'We' are. We're right back where we started, or that's what she'll say if she knows the truth.
I close the drapes again. He's not coming back. At least, he shouldn't.
Dad comes back from Prague with an abscess in his tooth. He didn't trust a Czech dentist to give him a double root canal, so he loaded up on painkillers and in-flight cocktails and flew all the way back to LA. It's so Hollywood of him that in different circumstances I would have laughed, but it's kind of depressing to know that this town can soften even his South London soul.
"Issues, issues, issues," Everglade used to say. "Plastic surgery, bush-league humping and lots and lots of whining - that's Hollywood, babycakes. Is it any wonder my mommy turned into a monster?"
And here I sit with the curtains drawn, the very embodiment of it all - a skin graft itching on my neck, an ache where his dick used to go and a pile of imaginary problems. Sometimes I dream about him. It always happens the same way and in the same place. We're lying on a bed together. It's hot and the fan is going - there's no air-con, it's too cheap a motel for that. He's spooned around me. We're both naked but I'm cool where my skin touches his - like he's turning to ice inside. He says the same thing every time.
"Amber, you have to wake up. Wake up."
And then I do and everything is fucked.
My Dad comes into my room, minus a pre-molar. "Couldn't save it," he says. "I think I'm gonna get a gold one instead. What do you reckon?"
"Mm. Sounds good."
He sits down on the end of my bed and sighs. I know he's not here to gross me out with tales of the dentist. "Amber, how long are you gonna do this, baby?"
"I'm not doing anything," I say, my back already up. He's always had a way of needling me. Maybe he doesn't know that it's the very thing that eats at me day and night - am I doing this to myself? - but we're too alike. He must know.
But he's a saint. Everyone says so. He plays the bad guy but off-screen he's everyone's favorite. The macho Brit who lost both wife and baby when she bled out from an ectopic pregnancy. He never remarried, after all those years. He still loved her. And it's true - he does. So why should I get over it? He didn't. I guess dwelling in the past is picturesque, if you're a man.
He sighs again. His shoulders look larger than life. "Have you talked to Dr. Stahl?"
"Of course. I do nothing but talk to Dr. Stahl."
"You know what I mean," he says, twisting round to look at me. "You're closing the curtains again. It's one step forward, two steps back. Is she not working for you anymore? Do you want to try a different doctor?"
"I have a headache," I say. I sound whiny even to myself. "Can't I even close the drapes without everyone putting me on suicide watch?" If I told him the truth there would be a shitstorm. Jimmy would lose his job. My Dad's butted heads with Dr. Stahl before but I know they'd agree on one thing - no boys. No way.
The silence swells to fill the room. I curl myself into a tighter ball on the bed. My Dad sniffs.
"I'm sorry," he says, with the air of someone about to unload a painful confession. "I really am. I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. And I'm sorry it happened. All of it. But it did, and under the circumstances it could have been a whole lot worse, couldn't it?"
I nod. I don't want to cry but there's an irresistible ache in my throat. I want to say I'm sorry too - and that he did protect me. And yes, it could have been worse. The scar on the back of my neck itches and my sinuses burn.
"There's nothing you can do to change it," he says. "It happened. All you can do now is learn to move past it."
I could laugh - has he any idea how California he sounds right now? The laugh turns into a sort of snort-choke-sob thing and I scramble for the box of tissues on the nightstand. I sit up and he squeezes me tight in his big arms, reminding me of the times when we used to sit like this after Mom died. Just sitting or lying together and crying and crying - he was supposed to be the grown-up and he was supposed to tell me everything was okay, but that was the age I learned that even adults had some hurts that nothing could fix.
When I look in his face again I see his eyes are red around the rims. "Will you promise me something?" he says.
"Sure, Daddy. Anything."
"If it's not working out with Dr. Stahl, you'll tell me, won't you?"
"Of course I will. I promise."
"Good. Because you can't go on like this, Amber. You're twenty-one. You can't spend your life locked away like Miss Havisham."
I nod again and wipe my eyes. My lips feel soft and blubbery. My head aches. We both know he's not coming back. Ever.
"I have bad days," I say. "This is one of them. That's all. Some days I'm better."