start of **SLEEPOVER**
🌆 Saskia had now started spending those overnight's with Neil; one mid week and most weekends - where they usually spent their time out and about. But she was dubbed by him as being Wednesday's treasure, where he delighted in evincing his cooking passion for her. To cater for that passion, his working day ended at 5pm sharp, giving him time to take on the rush hour traffic and to ensure he was home early enough to tackle any complex recipe's. So straight after their working Wednesdays she takes the forty minute train journey, where he picks her up from the station. Beverly didn't mind chopping an hour and a half off her daughter's shift to accommodate this, finding it necessitous to a cause. Saskia felt right at home very quickly. It was as if the apartment had been waiting on her, shouting out for her feminine feel and feminine voice to reverberate off it's walls.
They were corollary growing closer and had started to pick up on each other's mannerisms; untidiness being her only shortcoming. Usually, she kept herself pristine in appearance - hair, makeup, clothes. Some would say a reflection of such neatness would follow on in one's home life. In reality; crisp packets would lie around and she'd quite happily flick crumbs from her cleavage onto those McQueen Persian rugs; she'd march inside, forgetting to remove her shoes first (despite the shoe rack directly at the side of the front door); after coffees or teas she'd dump the mug straight into the dishwasher without first pouring out the excess, and so the list went on on top of the general clutter and coat-dumping. He didn't even want to envision the state her room would be in after she leaves. He was always reminding her or telling her off for such slackness. Heaven knows who she got this messy nature from. Her mother as he could still recall, was as much of a neat-freak as he was. Returning from anywhere and his house had to be tidy, whereas Saskia had a sod the house, fun comes first attitude. To her, mess was glorious evidence of the good times we have. Yet, as even most children know, there comes a time to tidy those toys away; to grown-up Saskia, such things were done in her own adult time. This irked him more than he cared to admit, but he somehow managed to put up with it. She was basically a queen cat marking her newly found territory; a reminder when she wasn't there. A small price to pay really, for having her around. And if things got too bad for him there was always his faithful cleaner, Valerie. An extra shift or two - cash in hand - wouldn't go amiss. God help the day and the flat that ever houses her on her own! But it was very safe to say that her hair and her DNA were settling themselves in nicely. Besides, he could hardly set boundaries 26 years past their sell-by date, could he?
Under his getting-to-know-you scrutiny, he was pretty much on her vintage gold list (that she had to explain was a term for a cool old dear!) Not really any traits that she disliked - although she soon began teasing him every time he checked his nails (which he did obsessively everywhere they went) as he simply could not tolerate the thought of dirt living under them for anyone to see. Out came this little file with a jagged end to scrape the minutest of build up away! His father ingrained this habit into him as appearance was considered vital for the kind of work they were carrying out. And those intolerant words were very much still ringing n his ears; "Dirty nails NEVER accompany a tie." Any strange quirkiness of the other hadn't rocked this newfound unity. So far.
But amidst all this luxury she stayed very much herself in his penthouse flat; floating about in such manic delight. From late raids of the fridge, to what they watched on TV, to where they would sit.
Sometimes, when he was tidying up some work business before bed, (sometimes with a coffee in front of him) she'd jump over the back of the settee landing right next to him, wobbling and almost knocking his laptop off his knee, and demand to know what he was 'up to'. But he always had a smile at the back of any near-misses. He was just grateful that she never conducted herself in public with such ruthless energy; she was mostly a good girl then, although her capers on the balcony could be somewhat loud. Her latest whimsical ideation was to fly a paper aeroplane off it before darkness descended, and to try and keep it in sight. His theorem that she was bonkers was formed basically from the outset, and he reckoned after just this short while he'd feel lost not having her and her risibility around - even if the amount of flesh she flashed at times made him feel uneasy. It didn't bother her one scintilla. For all he knew he was maybe just an old fuddy-duddy? Wasn't that something that progressed with fatherhood? Although words formed in his head about it, he said nothing. If she was comfortable with it, then maybe he should be too.
