Watching You: A Novel

‘What was going on last night?’ Freddie asked his dad the next morning.

His dad grimaced at him. He was wearing his dressing gown and he smelled odd, that sugary-yeasty smell of middle-aged man pickled in clammy bedsheets.

‘What?’

Freddie pulled a croissant from a packet on the counter. ‘You and that woman.’

His dad stopped buttering his toast for a second, then continued. ‘Oh. Josephine,’ he said, through a pretty theatrical yawn that was fooling no one, least of all Freddie. ‘She was at the same gig as me last night. Turns out she lives two doors down.’ He yawned loudly again. ‘She was a bit the worse for wear so I got her home in a taxi.’

‘Oh, Dad. You’re such a thoroughly good guy, not just saving schools but now rescuing damsels in distress too!’ Freddie couldn’t help himself sometimes. His dad was just so fucking perfect. Or at least that was the overriding narrative. Amazing Tom Fitzwilliam. Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he clever? Isn’t he charming? Isn’t he tall? Hasn’t he got an enormously huge dick? Well, no one had ever actually said that, but he did. Freddie had seen it.

His mum subscribed to this narrative too. She looked amazed and grateful every time Dad walked in through the door at the end of the day, took his hand when they were out in public to show the world that he was hers. So in the absence of any peripheral checks and measures in the form of siblings, Freddie kind of felt it was his duty to keep his dad in his place, to remind him that he was not the be-all and the end-all. His dad took it in good grace. He did seem to like Freddie. But possibly that was because he didn’t realise quite how deep the rivers of Freddie’s antipathy sometimes ran.

His dad ignored Freddie’s sarcasm and flicked the switch on the coffee filter. Soon the kitchen was dark with the smell of warm coffee. His dad stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown and stared through the French windows towards the end of the garden. The hair on the back of his head was matted and flat where he’d slept on it.

‘What’s she like?’

‘Who?’

‘The damsel. The one you rescued from being raped in an illegal minicab?’

There was a prolonged silence and Freddie wasn’t sure if his dad had heard him or not. But then he turned slowly and leaned against the counter. ‘She’s nice.’

‘Nice?’

‘Yes. Perfectly nice. I didn’t really talk to her. We were watching the band. And then it became apparent that she was horribly drunk so I got us a taxi. She slept most of the way back.’

‘She looked like she wanted you to kiss her.’

‘What?’

‘When you got out the cab. She looked like she was trying to kiss you on the mouth.’

His dad grimaced. ‘Er, no. I sincerely doubt that.’

Freddie offered him a sardonic lift of his eyebrow and said no more. He knew what he’d seen. Yet another tragic woman succumbing to the inordinate charms of his father. Yet another woman allowing herself to be dazzled by the glittering illusion of a gold coin at the bottom of a well.

Nicola walked in damp-haired, scrubbed-faced, shower-fresh after her early-morning run. ‘What do you sincerely doubt?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ said his dad, sending Freddie a warning glance across the kitchen. His mum got really jealous sometimes. ‘How was your run?’

‘It was superb,’ she said, pulling a mug off a shelf and pouring herself a coffee from the filter. ‘It’s beautiful out. We should do something.’

Freddie would have much preferred to do nothing at the weekend. The idea of doing something, with its undertones of brisk walks and silent art galleries and awkward lunches in smart restaurants, filled him with sick dread.

‘I’ve got loads of homework,’ he said. ‘I need to stay at home today.’

His mum pulled a sad pouty face. ‘Maybe you and I should do something?’ She gripped his dad’s arm and looked up at him hopefully. ‘Pub lunch?’

His father patted her hand and smiled down at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A pub lunch sounds just the ticket.’

Freddie saw pure joy bloom across his mum’s face and then he thought of the taxi pulling up last night, of Red Boots grabbing his father and the stern look on his face as he bundled her towards her front door. He thought of all the other times, the other women and girls who’d looked at his dad just a little too fondly or held his arm for a little too long. He thought of the smell of old beer coming off him this morning, the sour smell of secrets and lies.

He nodded just once towards his father, knowingly, and saw him flinch.