Daddy's Here(2)

My phone vibrated in my clutch and it took three attempts and four  swearwords before I was able to get the bag unzipped. The message was  from Ben and I squirmed as I read it. "You're drunk. Stop texting me and  get some sleep."         

     



 

What had I told him? It had been a while since I'd been hammered enough  to text him. Scrolling through the messages, I muttered, "Oh, no," under  my breath, seeing what I'd written.

I'm sure you had one, a childhood sweetheart, the one you never forgot.  Ben was mine. We'd kept in touch even after he'd been moved across to  the other side of the country but in the last couple of years I tended  only to text him when I was too drunk to speak. As every time before, I  texted an apology for my proclamations of love before sliding my phone  away. He knew I didn't love him, not really.

I closed my eyes again and was drifting off to sleep when the car  stopped. We hadn't driven far enough to get to my father's, even in my  stupefied state I could tell that. I heard the driver's door open and  close and then I looked out of the window, frowning as I realised we'd  pulled up on the roadside next to a convenience shop. The bright lights  made me wince as my hangover slowly crept up on me.

When the driver returned to the car, I didn't bother opening my eyes. "What was so fucking urgent, you had to stop?" I asked.

"To get this," he replied.

I heard a movement and when I looked, a metal flask was waving in front of my face. "What's this?"

"Drink it."

"What is it?"

"Hangover cure."

"But I don't have a hangover."

"Drink it."

I took the flask from him, sniffing the contents and recoiling so hard, I  banged the back of my head on the seat. "What the hell's in this?"

"Just drink it."

I looked down at the flask, bringing it up to my lips and taking a sip.  Almost at once, a heat burned its way down my throat, a very different  heat to the vodka I'd been sipping for most of the night. I took another  sip, and then gulped down the contents. It didn't stop at my stomach.  Within seconds of drinking it, every blood vessel in my body was alert,  my nerves alive, even my back straightening as I blinked myself awake.  "I say," I muttered, slipping back into the voice of my private  education. I managed to resist adding, "this is spiffing," instead  passing him the flask with a grin on my face. "What the hell was in  that?"

Driver's secret," he replied and although his expression didn't change, I  caught a slight raise of his eyebrows in the rear view mirror as we set  off once more.





THREE


ISABEL





We got to my father's house an hour later. It was on the edge of the  city, set in its own grounds, as immaculate as last time I was here, not  a blade of grass out of place. "Do I have to go in there?" I asked when  the car came to a halt.

"Afraid so," the driver replied, stepping out and pulling my door open a moment later.

I climbed out, amazed to find I wasn't even wobbling. "You've got to  tell me what was in that," I said, looking for a distraction, anything  to delay the inevitable screamfest I was about to endure.

"He's waiting," the driver replied and I knew I'd get no more out of  him. He knew which side his bread was buttered on and it wasn't mine.

I walked up the steps to the front door, stepping inside to the dulcet  tones of my father screaming at someone down the phone. "You do it  because it's your job to do it. If I have to come down there and show  you the stuff, I will but you don't want me to do that, do you? Because  if I do … "

He appeared in the hallway, phone in hand. He took one look at me. "I'll call you back."

Shoving his phone in his pocket, he walked towards me. "Isabel, how lovely to see you. What's this, you're wearing, slut chic?"

"Don't start," I replied. "How did you know I was at the club? Been spying on me?"

"You forget I pay your bills. You spend a lot of money on my cards. Don't think I don't notice."

"You can afford it."

"Look at you. You stink of booze. You're a disgrace."

"Shall I sit down while you insult me? Is it going to take a while?"

"Don't get smart with me, Isabel. It doesn't suit you."

"Spending time with you doesn't suit me. Can I go home yet?"

"I'm paying for that crack den of yours." He turned and walked away. I  followed him. If I didn't, he'd only come after me and he could move  surprisingly quickly for a man in his fifties.

I found him sat behind his desk so I sat in front of it, trying in vain  to find any evidence of mess. One of his pencils was slightly askew but  he rectified that as I looked.         

     



 

"It's time for you to grow up," he said, folding his arms and not smiling at me.

"I'm nineteen."

"And you act like a fourteen year old whore."

"Aren't those two things mutually exclusive?"

I told you not to get funny with me, Isabel. I've had enough of you behaving like this."

"Like what?"

"I'm not getting into a debate with you about what's appropriate for a  woman of your age, I'll get to the point. I've decided it's time to get  married."

"Who's the unlucky woman?"

"Not me, you."

A heavy weight suddenly thudded down into the pit of my stomach. The  hangover that had faded away came roaring back. "You want me to get  married?"

"It's all been arranged. You'll like him."

"You mean you've picked my husband out for me? What century is this?"

"I don't care what century it is, I care about my daughter acting like a  woman, not a slut. The venue's booked, everything's already arranged.  All you have to do is turn up."

"Who is he?"

"You'll like him."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Kingsley."

"He sounds like he's out of a Merchant Ivory film."

"He's the son of Tony Matteo."

"You want me to marry the son of a gangster?"

"He's not a gangster, he's a businessman same as me."

"He's a gangster. What's going on, Dad?"

He sighed, the neutral expression on his face vanishing for a moment. "Nothing's going on."

"Bullshit. This isn't you talking, you've never mentioned marriage  before. You've never cared what I'm up to as long as I don't spend too  much."

He sighed again, this time rubbing the bridge of his nose with two  fingers before continuing. "You have to marry him, all right."

"I don't have to do anything, not if you don't tell me why."

"Christ, can't you just do as you're told?"

"Can't you just tell me the truth."

"Fine," he snapped. "I owe him a favour."

"A favour? I'm a favour for a gangster?"

"It's not like that. Listen, back when you were little, things were a lot tougher than they are now."

"Oh, here we go, the old candle light and no food to eat story, I've heard it before, Dad."

"Shut up," he said, pointing at me, his eyes narrowing. "For once in your life, just shut up and listen."

I did. He looked more serious than he ever had before. It was a look  that terrified me because he looked scared. He never looked scared.

"My first bit of legal work was for the Matteo family."

"Oh, Dad, you didn't?"

"I had to, sweetheart. We'd have been on the streets otherwise."

I thought about replying but then I saw the look on his face again.

"Tony said I owed him a favour at the time." His face twisted as he  tried to keep it under control. "He laughed when he said it, I thought  he was joking."

"But he wasn't?"

"He came to see me last week, told me he needed a wife for his son, told me he was calling in his favour."

"Oh, Dad."

"Don't do that. Don't talk to me that way. We don't have a choice,  Isabel. You don't know him, you don't know what he's capable of."

"All right."

"What?" He looked surprised by my reaction.

"I said, all right."

"You mean you'll do it?"

"Whatever you say, father."

"Wonderful!" A bell rang in the distance. "Come and have breakfast with me. We'll talk."

"No thanks. Is that everything? Only I've a date with a duvet and I don't want to miss it."

"Of course, you go get some rest. I can let you know the details later."

The driver was waiting for me outside and I didn't let my fixed smile  fade until I was in the car. "Now will you take me home?" I asked,  closing my eyes again.

The car set off as I waited for the nausea to pass. So he wanted me to  marry Kingsley Matteo, son of scum? My father, the big man, the smart  man, yet not smart enough to see I was only nodding for long enough to  get away from him. There was no way I was marrying the kid of a man so  oily he probably slept in a giant sardine tin. I'd go home, get some  sleep, then start packing. When I got married, if I ever got married, it  wouldn't be for a ‘favour' or to a man no one liked I would marry for  one reason and one reason only. I would marry for love. Until that day, I  was out of there.