clue, Mr Fraser. I just feel it’s time for me to make a change in my life. I’ve decided to throw the cards up and see where they land. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Do you have a father, Jim?’
This was a surprise. ‘Eh, yes. I do indeed.’
‘And what would he be feeling about this idea of yours?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t talked to him about it yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Eh.’ What to do? I didn’t want to lie to Mr Fraser; hell, I didn’t want to lie to anyone anymore, that was kind of the whole point.
‘Have you a mother still with you?’
Oh for fuck’s sake , make it harder, why don’t you. ‘Yes Mr Fraser, I have a mother.’
‘So what would her thoughts be about all this?’
This was getting far too heavy for my liking. ‘Again, I haven’t spoken to her about it, sir.’
‘And yet you’re speaking to me?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Why?’
Because you’re the father of the only woman I’ve ever loved, I wanted to say. Because you managed to create a person as stunning as Paula, I wanted to shout. Because you figured out a way to raise a child who wasn’t a fucking disaster area, I wanted to scream.
I sighed. ‘I’m not really sure, sir.’
‘Would it be because you don’t know me well and can’t picture me in your head?’ I could picture him all right. You never forget an ex’s protective father, or his dog.
‘I suppose so.’ I looked at my monitor. Simon Fraser’s details were up in a window at the bottom right of the screen. Address, phone number, energy usage, it was all there. Next to ‘employment status’ it said ‘retired’. Next to ‘occupation’ it said ‘psychologist’. ‘Are you psychoanalysing me, Mr Fraser?’
‘Sorry, it’s a difficult habit to lose. Was I that obvious?’
‘Just a bit. What’s your diagnosis?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Might as well,’ I said.
‘Jim Cooper, you are by far the biggest wanker I’ve ever met.’
We all need a theme for our lives, but this was a bit much.
‘Is that the sort of thing a psychologist is supposed to say?’
‘I’m retired and you’re not paying me, I can say whatever the feck I like.’
Fair enough , I thought. I noticed Terry eyeing me suspiciously from across our desk. He had a what the fuck are you doing? look on his face. This was identical to the why did you puke on me? face he’d used yesterday. It was all about context with Terry.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy getting a pint sometime, Mr Fraser?’ I said.
***
I wasn’t sure of the appropriate etiquette when meeting your ex-girlfriend's father, who was also a psychologist who thought he was coming to offer you advice on your parental issues but from whom you secretly wanted to extract as much information as possible about his daughter’s happiness or hopefully lack thereof, for a pint.
I chose Monday evening, seven-thirty in Stube, a modern, smallish pub in Shawlands , which specialised in German beers (I’m fairly certain the German thing was subconscious). I also chose denims and a grey v-neck T-shirt. I’m not certain I chose for Terry to come along, but he was there anyway.
‘Is that him?’ Terry said, excited.
I looked round towards the door as a guy of no more than forty-five, wearing a biker jacket and a look on his face that said he had gone up against the hardest life had to offer and lost, came in and ordered a banana daiquiri. ‘No, fuckwit. That’s not him.’
I’d been surprised when Mr Fraser accepted my offer of a drink (almost as surprised as I’d been that I’d asked him). The only explanation I could come up with was that he missed his job and felt a need to screw with someone’s brain again. That was okay with me because, despite what he thought, it was me who was going to be searching for info, not him. I was prepared to bait the hook with a couple of childhood woes if need be, but the purpose of the evening was mine.
I didn’t actually have any particularly huge issues with my parents,
‘Do you have a father, Jim?’
This was a surprise. ‘Eh, yes. I do indeed.’
‘And what would he be feeling about this idea of yours?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t talked to him about it yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Eh.’ What to do? I didn’t want to lie to Mr Fraser; hell, I didn’t want to lie to anyone anymore, that was kind of the whole point.
‘Have you a mother still with you?’
Oh for fuck’s sake , make it harder, why don’t you. ‘Yes Mr Fraser, I have a mother.’
‘So what would her thoughts be about all this?’
This was getting far too heavy for my liking. ‘Again, I haven’t spoken to her about it, sir.’
‘And yet you’re speaking to me?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Why?’
Because you’re the father of the only woman I’ve ever loved, I wanted to say. Because you managed to create a person as stunning as Paula, I wanted to shout. Because you figured out a way to raise a child who wasn’t a fucking disaster area, I wanted to scream.
I sighed. ‘I’m not really sure, sir.’
‘Would it be because you don’t know me well and can’t picture me in your head?’ I could picture him all right. You never forget an ex’s protective father, or his dog.
‘I suppose so.’ I looked at my monitor. Simon Fraser’s details were up in a window at the bottom right of the screen. Address, phone number, energy usage, it was all there. Next to ‘employment status’ it said ‘retired’. Next to ‘occupation’ it said ‘psychologist’. ‘Are you psychoanalysing me, Mr Fraser?’
‘Sorry, it’s a difficult habit to lose. Was I that obvious?’
‘Just a bit. What’s your diagnosis?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Might as well,’ I said.
‘Jim Cooper, you are by far the biggest wanker I’ve ever met.’
We all need a theme for our lives, but this was a bit much.
‘Is that the sort of thing a psychologist is supposed to say?’
‘I’m retired and you’re not paying me, I can say whatever the feck I like.’
Fair enough , I thought. I noticed Terry eyeing me suspiciously from across our desk. He had a what the fuck are you doing? look on his face. This was identical to the why did you puke on me? face he’d used yesterday. It was all about context with Terry.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy getting a pint sometime, Mr Fraser?’ I said.
***
I wasn’t sure of the appropriate etiquette when meeting your ex-girlfriend's father, who was also a psychologist who thought he was coming to offer you advice on your parental issues but from whom you secretly wanted to extract as much information as possible about his daughter’s happiness or hopefully lack thereof, for a pint.
I chose Monday evening, seven-thirty in Stube, a modern, smallish pub in Shawlands , which specialised in German beers (I’m fairly certain the German thing was subconscious). I also chose denims and a grey v-neck T-shirt. I’m not certain I chose for Terry to come along, but he was there anyway.
‘Is that him?’ Terry said, excited.
I looked round towards the door as a guy of no more than forty-five, wearing a biker jacket and a look on his face that said he had gone up against the hardest life had to offer and lost, came in and ordered a banana daiquiri. ‘No, fuckwit. That’s not him.’
I’d been surprised when Mr Fraser accepted my offer of a drink (almost as surprised as I’d been that I’d asked him). The only explanation I could come up with was that he missed his job and felt a need to screw with someone’s brain again. That was okay with me because, despite what he thought, it was me who was going to be searching for info, not him. I was prepared to bait the hook with a couple of childhood woes if need be, but the purpose of the evening was mine.
I didn’t actually have any particularly huge issues with my parents,
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