Dad owns the coolest pub in Bristol. It's called Robbie's Inn, but I should clarify that his name isn't Robbie: it's Dom — birth name Domenico. That's what we call him when we want to piss him off. Although, something about his red face and jaw-so-terse-that-it-could-snap tells me he's sufficiently pissed off already.

"Evangeline, who's this? D'you wanna tell me what exactly is going on?"

He's reining himself in well enough, but I can tell that he's one misspoken word away from a hissy fit and heart attack. He's clenched his fists while he awaits my explanation, and I'd bet my life that he's ready to throw them Eric's way if I don't choose my words carefully.

Okay. Okay, breathe, Evangeline. This isn't as bad as it looks. It's just... a 'Meet the Parents' much, much earlier than I expected.

Judging by Eric's frozen frame and wide eyes, it's much earlier than he expected, too. We've only just started talking properly again, and after whatever happened on the balcony yesterday, he's not ready for this. Frankly, neither am I.

"Dad, this is Eric, he's, um..."

Come on, Evangeline. Think, and think fast.

"He's Babe's cousin! Mum told you I was going to basketball camp with Babe, didn't she? In Edinburgh?"

Technically, Mum should have, but I know for a fact she didn't – divorce made her spiteful of him in that way. Dad prides himself on being an omniscient being of some sort, and if there's one thing Dad hates more than a perceived threat to his daughters, it's not being in the know.

"Yes, obviously," he huffs. His fists are loosening — this is my chance.

"Well, um, Eric came to pick us up. Babe and I were supposed to come back today to surprise Mum and Lisa and Bea by coming back a week early, but Babe met this girl and wanted to stay 'til next week. Her name's Gillian," I blurt, "or Jessica, I think. To be fair, it could be both. You know Babe and her girls, heh. Anyway, um, Eric said he'd still drive me home, so we're, um, driving home. To London."

At first, I'm sure I've given myself away with all the jabbering – I babble when I'm nervous. He'd know that if he knew me; Mum would have called me out in seconds. But he doesn't.

I look over at Eric trying my hand at telepathic communication with a smile that's too big, and eyes too wide, and he panics for a moment but swiftly gets the message.

"Pleasure," he greets once he's stirred back to life, sticking a hand out for Dad to shake. I watch Dad grip his hand cautiously and shake it with firm suspicion, and think about how differently I pictured this moment in my head.

It's a stand-off. Dad's giving Eric his most inscrutable glare, and Eric's doing his best to put on an 'I'm Babe's cousin and not your daughter's boyfriend/TA' look. Whatever that looks like. Currently, it looks like a slightly squirrelly smile. Still, I think Dad's buying it.

"I thought you were more into ballet than basketball."

I don't register his words right away – he's still staring Eric down and grasping his outstretched hand even though the shake is over.

"I haven't done ballet since I was about nine, Dad," I say, and my voice quivers slightly when I attempt a laugh.

Finally, he releases Eric's hand, which Eric immediately snaps behind his back.

"You've met her mother, then?" Dad asks him, nodding his head towards me.

"Uh, I have, yes."

Dad eyes him for a moment longer, taking him in from his floppy blonde hair to his linen shirt to his boat shoes. Knowing Dad, he's already judged him and written him off as a 'posh prick'.

"Hm," he concludes. "Upstairs guest room."

Eric and I share a wide-eyed look of confusion when Dad turns around and starts heading away.

What does he mean 'upstairs guest room'? Eric mouths, his brows scrunched in panic.

I don't know! I shake my head.

"Um, Dad," I say, finally opening the car door to get out, "where are you- what do you mean upstairs guest room? Where are you going?"

Once he's opened his car boot, Dad fishes out a little tow bar and waves it at us.

"No way you're driving back in this rain, Tangie. You'll catch a cold. You're both staying the night."

I hadn't even realised how heavy the rain was until I glanced down at myself. He's right – my hair is plastered to my chest, and my sweater is soaked right through.

When Dad starts to dig around the boot again, Eric glances at me with sheer terror in his eyes, mouthing silently another message.

Staying the night?

⏤⏤

Dad helps Eric with the spare before he leads us back to the pub (his flat's just above it) and it hasn't changed a bit. It's moderately busy tonight, buzzing with at least half of the bar staff and a good number of local students and patrons, so Dad lets Eric and I sit at a booth in the back room while he zips in and out. Beer-scented with a dark, warm interior and relatively classy pin-up posters on the wall, it's still as much of a man cave as I remember.

I guess that's what happens when a middle-aged family man drops everything one evening to go off and 'find himself'. Dad happened to 'find himself' taking over ownership of a bar hours away from his life with us. I'm not bitter about it. Not anymore, anyway. With Dad up here in the middle of nowhere, it's easy enough to compartmentalise. As long as I play the dutiful daughter dearest – yes please, Daddy! No thank you, Daddy. Of course I'm studying hard, Daddy! - he's happy.

"Hey Dad, what happened to, um, Gianna?" I ask when he pops in again. "Mum says you guys broke up?"

Gianna was phase two of his mid-life mess. She must have been about 24, 25 at best, and much to Mum's chagrin, she managed to get Dad in her talons, and convince him that her deep love for him had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was a financially comfortable ex-IT director looking for something, or someone, new to put his time, passion and, incidentally, money into.

Dad laughs and shakes his head, his thick, faint ginger brows shooting up in renewed bewilderment.

"Tange, that woman... if I'd stayed with her, she'd have had me bankrupt by 50."

Under the dark pub lights, Eric gives me a slyly amused raised eyebrow, and I do my best to hold back a laugh.

"How'd your mum find out about that, then?" Dad asks.

"Oh, you know. She just... heard it somewhere," I say, avoiding eye contact. 'We hate-stalked her obsessively on Instagram' doesn't feel like the right answer, even if it is the truth.

"Bet she was over the moon about it too," Dad mutters, fishing through a cabinet. He knows her so well — she was.

"Noo, she was, um... hey, are those Golden Oreos?" I ask in attempt to change the subject when I spot the bright yellow packaging in the cupboard Dad's rifling through.

Eric laughs aloud this time, and Dad laughs too, knowingly, taking a biscuit for himself before tilting the package to me,

"Not too many, poppet, you haven't had dinner yet."

I roll my eyes, pulling three out. "Yes, Dad."

I try not to giggle when Dad pretends not to see Eric waiting for a biscuit and puts the pack back in the cupboard before heading back out to the bar.

"Sorry", I laugh, giving him one of mine.

"I don't think he's my biggest fan," Eric says, licking the Oreo begrudgingly.

I laugh, and my eyes dart to the closed door before I cautiously reach my hand out to wipe the stray Oreo cream off of the side of his mouth. When I touch him, his eyes dart, too.

"Don't take it personally – he's not suspicious or anything, he's just being a dad. Or what he thinks a dad is like, i.e. suspicious of all members of the other gender. One day, you'll meet under very different circumstances, and if he doesn't kill you first, I'm sure you'll get on like a house on fire."

I grin as I tease, but Eric doesn't, and just as I'm about to ask if everything's okay, Dad comes bursting back in. Luckily, he's distracted, yelling away at the barman, and I've got just enough time to yank my hand back and shuffle an unsuspicious distance away. Eric's stifling a smirk when I look over again.

Ah, secrecy, hidden gazes and hasty touches. It's like we're home already.