Strangers: A Novel(23)

11

It’s just after nine in the evening in Melbourne, and Dad only picks up after the seventh or eighth ring. That probably means they have guests, because then my father only answers the phone very reluctantly.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me, Jo.” I try to hide my nerves.

“Jo, sweetheart.” Yes, I can hear voices in the background. Laughter. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks, and you?”

He clears his throat. “Everything’s fine. The McAllisters are here right now, and Max Cahill with his new wife—do you remember Max?”

Yes. A bald-headed lawyer with buckteeth and a laugh that could make milk curdle. “Mom’s away for a couple of days,” Dad continues. “The usual charity stuff. She’ll be sorry to have missed your call, you know how much she likes to hear about your adventures in her homeland. Paul had a fight with Lisa but then they sorted things out again; other than that…”

“Same old, same old,” I finished his sentence for him.

“Yes. And Matthew sends his best.”

“Oh, thanks. Tell him I said hi.” Matthew. The fiancé who I definitely can remember, maybe even a little too well. The man whose life consists of a steady stream of fulfilled wishes, the man for whom I—everyone agrees—am the perfect match. One empire marrying another, just like it was two hundred years ago. The fact that I had felt the need to put a few continents between us hadn’t particularly fazed Matthew—after all, he would get me for the rest of my life once I was back, he had told me as we said good-bye.

The match is very close to Dad’s heart too, unfortunately. “Have you heard from him?” he asked.

“No, he hasn’t been in touch. But that’s fine.” Erik doesn’t take his eyes off me even for a second. He’s following our conversation, no question about it. He works as a computer technician, so his English must be better than average.

“You could give him a call yourself sometime, you know.” Dad’s tone sounds accusatory. “Or come here for a surprise visit! Or even better, just come back. Seriously, Jo, this Europe nonsense has gone on for long enough. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fine that you want to experience things—in every sense—but don’t lose sight of your real life in the process. Right then.” His voice has taken on the tone he usually uses for business negotiations. The George Arthur Berrigan tone, which it’s advisable not to argue with. “So I’ll just send you a plane. When?”

This is my chance to leave all this nonsense behind me. If I hand the reins over to Dad, I’ll be out of this situation in a few hours. Except then I would never understand it. And I would be his Jo again, irreversibly. Daughter, heiress, business capital that can be married off.

“I don’t know yet.” I rest my gaze on the stranger sitting opposite me at the kitchen counter. Then I summon up all of my courage. “I’ll discuss it with Erik.”

Silence, one or two seconds that seem to last forever. Then my father’s voice again, dangerously quiet now. “With whom?”

I manage to stop the smile from appearing on my face as I slip down off the barstool and leave the kitchen. I shut the door behind me, stand there in the hallway. The paperweight is back in its usual place.

“Erik. I told you about him, remember?” My father is the last person who would deceive me, or anyone else for that matter. He would regard such a thing as being miles beneath him. So I wait for his answer like it’s a judgment from God.

“No you didn’t, not once, I would have remembered. So who in God’s name is Erik?”

If only I knew, I feel the urge to yell into the phone. I have no idea, but he’s sitting in my kitchen and he cosigned my rental contract, and my best friend here says that we’re in love.

It’s too late to backtrack now. “A man I met a while back.”

“Goddamn it, Jo.” Dad doesn’t shout, but lowers his voice to a tone so deep it resembles the sound of distant thunder. “You remember what we agreed, don’t you? You can have your fun, but only to the extent that it doesn’t endanger your relationship with Matthew.”

Oh yes, I remember the conversation. That unbelievably embarrassing conversation.

“So I really didn’t mention Erik to you?”

Now Dad does raise his voice after all. “No, and I never want to hear about him again! End it and come back home! And without any gold-digging Germans running after you!”

He hangs up before I can.

For a moment, I stand there indecisively holding the stranger’s cell phone in my hand; then I open the contacts list. Yes, there’s my number, as well as Ela’s. And the number of the photography studio. Other than that, just names I don’t know, apart from the Chinese restaurant in the pedestrian zone, and my favorite pizzeria.

I go back to the kitchen. Only once I’ve opened the door and see Erik’s expectant expression do I realize it would have been much better to check the text messages instead of the contacts list.

Too late now. I stay at a safe distance and look him directly in the eyes. “My father didn’t know who I was talking about when I mentioned your name. He doesn’t know any Erik.”

He doesn’t look surprised; he must have known, of course he did. For a moment he just closes his eyes, as if he’s exhausted. When he opens them again, there’s not a single trace of guilt. Just anger.