The Love of Her Life. Harriet Evans

       CHAPTER FIVE

      Daniel Miller had not been an ideal father to a teenage girl, in many ways. After Venetia left, his professional decline had been rapid: in 1990 The Times had said that his interpretation of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto was probably the best ever – yes, ever – yet by the time Kate was taking her A-Levels, four years later, he hadn’t had a proper solo recital for months. The gigs were starting to dry up, as Daniel was late for rehearsals, argued with conductors, cried in his dressing room, got drunk at lunchtimes and sometimes didn’t turn up at all. When he’d had a reputation as being one of the best, if not the best, he had been – for a musician, admittedly – modest about it. Now it was on the slide, he had turned into a prima donna, sulking in the house in Kentish Town, skulking angrily, smoking furiously, talking, always talking to friends, on the phone, around the kitchen table.

      It wasn’t as if Venetia had been the world’s most regimented mother, either; but when she’d been around there had, at least, been some semblance of order, some idea that there might be food in the fridge or water in the boiler; now, Kate and Daniel simply got used to muddling through. Dinner times were sporadic, usually set by Kate; school parents’ evenings went unattended. Daniel never knew where he was going to be on any given day, or indeed where his daughter was: it was luck on his part that his only child was a shy girl, more likely to be in her room reading Jean Plaidy than out in London somewhere, raising Cain. Sometimes Kate would come home and find him talking to the postman, eagerly, angrily, about budget cuts, about society today. (The postman read Socialist Worker and was also angry about a lot of things.) Daniel remembered Kate’s birthdays, but only after he’d been reminded by others. But he forgot to ask about most other things: when her university interviews were, when she started her exams, how she might be feeling about everything.

      In other ways though, for Kate, her father was the perfect father. Kate was tall and ungainly from her teens onwards, with long spindly legs that rarely did what she told them. She was thin, flat-chested; like a stick drawing. Later, of course, she would come to see that being tall and sticky wasn’t so bad; in fact lots of other girls wished they were like that. But being tall and sticky, with an always-too-long fringe, and short nails, bitten and chewed cuticles, and no social skills whatsoever, it was a long time before she could see it. She was not particularly sure of herself, much as she longed to be, much as she desperately wished she was like her charismatic father or her mesmerizing, much-missed mother, or the confident, smiling girls at school who hung around at the Tube station. She would gaze at them shyly from under her fringe as she passed them, going down the stairs to the platform, going back to her dad, to an evening of homework, of music, of conversation around the kitchen table with Russian composers, Italian singers, obtuse German conductors … and Daniel, directing the evening, shoving his floppy blond hair back with his hand when he got excited, as young Kate collected up the plates, dumped them in the sink, drinking the dregs of the wine quietly behind their backs, alternately fascinated and bored by their conversation, as only the wistful outsider can be.

      She wished she could be one of them. Not necessarily the band gathered around her father, but the band of girls outside the Tube station, gossiping about ‘EastEnders’, about who Jon Walker liked best, about whether Angie really got fingered by Paul at Christa’s party on Saturday and did her dad know because he was really strict? Whether Doc Martens were just totally over or who was going to see Wet Wet Wet at Wembley? But she knew she never would be.

      Kate thought about this, how much things had changed, as she came out of the Tube station and walked towards her father’s new house. New – well, not any more, she supposed. It was a long time since the days of the house in Kentish Town. And it was years now since Daniel Miller had found himself not only a new wife, but a new career, as a recording artist doing covers of ABBA and Barber’s ‘Adagio for Strings’, posing artfully with a loaned Strad (for the photoshoot only) in black and white, standing on a clifftop. He’d even been nominated for a Classic FM Award (and whether he had been outraged not to win or secretly relieved, Kate couldn’t be sure). Just before his health had declined a few months ago he had emailed Kate to announce that his next project was a cover album of Barry Manilow’s greatest hits.

      She was proud of him – she was his daughter, how could she not be, having seen him at his lowest, and how he’d built himself up again? But Daniel Miller’s change of career had been greeted with absolute outrage in the more traditional musical world – an open letter to him in the Telegraph signed by the six biggest music critics, pleading with him to pull his album of Abba covers, offers of ‘proper’ work, third desk in the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra, publicized far and wide, making Daniel a scapegoat, almost, for what the more puritanical elements of the classical music world saw as the selling out of genuine talent for big bucks. Daniel had stuck to his guns, though, and his bank manager thanked him for it, and the Hello! interviews started, as did the chats on the GMTV sofa orchestrated by Lisa, who was herself in PR. For Lisa was behind it all, it was Lisa whom Kate had to – reluctantly – credit with turning her father’s life around, even if Kate didn’t love her the way she felt she should …

      Now Daniel and his new wife and daughter lived in Notting Hill, in a cream townhouse off Ladbroke Grove, with a huge, clean, neutrally coloured basement kitchen (not a chaotic, eclectic basement kitchen) leading through to a perfectly manicured garden, artfully designed, with an enormous communal garden at the back of it. A distressed chandelier hung in the hallway; aluminium window boxes with ferns adorned the window sills; the 4x4 stood outside. In its careful independence it was virtually indistinguishable from the other houses on its exclusive little road. Yes, times had changed for Daniel Miller: until now, for the better, as he had frequently told his eldest daughter, almost daring her to challenge him on it.

      As Kate rang the doorbell of her father’s house, just after six o’clock that Sunday evening, she was shaking somewhat, though she tried to hide it. In her hands were some more daffodils – she wasn’t sure what to bring her father, not knowing what he would or wouldn’t be able to eat. And she couldn’t remember him, couldn’t remember what colours he liked, what present might cheer him up, what books he liked reading, these days, who was out of favour with him, who was in – though, conversely, she now knew all of those things about her mother.

      The door was suddenly flung open. There, like an action heroine and her matching miniature doll, were Lisa, her stepmother, and Dani, her little sister, as if they’d been standing there, simply waiting for her to come along.

      Lisa was standing with her hands on her hips, her tiny frame encased in an expensive brown velour tracksuit, chocolate Uggs on her feet, car keys jingling in her hand. Kate goggled at her rather stupidly, not knowing what to say. She stared at Lisa’s beautiful, unlined face, her skin moist and tanned, perfectly buffed and cleansed and possibly peeled by a team of high-tech beauticians, and just said, blankly,

      ‘Lisa!’

      ‘Kate, hi,’ said Lisa. Her expression was neutral. She pushed Danielle forward. ‘Dani, it’s your sister. Kate. Say hi.’

      ‘Hi-yerr,’ Dani spoke loudly.

      ‘Hi, Dani,’ Kate said and, bending down, kissed her.

      ‘Hey there! Hi!’ Dani said, showing her tiny teeth.

      ‘Why’ve you got an American accent?’ Kate said, peering at her half-sister as if she were an alien. Dani stared back at her, impassively, her curly blonde bunches bobbing slightly as she sucked her thumb.

      ‘Kate, she hasn’t got an American accent,’ said Lisa. She gave a tight smile. ‘Dani, we’re going to get you ready for bed in a minute, OK? Then you can come back and talk to Kate.’ She turned back to her stepdaughter. ‘Look, it’s lovely to see you.’

      ‘Oh, and you,’ said Kate. She held out the daffodils, and Lisa reached out for them. ‘Um, these are