‘I have indeed. You know the drill.’
‘Who is it?’ Dad’s voice finally crackled over the intercom. Cookie was barking in the background; I’d purposely worn light-coloured trousers – one meet-cute with a beagle was all it took to be on fur patrol. That dog was a shedder.
‘Dad, we just texted to tell you we were on our way.’ I smirked at Joe. ‘Let us in, I’d rather not get mugged for my baked goods.’
‘Cake?’ The front door opened. ‘Why didn’t you lead with that? Come on in.’
It took precisely five seconds for Dad to snatch the Tupperware out of my hands. He was always happier to see a box from Mum than he was to see either of us. He lifted the lid, beaming at the sight of the perfectly glazed loaf. His favourite. I’d spent eleven of his birthdays in the living room, all four of us crowded around a lemon sponge. She’d never missed a birthday since – aside from the first year mid-divorce – even if she wasn’t there to help him blow out the candles.
‘How are you both doing?’ He squeezed me carefully in order to protect the box, and then did the same for my brother, the hug lasting a solid ten seconds before he led us through the front door of his ground-floor flat.
When Dad had moved out, I’d been prepared for the cliché of an extremely depressing, prison-looking abode. And for the first six months or so, it had lived up to expectations (I’d very pointedly given him a warm lamp for Christmas, a not-so-gentle nudge towards the land of the living, rather than just surviving). A year post-divorce he’d started painting the walls and changing the previous owner’s curtains, and by year five he’d adopted Cookie. The real turning point had been sobriety. Dad might never have recovered romantically, but we were getting there with everything else.
‘Not bad, Dad, not bad,’ I said, clocking the huge Hello Fresh box on his kitchen table. Every single time we’d visited for dinner, we’d either ordered pizza or been served beans on toast.
‘I know, I know. Long time coming.’ Dad patted the box. ‘First up is a lentil masala. I don’t think I’ve ever touched a lentil in my life.’
I could feel Joe’s eyes on me.
‘How’s the app going, love?’ He passed me a Diet Coke.
‘Good. We’re getting a steady number of downloads, no horrendous reviews yet.’
He offered a can to Joe. ‘I was actually a bit tempted to download it myself.’
I almost spat out my drink but managed to save it, eyes watering as it went down the wrong way. ‘You want to date? Online?’
This was major news.
‘Don’t be silly, I’m a bit old for that.’ Dad rubbed his hand over his – now practically bald – head, blushing. ‘Just to see what it’s all about. Support you.’
My eyes almost watered again, nothing to do with the Coke. Joe got there first.
‘I’ve never seen you volunteering yourself for stitches, Dad. I’m quite frankly hurt.’
‘Very funny. I get a bit bored sometimes after work, in this flat all night. Older people can’ – he searched for the right word – ‘use it, can’t they?’
It had never factored into the marketing plan for Level, but it was designed for anyone who didn’t want to waste time. Maybe we needed to make it clearer that all ages could find love on Level. I made a mental note to discuss with Harriet tomorrow.
‘And is it easy to use?’ Dad had pulled his phone out now. It did not escape my notice that the app had already been downloaded. I watched our little green icon appear on my father’s screen.
‘What prompted this, then?’ The unspoken question here was ‘why is now the right time to finally start moving on?’
We’d spent the best part of our adolescent and now adult lives despairing that Dad was pining after Mum to no avail. Now that he was finally expressing an interest in finding someone else, it felt a bit alien.
‘Like I said, it gets quiet round here. It can be slightly isolating at times, and that seems a stupid thing to feel when my own daughter has created an app just for that.’
I felt a bit touched, even if I did have to resist the urge to intercept and say that actually, people didn’t need to date to feel less lonely. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about being responsible for my Dad getting back on the horse.
‘You getting engaged, Joseph,’ Dad said, finally looking up from his screen, ‘made me realise that life is too short to live in the past. I don’t want to be the man that everyone feels sorry for.’
‘We don’t –’
He shot me a look. ‘I might be getting older but I’m definitely not getting thicker. I know your Mum and I reacted differently to the divorce. She didn’t look back –’
Joe tried to intercept but Dad shushed him.
‘You don’t have to sugar-coat it, son. I know that your mother dealt with it better and I’ve been the sad ex-husband. Well, until now.’ He squinted at the screen, which was asking him to set up his profile. ‘What is this? Penny, I don’t think I’ve taken five photos of myself in my entire fifty-three years combined.’
Joe was staring at him like he’d sprouted antennae. I intervened before we caused offence. ‘It’s okay, I got one of us three at the engagement party. I’ll send it to you. So that’s one out of five.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll do this later. No rush when you’ve been on your own for fifteen years, is there?’
I tried to imagine Dad using Level. The replies we usually got from him started and ended with a thumbs up and an ‘OK’, so I couldn’t imagine his chat being particularly enthralling. He’d found Mum in a time before apps. They’d met in a bar when they were students, after Dad had accidentally thrown a dart in the direction of the table where Mum and her best friend were sitting. Apparently, he’d charmed her, but that was hard to imagine now. Maybe he’d just lost his game.
The conversation had moved on, Joe telling Dad about the short time frame for the wedding and arranging a time for them to go with Rory – who had accepted his role as best man with much enthusiasm, and the promise of an excellent last-minute stag do – to be fitted for their suits.
***
As soon as we got outside, we both started talking over each other. I conceded and let Joe go first.
‘I would rather treat one hundred gobby patients on my ward than have to field questions once he starts using that app.’ When I laughed, he stopped in his tracks. ‘I’m not kidding. The app is your brainchild, your problem.’
‘Well, that’s not very in the spirit of supporting our father as he takes his first steps towards moving on, now, is it?’
We started walking, aware that in a couple of minutes we’d go in different directions – him to the hospital for his night shift, and me back to the overground.
Joe shot me a look. ‘Like I said, your app, your problem.’
