the parent trap
CHAPTER TEN: domine dirige nos
Remus spends a great deal of time weighing the most British way to say hello. He’s going to have to repress throwing in a what’s all this then, guv’nor? the entire time.
⁂
It’s hard to believe that eight weeks have gone by, Roman reflects as he looks around their cabin.
All their battle plans have been disassembled, the pieces of it packed carefully away to avoid any prying parents who might cotton onto their plot too quickly. Their beds are stripped, their trunks are packed (the pair of them packing their own trunk and helping the other twin pick out an outfit for the plane and subsequent reunion with each parent) and the cabin looks just as empty as it did when they first arrived.
“Big day’s here,” Remus says, and Roman turns to look at him.
He looks only minorly uncomfortable in Roman’s tweed suit; Roman can’t blame him in this blasted heat. He has Roman’s case in hand, Roman’s earrings in his ears, and even though they’ve done this sort of thing before, it’s still rather jarring.
“All right,” Roman says, adjusting Remus’ bright lime duffle over his shoulder, pushing Remus’ sunglasses up onto his head, Roman in green checkered shorts, and a jean jacket over a green, barely-clean Camp Walden t-shirt; Remus assures him that this will track well with the adults. Roman can only imagine this is the case, considering Remus had never once voiced interest in seeking out laundry services during their entire roomateship.
“Tell me what the plan is when you get to London.”
“Arrive in Heathrow, where Uncle Logan will pick me up,” Remus says promptly. “Do the handshake, get in the car, be subtle, blame any weirdness on jet lag. You?”
“Arrive in San Francisco and switch planes for Napa County airport,” Roman recites.
“And chew your nails on the plane.”
“Ugh. And chew my nails on the plane. Papa will be there to pick me up and drive us back home. Maybe Virgil also, but most likely just Papa. Pa,” he corrects, enunciating it in Remus’ accent.
“Reunite with Pa.”
“Reunite with Dad,” Remus says quietly.
They are both quiet at the enormity of this.
“Okay,” Roman says, and looks to the last piece of the cabin they have to pack up. “Last things.”
“Last thing,” Remus repeats.
Roman picks up Paddington from what has become his usual spot next to Cuppy, briefly kissing Paddington’s fuzzy little forehead.
“Take care of him,” Roman says anxiously.
Remus squeezes Cuppy tightly to his chest before he extends Cuppy to Roman.
“You’re probably going to do a better job with him than I ever did anyway.”
Their childhood bears change hands; each boy turns to lay their bear carefully in their luggage. Well, Remus tries his best to settle it neatly, finding a spot nestled within one of Roman’s jumpers; Roman figures chucking it in where it fits tracks well with Remus’ personality, just barely doing enough to make sure that Cuppy isn’t pinched by re-zipping his bag.
“Okay,” Roman says, and he inhales, exhales. “Okay. When we walk out of those doors… I’m you.”
“I’m you,” Remus repeats.
In unison, each boy takes on the habits they’ve spent six weeks observing. Remus straightens his back while Roman slouches; Roman cocks a hip to the side and settles his sunglasses low on his nose while Remus does up his top button; Remus starts to stride out of the door while Roman swaggers.
From now on, I am Remus Parker.
And I’ve never even heard the name Roman James.
⁂
When Roman said this was a looong plane ride, he was not kidding.
He shuffles through his carryon to make sure it’s as organized as Roman would have it. He digs through his pockets for anything fun to play with—no luck, but he does find his notes that he’d smuggled away. He reviews those to stay up-to-date on the minutiae of the life he’s about to steal.
That takes him about an hour.
Only about twelve hours to go.
Remus groans to himself and thunks his forehead against the plastic food tray.
Sleeping eats up about eight hours; the in-flight movie takes up another two.
And, very suddenly, the plane tilts, and the pilot comes over the crackly intercom, and Remus seeing his uncle and Dad is very suddenly less a vague in the future and a much more solid just about now.
Remus’ hands go up to his mouth, and he just barely stops himself before he bites down with a vengeance, instead adjusting to sit on his hands. Roman doesn’t chew his nails; Roman taps his foot or bounces his leg or messes with his hair.
So Remus starts bouncing his leg, staring out of the window as the plane breaks through the clouds, swooping low over the gray skyscrapers and massive churches and winding roads of London.
My Dad is somewhere down there, Remus thinks, and he starts bouncing his leg faster.
⁂
Okay, so when he thought just about now, he’d handily forgot the business of departing the plane.
Which takes. For. Ev. Er.
If everyone would just hurry up and grab their bags from the overhead bin—
But it’s fine, because now Remus is speedwalking through the hallway that attaches to the plane—Roman would know the word for that, so Remus just resolves not to say it—and racing into the gate, then through customs, holding his case tightly, turning to look through the crowds…
No, that man with spectacles has entirely the wrong hair color—that one almost looks right, but he’s too short—a similar suit as to what’s in the photographs, but the wrong face entirely—
Remus clambers up onto a seat to stand on, looking through the crowds, straining his neck, until—
“Roman!”
Remus turns his head; bustling through the crowd, hair a similar shade of brown as his and Roman’s, yes—there he is.
Remus’ Uncle. So strange he’s got an uncle!
(Yes, technically their dad’s cousin, he knows.)
“Uncle Logan!” Remus blurts out, grinning, and Uncle Logan’s upon him quick; before he can even think about it, Remus leans forward and wraps his arms tightly around his Uncle Logan’s shoulders.
