Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(31)

‘Upstairs.’

He lifts the bar hatch and beckons me through but I walk straight past and into the nearest booth. There are two half-eaten burgers on rectangular slate slabs and some sort of spillage but I sit down anyway, picking up a napkin and wiping up the worst. Dad slips in across from me. The king in his castle, almost regal on the velvet padded seat.

‘Trouble?’ I say, smiling, prickling with animosity. ‘That’s the problem when you go young, Dad. Us Millennials can be a bit demanding. A bit entitled. I think it used to be called “high maintenance” in your day. Maybe a nice little Doris your own age might be less hassle? More grateful?’

He grins. I get a sudden urge to swipe his face, quick and vicious like a cornered cat.

‘She’s not that young. I thought you’d have better observational skills in your line of work.’ He stops, flags the attention of a minion and waves him over. ‘She’s in her thirties, actually, and anyway she’s just a friend.’

‘Didn’t look too friendly.’

He ignores this, turns his head towards his little fiefdom. ‘So what do you think?’

I shoot a bored stare in the same direction. ‘I think the Christmas tree sucks.’

‘Oh yeah? Pray tell?’ He looks genuinely wounded. I almost laugh.

‘It’s a bit .?.?.’ I struggle to find the right word. I’m tired and my brain feels doughy – a big flabby lump of contradictory thoughts. ‘There’s just not many decorations, that’s all. It’s a bit spartan.

‘A bit spartan, eh? Good word.’ He digests it for a moment. ‘Tell me, is that the same as “a bit shit”?’

‘Exactly the same.’

I suppress a smile. Smiling at Dad always feels like defeat.

‘So to what do I owe the pleasure? I like the hair, by the way.’ It’s only an inch shorter and half a shade darker but Dad’s the type of man who notices these things. ‘You look a bit tired though,’ he adds, throwing his arm wide across the back of the seat. ‘Are you eating properly? Tell you what, I’ll get chef to make you something. Anything you want. Peach and honey pancakes, maybe? You could never resist them.’

Some things never change. Dad trying to manipulate me with sugar is one of them.

‘Peaches are rank this time of year. I’ve gone off honey.’

His jaw tenses but with the arrival of the minion at the table, he softens in a flash and the affable gaffer takes centre-stage. All back-slaps and banter and loud effusive laughs.

‘Hey, Xavier, meet my daughter, Catrina. My baby girl.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘She’s the one who got all the brains.’

The implication being that Jacqui got all the beauty.

I let that sit for a minute, ride out the hurt until I arrive at a place of ‘Who-the-fuck-cares’.

Dad’s voice comes back into focus, that geezer-lite lilt that the punters lap up. ‘So yeah, Xav used to work at Artesian, sweetheart. We nabbed him eventually, though, didn’t we, mate? Got big plans, me and Xav. Big plans .?.?.’ ‘Xav’ smiles vaguely, as if he was hoping for a far simpler plan that just involved being handsome and perfecting Negronis. ‘Anyway, a Peroni for me, chief, and anything my girl wants.’ To me: ‘He does a mean Mai-Tai, sweetheart. Ex-Trader Vics, you see.’

‘Just tap water. Please.’

Never let it be said that I got all of the brains and none of the manners.

I wait until he’s gone. ‘Artesian, no less. No offence but isn’t this place a bit of a comedown? You must be paying him well. In fact, Frank must be paying you well. I wouldn’t have thought the pub trade’s as lucrative as your other sidelines, or are your “big plans” just a cover?’ A wave of nausea, then a tiny jolt of nostalgia, washes over me. ‘I mean, is this place really just Frank’s nerve centre again? His counting house, like before.’

A step back in time to the 1990s. To iffy-looking men talking in low voices in the back room. Iffy-looking packages piled high in our airing cupboard.

Dad chews the side of his cheek – a habit I’ve inherited for riding out anger. ‘It was nothing to do with money. I just fancied a change. Radlett felt too big after a while. Too many memories and not enough visitors.’

I brush off the dig. ‘Seriously, I thought barrel changes and blocked loos would be a bit beneath you these days? Don’t you miss lording it around Hertfordshire in your Jag.’

He grins at this. ‘Oh come on, Cat. It was never really me, was it? All that gardening and golf club guff. Radlett was never my dream. I never really .?.?.’ He tails off, picks at a non-existent thread on his cuff but we both know where he was headed. I never really wanted the straight life. ‘So yeah anyway, Frank mentions he’s looking for someone for this place again. Says he knows it’s been years, but do I fancy it? He’d spent a load on the place, you see, but it was going down the tubes – usual story, a couple of managers don’t know their arse from their elbow and boom – suddenly the place gets a reputation.’ He takes a packet of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, bats them between his hands. ‘Basically, Frank wanted someone to put a bit of heart back in the place.’ A coy glance up. ‘I don’t know what you think, but I think I’ve succeeded.’

What I think is that Frank needs to rinse more dirty money than Mr Arse and Mrs Elbow were prepared to turn a blind eye to, and he knows there’s none more blind than Michael McBride when it comes to a nice fat earner.