Stuck on Me

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up too much,’ says Vix, as we all get ready at her house. ‘We might not get in.’

  But I’m not listening. I’ve never felt so sure of anything: Dad is going to be there. I can sense it, I can picture it, I know it. Mum’s always told me to follow my instincts, she even said I was a bit psychic once, although I laughed at her for that. Tonight, I think she might be right. My gut is telling me it’s going to happen. It’s telling me so strongly that I haven’t been able to eat a thing all day. I’ve never felt so nervous, not before a first date, or even an exam.

  ‘Look up for me and don’t blink,’ I say, changing the subject and trying to distract myself. I’m helping Vix with her make-up because she looks the youngest. I think you have to be at least sixteen to get into the Dublin Castle for a gig, which is easy for me, and not too difficult for Rosie either. I can’t help noticing how pretty Vix looks with eyeliner; she really should make more of her eyes. She’s still a bit of a tomboy but, I have to say, when she makes an effort she’s actually the prettiest of all of us. She just doesn’t know it.

  I hand her the mirror. ‘I think you’re done.’

  Vix peers at her reflection and smiles. ‘Thanks, hon.’

  ‘Maybe there’ll be someone cute at the party for you,’ says Rosie. ‘Or even the gig. You never know. We all look super hot, if I say so myself.’

  Vix shrugs. ‘Doubt it. And you’ve got Laurie, remember. Anyway, it’s Sky’s night. We’re not looking for cute guys, we’re looking for one dad-shaped guy.’

  The thought sends butterflies rushing through my stomach again. I look at my watch. ‘I guess we should go. Do I look OK?’

  It’s been hard choosing what to wear. I need to look like I’m going to a friend’s house party and, at the same time, old enough to get into a gig, pretty enough for Rich (in case I do make it to the party later) and, most important of all, at least a little like the daughter Dad remembers. I’ve settled on a stretchy, black and white stripy dress, which I can cover with a little black cardigan. I think it works.

  ‘You look gorgeous, Sky,’ says Rosie. I can tell she’s checking out my make-up and that she wants to say something about the excess bronzer on my nose. I stare her out, and she doesn’t.

  We’re too early to go to the gig but, as far as our parents our concerned, we’re going to a party just up the road, and they agreed that if we went early enough we could walk there together. So we’re planning to detour around the block and then cut across Camden Street and back onto Camden Road, before crossing Britannia Junction and heading up Parkway. We’ll hang out in a café until it’s time. Our parents never go into Camden on a Saturday night, so nobody will spot us.

  We walk briskly, arm in arm, saying very little. I’m lost in my own thoughts, imagining the moment when Dad’s eyes meet mine. Will he be pleased to see me? What will he say? And what if he isn’t happy? What if he’s angry or, worse, what if he blanks me? I don’t think I could handle that. Tonight the emos are queuing at the entrance to the Underworld as we pass, waiting to see some band or other. Part of me wishes I was like them, a member of a group, sure of where I belonged. Life would be so much simpler, so much easier if I fitted somewhere. But I don’t want to be a clone, I want to be me. Whoever she is. I grip my friends’ arms tighter. Thank God they’re with me; I know I couldn’t do this alone.

  We while away an hour sitting in The Goodfare, an Italian café on Parkway that’s painted bright red and green and which we’ve all been coming to with our families since we were kids. Rosie and Vix order big bowls of pasta, and try to feed me forkfuls, complete with ‘mmm’ and ‘ahh’ noises to tempt me, but I wave them away. I’m still not hungry. ‘I’ll get a bag of crisps later,’ I tell them.

  We’re virtually the first to arrive at the Dublin Castle for the gig, although the pub is already filling up. There’s nobody on the door but, to make ourselves less conspicuous, we go in on the coat tails of a group of friends. Nobody spots us. Ignoring the bar, we head straight into the back room, where the bands play. Someone is sound checking, a group of young guys, definitely not Dad’s band. There are a few different acts on the bill tonight, supporting the main band. From the look of the flyer, I think The River Runners are on second. We stand at the back of the room, letting the crowd file in in front of us.

