The Second Life of Nathan Jones: A laugh out loud, OMG! romcom that you won’t be able to put down!. David AtkinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
perhaps one day we could all be a family, wouldn’t that be something? So, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Dad.’
Millie picked up her iPad and left the room. Nathan frowned. She seemed to have left in a lighter mood. He couldn’t be sure if she’d been genuinely reassured by his words or by the fact that she’d unburdened her secret. Maybe a combination of both.
He got a large glass from the cupboard and poured himself some wine. He needed to think. He had about half an hour before everyone needed to be in their pyjamas and ready for bed. He’d been genuinely shocked by Millie’s revelation, but it at least explained the newly dyed hair, clothes and perfume, plus Laura had changed in another way that he couldn’t initially put his finger on; she seemed to walk taller, with more of a spring in her step … Then it dawned on him: she was happy.
That depressed him, but the fact some other man wanted to form a family with his wife and kids disturbed him the most. Millie might have picked it up wrong, of course – it seemed unlikely that another man would be so ready to take on another woman’s children quite so quickly. He couldn’t imagine doing that, but then he didn’t know anything about what had gone on. Perhaps Laura had laid down an ultimatum: love me, love my girls. He wouldn’t put it past her.
Nathan knew somewhere deep down that one day Laura would meet someone else. In fact he reckoned it had been part of her plan in moving to London. It was always easier to jump if someone was waiting to catch you. He just hadn’t expected her to jump so soon.
Going home always brought about mixed emotions. I loved my parents and I enjoyed spending time with them partly because they were more bonkers than me and, in a perverse way, that made me feel better. However, this was inevitably tempered with some apprehension of discovering what new shenanigans they might be involved in.
Arriving to see them on the Saturday morning, I parked outside the semi-detached stone villa that had been my home growing up and remained so in many ways. My room still contained my old bed and the wardrobe still held a selection of my clothes that I hadn’t felt the need to take with me. The chest of drawers in the corner was full of old black scarves and jumpers. Officially the room had been designated as a ‘guest’ room but the last guest to sleep in it had been me, four months ago, on Christmas Day. My parents didn’t do ‘guests’ well. The bedroom door still had my name on it, ‘Kat’ shaped from the silhouette of a bat with blood dripping from its wing tips. I still liked that and might take it with me one day.
I used my key to open the door and found my mum standing on a pair of steps just inside cleaning the coving with a bottle of Dettox and kitchen roll.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Oh, Kat, I didn’t know you were coming over today. You usually phone.’
‘Thought I’d surprise you.’
My mum didn’t like surprises. I once booked a weekend away to London for her and my dad for their wedding anniversary with tickets to see Cats. With her control issues she’d spent most of the time in the capital on TripAdvisor, investigating what the highest-rated weekend wedding anniversary trips were. At that time, it had been a spa break in Bath. She phoned me and asked, ‘Why didn’t you do some research and book us on a spa weekend in Bath?’
‘Err, because they don’t have Cats playing in Bath at the moment.’
‘Ahh, so it’s a musical theatre break you’ve organised for us.’ The fact I’d handed her the show tickets in an envelope along with the hotel booking should have given that away really. She’d hung up but then phoned me back fifteen minutes later whilst they were on their way to the theatre to see the show.
‘Kat.’
‘Mum.’
‘If you’d done your research you’d have discovered that The Lion King is the most popular show on in London now, so next time—’
I hung up on her.
That happened to be the first and last surprise break I ever organised for them.
Back in the hall my mum got down from her steps and moved them along three feet to get at the next bit of offending ornate plasterwork. ‘You’d better tell your dad you’re here.’
‘Where is he?’
‘It’s Saturday morning and it’s sunny; where do you think he is?’
‘In a shed?’
‘Where else? Number two, I think.’
I plonked my jacket onto the back of a kitchen chair and went out of the French doors. Our back garden stretched back almost ninety feet with a load of trees and shrubs clustered at the far end. Grass and sheds took up most of the space, though using the word ‘sheds’ to describe my father’s pride and joys did them a huge disservice.
Number one had a flat slated roof, large double-glazed windows and a seven-point locking door with toughened safety glass making it very difficult to break into or, as we discovered, out of. I suppose I’d describe it as a glam-shed. Inside, mounted on the wall was an HDTV, two comfy couches and, in the corner, a desk with a PC and internet connection. It also had independent LPG heating. Shed number one doubled as my dad’s escape from reality. He’d sit in there for hours in the summer watching the test match or peering at the PC screen, researching stuff for his work or talking to fellow shed enthusiasts. Shed number one had also been the site of his run-in with authority when he’d locked the local MSP, Moira Cleethorpes, inside for not agreeing to challenge the local planning authority who’d refused him permission to build an extension onto the back of our house.
Moira had used her mobile to call the police, who had arrived and duly cautioned my father for false imprisonment despite his argument she’d had the third day of the England versus South Africa test match on HDTV to watch and a jug of homemade lemonade to keep her cool.
I approached shed number two from the ‘blind side’ (the side with no windows) and noticed a pile of fixtures and fittings on the grass. Shed number two had recently been decked out to resemble an artist’s studio with two easels, selections of paint, acrylics, charcoal and canvases. The fact neither of my parents had any kind of artistic ability or interest whatsoever hadn’t seemed to cross his mind when he’d been planning it. Now that idea had obviously been changed and a new project had started.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Kat.’ My dad jumped, startled. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today. Does your mum know you’re here?’
‘Yeah, she’s cleaning the cornicing.’
He nodded. ‘Still? She started that yesterday. Keeps her busy, I suppose.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m cleaning out space for my new project.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘Llamas.’
‘Llamas?’
‘Llamas – they make excellent pets.’
‘I’m not sure they do and why do you want a pet? No disrespect, Dad, but you and Mum have a hard enough time looking after yourselves.’
‘They make very good guard animals, especially against small predators.’
‘Dad, this is Glasgow; the only small predators around here usually hail from a sink estate, are malnourished, have substance-abuse issues, a bad attitude and a Stanley knife in their pocket, oh, and maybe a pit bull in tow.’
‘Llamas don’t like dogs.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t like dogs either.’
‘I’m