Perfectly Ordinary People(120)

The hotel having been chosen by Dad, it was yet another economical choice, but it turned out to be quite lovely all the same. The place appeared to be family-run, and consisted of a series of small, two-storey buildings set among immaculately kept gardens, less than two hundred metres from the beach.

Once we’d checked into our rooms I met Dad downstairs at the bar as arranged. It was furnished with wicker tables and armchairs and was set behind huge bay windows that had been rolled back, so that the bar area spilled out of the hotel and into the grounds. The result was most inviting and, though it wasn’t even midday, Dad was already seated with a beer, so I joined him and ordered a coffee.

‘Did you call Igor yet?’ I asked after a moment. ‘Does he know we’ve arrived?’

Dad shook his head and sipped at his drink. ‘The beer’s lovely,’ he said. ‘Ice cold.’

‘Great,’ I replied. ‘It’s a bit early for me. I’ll stick with coffee for now. And are you going to? Call Igor, I mean? Because he might want to come over and join us.’

Once again, Dad just shook his head.

I pulled a face. ‘Dad?’ I said. ‘You know that’s why we’re here, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do,’ Dad said. ‘But we’ve got all day tomorrow. And the day after that. So today I’m allowed to relax with my favourite daughter, aren’t I?’

‘I suppose,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘If he’s not expecting us today.’

‘No,’ Dad replied. ‘He isn’t.’

‘Tomorrow, then,’ I said with meaning, because I was imagining Dad trying to wriggle out of meeting with Igor altogether.

As if to confirm my fears, Dad said, ‘Yes. Or the day after. We’ll see.’

For two days we played perfect sweaty tourists. We drove into the centre of Arcachon and wandered around the town. We stopped at oyster bars so that Dad could tip the slimy creatures down his throat, visited Mauresque Park and swam at stunning Moulleau Beach. We really were having a lovely time together, and in some ways, that was unexpected.

Yet by the time the sun had passed its zenith on day two, I was worried. The subject of when we were going to visit Igor was fast becoming taboo and when I’d repeatedly hinted that it was time we contacted him, Dad had simply ignored me. I’d tried asking him directly, too, and each time he’d either changed the subject or said something like, ‘Relax! We still have all day tomorrow.’ On the one occasion when I’d really insisted, he’d got annoyed and gone off for a walk.

I’d been right all along, I realised – for whatever reason, he really was nervous about meeting up with Igor. And if there was one thing I knew my father was good at it was avoiding anything emotionally challenging.

I realised too that his fear of not having the courage to do this was perhaps the reason he’d brought me along. And that realisation meant there was only one thing left to be done: I’d have to take matters into my own hands. So, telling Dad I wanted to call home to check up on Lauren again – I went to my room to phone Igor.

‘Is this Ruth?’ he said on answering. ‘Is everything OK? I’ve been worried about you. I’ve been waiting for your call for two days! I didn’t even want to leave the house in case I missed you.’

I apologised profusely and explained that my father was feeling nervous about the meeting and had been difficult to pin down.

‘Nervous?’ Igor said. ‘What’s he got to be nervous about?’

I laughed. ‘I don’t really know. But I suppose chatting to your father’s partner isn’t the most mundane situation for someone of Dad’s generation. Actually, it’s not that mundane for any generation, really.’

‘Sure,’ Igor said. ‘I understand that. But we’ve already met. Repeatedly. I thought he liked me.’

‘He does,’ I said, although I really had no idea. ‘He’s just being weird. He does this. Which is why I wondered if you could come here instead, and sort of surprise him?’

A few hours later, Dad and I were in the bar, sipping our drinks, when Igor walked in. He had a full head of grey hair and tinted tortoiseshell glasses. He was wearing a beige linen suit over a sky-blue polo shirt. He looked younger and hipper than I’d imagined.

‘Bill!’ he said, when he reached us. ‘And lovely baby Ruth!’

Dad looked startled and, as he turned and glanced in my direction, annoyed. But then he regained his composure and stood. ‘It looks like my darling daughter has jumped the gun,’ he said, embracing Igor. ‘Hello, Igor. How are you?’

‘Your darling daughter was worried the gun might never get fired,’ I said, winking at Igor and, when my turn came, hugging him too. ‘But this way we can all eat together. This is perfect, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Dad said, with a sigh, then, as an aside, ‘It’ll have to be, really, won’t it?’

Once we’d finished our drinks we strolled down to the seafront restaurant where we’d reserved a table for two. Luckily, they had no problems accommodating Igor.

The conversation during the walk had been polite holiday chit-chat. When did you arrive? What sights have you visited so far? You know the kind of thing. But as soon as we sat down, Igor interlinked his fingers and leaned forward, looking serious.