  The first band is rubbish, all screechy guitars and out-of-tune singing, and they seem to go on for hours. I will them to finish, growing ever more jittery. I’m feeling lightheaded and wobbly, although that might just be because I haven’t had any dinner. When, at last, they’re done, the lights come back on and practically everyone else goes to the bar. We crouch down on the dirty, sticky floor, using our jackets as cushions. Rosie tries to calm my nerves by telling me a story about Laurie’s boss, but I’m not listening. ‘I’m going to the loo,’ I say. My bladder must be empty – I went twice in The Goodfare – but I can’t stop feeling like I need to pee. Anyway, it should kill a few minutes.

  There’s a long queue for the Ladies and, by the time I return, the room has begun filling up again. Finally, the lights dim and my stomach lurches horribly. A band is coming onstage, but I can’t see properly – there are too many people in front of me: someone with a backpack, someone else with a hat, someone too tall.

  ‘Come on,’ I shout, grasping my friends’ arms and dragging them towards the stage, through any gap I can find. Someone jostles me with their elbow, someone else steps on my foot, but I don’t feel it. I just keep going forward. I need to be close enough to the stage to see clearly, but not too close. Just close enough.

  ‘Hello, Camden,’ says the lead singer, as the spotlight hits him. ‘We’re The River Runners. And it’s great to be back here at the Dublin Castle!’

  There’s a crash of drums and the wail of a guitar. The crowd cheers. The music must be deafeningly loud, although I can barely hear it. I’m in my own little bubble. I scan the stage, glancing from one musician to the next, as they step out of the shadows and into the glare of the stage lights. And suddenly, he’s there in front of me, a harmonica pressed to his lips.

  Dad. MY DAD.

  ith a clash of cymbals, The River Runners finish their set. We hang back as they pack up their gear, then watch as they come offstage and head to the bar. Vix, Rosie and I follow close behind, keeping them in our sights, trying not to get lost in the surge of people vying for a drink. We stand still for a few minutes, not speaking. I’m nervous as hell and have no idea what I’m going to say to Dad. All I know is I can’t let him leave before we’ve spoken.

  ‘I think I need to do this on my own,’ I say. ‘Do you two mind waiting for me?’

  Vix nods. ‘Sure you do. No problem.’ She lets go of my hand and mouths, ‘Good luck.’

  I smile bravely, but I don’t feel brave. I feel tiny and naked and very alone. With one last glance at my friends, I walk over towards Dad, my legs shaky and difficult to control. He doesn’t see me coming. He’s talking to someone, laughing with them and slapping them on the back. I notice how much fatter he is, how much older he looks. Shorter, too, although that could just be because I’ve grown so much. There’s a pint glass in his hand. Half empty.

  It’s my dad. It’s my dad. It’s my dad. Those words keep running through my mind, blocking out all other thoughts. It’s been a long time since I was eight years old, but part of me still wants to run up to him and hug him, and let him spin me around until I’m so dizzy that when he puts me down I have to cling on to his legs for support.

  But I don’t. Of course I don’t. I walk up to him, stand beside him, wait for him to finish speaking and then tap him gently on the shoulder. ‘Dad?’ I say. It comes out like a question. I don’t know why.

  He doesn’t seem shocked to see me. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, recognition, fear, annoyance, I can’t tell – but it’s gone in an instant. It’s almost as if he’s been expecting me to pitch up at one of his gigs, one day. Or maybe he’s just good at hiding
his emotions.

  ‘Sky-blue?’ he says. ‘Well, well, well. How the devil are you?’ He hugs me, but it’s not a Dad hug. It’s a hug you’d give an old friend. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you tonight, so I didn’t.’

  ‘I tracked you down,’ I tell him. ‘On the internet.’

  ‘You always were a clever girl,’ he says. ‘I’m not so easy to find.’

  ‘No, you’re not. I . . . we still live in Camden. Just up the road. I can’t believe you’re playing here tonight and...’ I want to say, ‘and didn’t tell me,’ but I’m scared it’ll anger him, or make him run away. ‘. . . and here you are.’

  ‘Camden Town’s a good place for gigging.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ I don’t know what else to say. I’ve had six years to think of something and now I can’t find a single word. I want to cry, laugh, shout, kiss him and hit him, all at the same time. I want to know where he’s been for the past six years, to ask him why he didn’t keep in touch, to tell him about my life. But I can’t do any of that. It’s not the time, or the place. We’re in a busy, noisy pub, surrounded by strangers, with his band mates and friends only inches away. A young woman with dark hair is standing next to him, talking to the drummer. I noticed her during the gig, at the side of the stage, singing along with the band. She keeps staring at me. She must be Dad’s girlfriend, even though she doesn’t look much older than me. I hate her on sight, just for that.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘Um, yes. A diet coke, please.’