Of her visits, Saskia hoped she would never allude (for fear of offending) her partiality for bedtime and that end-of-the-night feeling that she was about to sleep in an unfamiliar bed: fresh and clean duvet cover with that creasy-crinkly sound when she moved: the different lighting and getting to know the unfamiliar shadows around. But here that touch of tartan and Scotland in her room was sweet and homely to her. There was no reason why, really, but she felt a strange, unequivocal belonging, though she'd never set a foot in the country in her life, and it was as if she was being egged on by her surroundings to venture there sometime.
But unbeknown to her, it had been a consideration of his to take her there. His daughter should be introduced to half her roots, shouldn't she? And although he virtually had no family left there (that old aunt must be dead now, surely?)) to have drawn him back sooner, it would be interesting to know what she'd make of Scotland. Of slang vernacular streets, where she'd acutely have to ask him to repeat what on earth people were saying. To rotten weather, and daylight that hung around longer. If she'd eat sheep's pluck haggis if she knew what was in it, or if she find fish supper's more tasty, or if she'd even sip a vintage malt whisky if she got a whiff of it. She might find the tourist side a bit boring; too many hills and castles - but plenty of soft rock to appease. But she'd be breathing in fresh air and would taste and bathe in pure water. After conjuring up some simple clichéd curiosities of Scotland, he again venerated at how he'd actually lasted so long in London; now he had a reason to take a journey north. All he needed was a space in his diary, a willing companion, and the nerve to ask her.
Already this windowless room felt safe and subdued, warm and cocooning. But she did feel a tad envious that he fell asleep every night without closing curtains. The freedom of being so high up made it near impossible for another's eye to intrude (lest there be some dude at a window with some mega-ranged binoculars!). And the sound of city life wasn't intrusive - it just fell before you on mute here. She'd loved to live the sensation of what late-night London must feel like from his bed.....
* SLEEPOVER: PART TWO *
While helping him put the dried tureen and flatware away, he quite out of the blue asked if she would like to accompany him on a dinner invite this Sunday. Since Magrette's departure, his old friend and workmate, Brian and his wife, had him over every last Sunday of the month, and he hadn't been since Saskia appeared on the scene - which left him feeling rather bad. They had been there for him in times of absolute anguish, and that invite still invoked ten years down the line. How she would feel about being in others' company, he wasn't sure but he felt ready to be showing her off now that the story of her unexpected existence was gradually being fed to those around him. As much as he was loving her company, he didn't want be forever shutting her away in a box. He was proud enough letting Joe Public know she was his beautiful daughter on their outings, but felt it was time to include her into her circle of friends as long as she didn't find that too intimidating.
'We don't have to if you feel it's too soon,' Neil quite genuinely said, 'I'd understand.'
There was a pregnant pause before Saskia spoke, 'Tell you what ... how about we compromise?'
Neil felt a sudden urge to brace himself . 'Like ... what?' he asked warily.
'How about you meet some of my friends, too?'
'Oh! When and how?' He felt a bit anxious of what was about to be proposed - he could clearly see uncertainty in her wide eyes.
'I've been invited to a gig next weekend, it's a friend's band that's playing. We're not in touch as much these days, but we make the effort for the odd meet up. How about you come along, say hello to them?'
'Aw, kiddo, don't you think I'm bit too antiquated for that kind of thing?'
'No! Some of their parents will be there, too, they always are, besides, I'm dying to show my recently-discovered, mega-rich father off!'
'Really?' Neil scoffed - she was nothing if not blunt.
'Ah, c'mon? You don't have to stay long ... fair's fair?'
He threw the towel from over his shoulder down. 'I'll think about it and that's as far as it's going for now! Right ... last coffee before bed? I'm getting tired ... you still staying up?'
'Nah - I'm pooped, too. Put extra cream in mine?' she said, and headed for the toilet.
He watched her as she moseyed off barefoot dressed only in an oversized fluffy jumper whose sleeve was often trailed under her nose. 'Looks like I'm making your latte, then!' he said out of earshot. 'Gig? Ah, fuck...'
As unappealing as it sounded to him right now, he knew she would more than likely get her way. As daunting as her existence could be, he was forever finding bolts of whatever firing up from somewhere - even at her crazy suggestions - and guessed this must be that fathers and daughters intergrading thing. And maybe this gig wouldn't sound so ridiculous by the morning.
end of **SLEEPOVER**
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