holiday.

I consider giving up the club altogether and training by myself, but Jess is convinced that it’ll impact on my ability to compete – and everything I read on running websites concurs. So I turn up, but make strenuous efforts to avoid both Tom and Geraldine; something I achieve by getting to every session late and making an excuse to dart off immediately at the end.

The only upside is that the gossip about Oliver and me spreads through the group like wildfire after the holiday, so if people notice my strange behaviour, they assume it’s because he’s eaten me alive and discarded me like yesterday’s pizza.

Under normal circumstances, it’d be horribly humiliating. But these aren’t normal circumstances, so I’m happy to be a four-cheese deep-pan with extra topping. The ridiculous thing is that, after spending months targeting Oliver, he barely registers in my mind these days.

Now I’m forced to accept something I’ve denied since day one: that it’s Tom I’ve fallen for. Hook, line and sinker.

Despite saying little to either Tom or Geraldine since the holiday, I am terrified. I don’t know if I’m reading things into their body language that aren’t there, but I get a feeling that Geraldine suspects something. Even from afar, I detect a subtle shift in her mood when Tom and I are within twenty-five feet of each other.