  ‘Nothing stronger?’

  ‘I’m only fourteen, remember,’ I say quietly.

  He peers at me, and it looks as if he’s doing calculations in his head. ‘Yes, I suppose you are. You all grow up so fast, nowadays, it’s hard to keep track.’

  That niggles. I look over at Rosie and Vix, who are standing by the wall. Rosie waves. They seem awkward, like they don’t really want to be here. I’m not sure I want them to be here either, even though I don’t want them to leave yet.

  ‘So what have you been up to?’ says Dad, handing me my drink, and steering me over into a corner, away from his party. ‘Are you still at school?’

  What age does he think people leave school in Camden? ‘Yes, just started doing my GCSEs.’

  ‘Ah. And do you like it?’

  ‘It’s OK, I guess.’

  This is far more awkward than I was expecting. We shouldn’t be making small talk. He’s my dad.

  ‘I see. So how are your sisters?’

  ‘They’re good, thanks.’

  ‘And your ma?’

  ‘She’s OK.’ I pause. ‘She doesn’t know I’m here, in case you’re worried.’

  ‘I see,’ he says. ‘I daresay I’m not her favourite person.’

  I shrug. This isn’t a conversation I want to get into. What can I say? My mum hates your guts and wishes she’d never met you, and she warned me not to try to find you. Instead, I say, ‘I like your band. You’re really good.’

  ‘Aye, we’re all right. The boys and I go way back. I play in a couple of other bands too. I’ve done a bit of session work here and there. So do you play anything, Sky?’

  ‘Not really. I’d like to learn the guitar.’

  ‘It’s a fine instrument.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maybe he could . . . No, I can’t ask that. We stand in silence for a moment. ‘I’ve really missed you, Dad.’ I don’t mean to say it, the words just pop out.

  He seems embarrassed, taken aback. ‘Well, of course I’ve missed you too. But —’

  ‘Sky?’ Rosie has materialised at my side. That girl has the worst timing. ‘Sorry to interrupt but we should go to the party, if we’re going to go,’ she says. ‘As long as you’re OK.’

  ‘Sure.’ I’m aware I sound hesitant. ‘Dad, this is my friend, Rosie. Rosie, this is my dad.’

  He shakes her hand. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he says.

  She smiles. They’ve met before, a long time ago, but maybe neither of them remembers. ‘I enjoyed your set. Do you ever play any festivals? I’ve got a friend who’s in a band, Rufus Justice from Fieldstar. You might have met him . . .’

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard of them, but we’re not really on the same circuit.’

  Vix appears from the direction of the toilets. She seems shy of Dad, a bit wary, maybe.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, quietly. I introduce them and Dad shakes her hand too.

  ‘So you girls all have a party to go to?’ he says. ‘That’s great.’ It feels like he’s trying to get rid of me, or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  ‘Oh no, I’m not going yet,’ I say, appealing to Dad with my eyes. We haven’t talked yet, not properly. And if I go now, I might never see him again.

  ‘We’ll stay if you want us to,’ says Vix.

  ‘No, no, it’s OK, you should go,’ I say. ‘Anyway, you’ve got to be there when Rosie’s dad arrives to pick you up.’

  ‘Will you come along too, later?’

  ‘I dunno. I don’t think so. I’ll be all right, whatever. Just make up an excuse for me. And tell Rich I’ll call him tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, then . . .’ Rosie is putting her jacket on, but Vix seems hesitant. ‘I’m worried about how you’ll get home.’

  I glance at Dad again. ‘You’ll see me home, won’t you?’

  He nods. ‘Aye. I’ll see you right.’

  ‘Promise you’ll call us if you need us,’ says Vix. ‘And text us to let us know you’re home safely.’

  ‘Course I will. No worries.’

