Destination Chile. Katy Colins

this was a stupid idea? Maybe I should have let this meeting happen organically, without me forcing it. What if he hated me? What if he was as snooty as Alex’s parents had been? Why was Ben getting so stressed? I too felt like beads of sweat were showing on my forehead.

      ‘We can turn back if you like?’ I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. The cabbie was oblivious to this new tension in the back of his black cab and was having an animated conversation with someone about last night’s footy match via a Bluetooth headset.

      Ben shook his head and gripped my knee, giving it a tight squeeze. ‘No. We should just get this over with.’ God, why was he making it sound so bloody torturous? He seemed as clenched with anxiety as if heading to get his first smear test.

      ‘Oh. Okay,’ I mumbled.

      He finally turned to face me. ‘Georgia, it might be better if you manage your expectations – my dad isn’t really like your family. Or like me to be honest. He…he…’ Ben trailed off and was cut short from finishing his sentence when the cab pulled up to a stop.

      ‘Belvedere Crescent,’ the driver said, clicking the meter off. This spurred Ben into action as he rummaged in his pocket to pay and then got out, letting in a cold whoosh of winter air that jolted me like a slap in the face.

      We were in a large cul-de-sac of a council estate. Three teens wearing hoodies and walking like Liam Gallagher after a lengthy horse-riding session sloped past us as the taxi driver made a speedy exit. One sucked his teeth, looking me up and down, a slow leery smirk breaking out on his pale, acne-marked cheeks. I felt exposed, despite wearing so many layers, and pulled my coat even tighter. It was the damn high-heeled shoes. It had to be.

      ‘Come on, let’s do this.’ Ben glared at the lads and took my hand, leading me up a litter-strewn path to a large set of doors outside one of the identical blocks of flats. One of the windows had been kicked through and replaced with a scratty piece of plywood on which someone had artistically daubed an angry-looking cock. Wiry pubes and all.

      ‘Home, sweet home,’ he sighed, thankfully not catching the shocked look on my face that I knew I was doing a crap job of hiding.

      Oh, this was going to be interesting.

      Ben took a deep breath and pressed some numbers into the sticky keypad by the graffiti-scrawled front door, clenching his jaw as an irritating ringer buzzed.

      ‘Yeah?’ a man’s drowsy voice croaked through the intercom.

      ‘Hey, Dad? It’s me. Ben. I was in London for a meeting and wondered if you were free for a cuppa. I’ve…I’ve got someone here I want you to meet.’ I noticed a deep red flush climb up his neck that he rubbed self-consciously.

      The line went silent apart from an angry, white-noise type of buzzing. I suddenly wished we’d called ahead and not doorstepped him like this.

      ‘Ben?’ There was a millisecond pause. ‘Right, well… er…yeah, come up.’ The door buzzed and we made our way into the junk-mail-strewn foyer. The lift was out of service so we took the stairs. I held my breath at the stench of stale urine and pulled my sleeves over my hands so as not to touch the grimy banister. Neither of us spoke. Any attempt at forming a sentence had vanished in shock at the state of this place. This was where Ben had grown up? I was literally speechless.

      ‘Here we are,’ Ben said, after two flights of stairs and my heels twice skidding on dubious stains. The front door to his dad’s flat was ajar so Ben nudged it open with his foot.

      ‘Hello?’ he called out, not looking at me.

      My eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom, even though it was a surprisingly bright winter’s day outside. Smells of greasy food, fags and stale beer drifted past us, making my stomach turn.

      ‘Dad?’ Ben called out again. His voice sounded distorted and echoed off the bare walls.

      ‘In here, son, mind how you walk. I wasn’t… I wasn’t really expecting visitors.’

      We followed where the flustered-sounding voice was coming from and walked down the dim, narrow corridor to the closed door ahead. As Ben turned the handle I felt my stomach knot with a sense of anxiety at what was on the other side. With a heavy shove the door burst open and inside the equally dark room was the kitchen-slash-lounge. In the centre, looking as if he’d just heaved himself up from the sagging sofa, was his dad, dressed in a tatty dressing gown and little else. He had brown hair, a lighter and dustier colour than Ben’s, which had tufted into strange peaks, and a lit cigarette dangling from his wrinkled lips. He was nothing like the father figure I’d imagined. I hoped my intake of breath was muffled by the blaring noise coming from the television.

      ‘All right, son! I was just about to start cleaning.’ His dad quickly took the three strides to the tiny kitchen and began hastily chucking empty cartons and glass bottles into an already overflowing bin. The washing up hadn’t been done for a very long time. Congealed sauce marked chipped dinner plates that were piled haphazardly next to a couple of takeaway boxes near the greasy tiles.

      ‘Hey, Dad.’ Ben’s voice was flat and I could tell he knew it. I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted his father to still be a figment in my imagination. What is it they say about men turning into their fathers? The thought seemed as alien as Katie Price becoming Prime Minister.