  I watch them leave and then turn back to Dad. We grin at each other, awkwardly, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m now alone, in a pub, at ten p.m. on a Saturday night, with a man who’s almost a stranger and who quite possibly doesn’t really want me to be here. Not to mention that if my mum finds out, I’ll be grounded till I’m twenty-five. I could be with Vix and Rosie at a friend’s party, making up with my boyfriend. Am I crazy?

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Dad says, motioning to a table where his bandmates are now sitting. ‘I’ll introduce you to my friends.’

  I look for the dark-haired woman, so I can ask if she’s Dad’s girlfriend, but she seems to have left already.

  ‘This is Sky,’ says Dad, as we approach the table. ‘Sky, this is John, Mike and Shane, and Mike’s girlfriend, Sarah.’

  I smile at them, shyly, and Sarah moves her chair a little so that I can sit down.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sky. So how do you know Connor?’ she asks.

  ‘He’s, um, er . . .’ Am I allowed to say it?

  Dad chuckles. ‘She’s one of my long lost daughters, come to find me. Tracked me down on the internet, she did.’ He makes it sound like a joke.

  That niggles too. I’m not lost, I think. I’ve been here all the time. You’re the one who got lost.

  ‘Ah, right, then.’ Sarah doesn’t seem surprised. Perhaps long-lost daughters track their fathers down and turn up at gigs every day in her world. ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘I live here, in Camden, just down the road.’

  ‘Marvellous! That’s a stroke of luck.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Pretty girl,’ says Shane, who’s been studying me. ‘You look a lot like your dad, don’t you?’

  I’m embarrassed. Now they’ll all be staring at my nose. ‘So people say.’

  ‘Aye, I guess she does,’ says Dad. ‘There’s no doubt you’re a Carter, my girl.’ He sounds proud, as if he’s done his dad job just by passing on his genes.

  Mike gets up to buy another round. We all sit and chat about gigs and travelling and people they’ve met along the way. Dad treats me like one of his mates, including me in the conversation, telling me jokes that make me blush. I have a good time but it feels stilted, slightly surreal. And I don’t get a chance to talk to him the way I want to. Not alone, or about anything important. Maybe tonight just isn’t the right time.

  I check my watch. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Vix and Rosie will be leaving the party, a
nd I have to arrive home around the same time as them, so that nobody suspects anything.

  ‘I really need to leave now, Dad.’ I search his eyes for a trace of disappointment. If it’s there, I can’t see it.

  ‘Aye, it’s late,’ he says, taking my wrist and studying my watch. I notice that he doesn’t wear one. I can’t remember if he used to. ‘Now, will you be OK getting back?’

  I nod and give him an expectant look, but he doesn’t offer to walk me home, even though he promised Vix he’d look after me. ‘Um, it’s kind of late,’ I point out. ‘Would you mind coming with me?’

  ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I’ll walk you back, so I will.’

  I get up from my chair. My legs are stiff. I’ve been sitting, tensely, in one position for too long. Dad gets up too. I notice that he’s not as sprightly as he used to be. His knees creak and he holds his back with his hand. I think: you wouldn’t be able to pick me up and spin me round any more, even if you wanted to.

  He has a quick word with some of his friends, and then we leave the Dublin Castle and set off down Parkway together. We don’t talk much; he seems to be in a hurry and we have to keep skirting around the drunk people spilling out of pubs, or queuing up for kebabs by the tube station.

  Once we’re on Camden Road, just past Sainsbury’s, he stops, suddenly. ‘You’ll be all right from here, won’t you? You’re only a few minutes from home now.’

  Maybe he’s afraid of bumping into Mum, I think. ‘Um, sure,’ I say. I’ve never walked home alone through Camden Town, this late. I’ll be OK, I tell myself. Walk fast, keep your head up, don’t make eye contact with anyone, don’t stop.

  He leans over to hug me goodbye. This time I’m aware that his breath smells of stale beer and cigarettes.

  ‘Good to see you, girl,’ he says.

  ‘You too, Dad.’ I hesitate. If I wait for an invitation, it might never come. ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘We’re playing again in Camden in a couple of weeks. The Blues Kitchen. Come along,’ he says. ‘Bring those lovely friends of yours.’

  That isn’t exactly the answer I was hoping for. ‘OK. Um, can I have your number?’ It feels weird asking my own dad for his contact details. But he hasn’t offered them and I’m scared that if I don’t ask for them, I might lose contact with him again for good.