Before Remus can panic if that’s something Roman would do or not, Uncle Logan is already holding him, lifting him up, and depositing him back on the ground.
“I missed you!” Remus says loudly, over the rush of the crowd in the airport.
“I’ve missed—goodness, Roman, what have you done to your hair?”
“Dyed it!” Remus says, combing his hand through his hair the way he’s seen Roman do it. “There was a boy in my cabin who—oh, it doesn’t matter, anyway, do you like it?”
“It’s very modern, isn’t it?” Uncle Logan says, briefly smoothing a hand over Remus’ hair. “Is this your first step toward trying out… oh, what are they called. That boyband boy, he has them—?”
“Frosted tips?” Remus says, then, thoughtfully, “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe I will.”
“Well, regardless, it’s very fashion-forward of you,” Uncle Logan says, then he extends a hand.
Remus doesn’t gulp, even though he wants to: this is his first real test.
One shake—two—three—then Remus sticks out a hand, Logan puts his hand on top, the Remus’s then Logan’s again, down with their hands and up—they hit backs up of their hands, clap up middle down down down, snap to the hip—bump one hip, then hop for the other—grin to each other—then swap places, and shake hands once more.
Uncle Logan smiles at him. “Welcome back.”
Remus lets out a soft sigh of relief.
“Come along, then,” Uncle Logan says, gathering Roman’s case. “Let’s get you home.”
Remus beams up at him.
⁂
Oh, wow, this is swanky, Remus thinks, trying to be subtle about running his hands over the nice leather.
Uncle Logan and him are seated in the back of a chauffeur’s car, Uncle Logan occasionally switching from reading the society pages of the paper to asking Remus the occasional question about camp to watching as Remus stares out of the windows, trying not to be too obvious about gawking at all the landmarks that speed by.
Big Ben��the London bridge—Remus abandons all pretense and just starts leaning out of the open window at that point—Westminster Abbey—Buckingham palace—
“Eight weeks at camp and you’re acting like an American tourist,” Uncle Logan says, amused, folding down one corner of the newspaper.
“Camp makes you appreciate home more, I guess,” Remus says, distracted by some street performer holding still as a statue. “Oh, Uncle Logan, look at the guards with their funny little hats!”
“You’ve seen the guards a thousand times!” Uncle Logan says, the edge of a disbelieving laugh in his voice.
“But never with dyed hair,” Remus retorts, “and never after eight weeks away from home!”
Uncle Logan simply shakes his head and returns his attention to his paper, murmuring something about children.
They keep driving past great big museums and churches—a lot of other buildings Remus is sure are historically important for some reason—and they turn onto a quieter side street, lined with roses and hydrangeas, and Remus is suddenly very sure they’re coming up on Pembroke Lane.
Remus sits abruptly back in his chair, rolling his window up and combing his fingers quickly through his hair.
“How do I look?” Remus asks Uncle Logan.
“Only a little like you’ve just spent the past thirty minutes with your head out of the car window.”
Remus combs his fingers through his hair a little more aggressively as the car meanders through the lanes, and suddenly they’re pulling up to a door and they’re slowing down and—
And there’s a set of columns with the number 7 on them.
“Here we are,” the chauffeur says, putting the car in park, before he gets out and opens the door for Remus. “Home again.”
“Thank you,” Remus says breathlessly, staring up at the house.
There’s an open window, and curtains that move with the faint suggestion of someone behind them.
That could be my Dad.
And Remus is up the stairs and his hand is on the great golden knob before anyone else can open any doors for him.
Roman’s sketch, come to life in roaring color; the walls are painted a faint shade of orange, the stairs curving up the wall just like in Roman’s image. Remus takes a deep breath and sidesteps into the parlor, yes, that’s right, that’s what Grandfather calls it—
Only to see a banner hanging from the ceiling above the arch that leads into the less formal dining room.
WELCOME HOME ROMAN, it reads, with Roman in a glittery red script, streamers hanging down, and Remus can’t help but grin at it.
Roman probably would’ve loved that.
There’s a faint cough, and Remus jolts to attention—yes, there’s the doorway to the study with the leather chairs and the towering bookshelves, and Remus scampers toward the sound as quickly as he can.
Remus comes face to face with—
A newspaper.
Remus chews his lip, before he clears his throat.
“Grandfather?”
It comes out reedier and higher than expected, but the newspaper folds and suddenly there’s a man; white-haired and balding, bespectacled, besuited, be-tweeded, be-mustached, a pipe in his mouth, just like Roman said he might.
“Is that my little boy?” Grandfather exclaims in amazement, taking the pipe from his mouth and removing his glasses. “That tall, gangly thing?!”
“It’s me,” Remus manages, dropping Roman’s case to the floor as Grandfather stands, spreading his arms.
“Welcome home,” he says, and he embraces Remus. Remus wraps his arms around his Grandfather—his Grandfather!—and hugs him for all he’s worth.
“Did you have a good time, darling?”
“Uh-huh,” Remus mumbles, burying his face into his Grandfather’s chest, covered in tweed as it is. “Great time.”
“What on earth are you doing?” He says, amused.
“Just… smelling.”
“Smelling?” Grandfather chuckles. “Whatever for?”
“I’m making a memory,” Remus says. “Whenever I think of you, Grandfather, even if it’s when I’m all grown up, I’ll remember that you always smell of—” he takes a big whiff, “peppermints and pipe tobacco!”
“Be a dove and don’t tell your father I was smoking when you got back, hey? I’ve told him I’ve cut back,” Grandfather says, chucking his chin, and Remus thinks of Pa and misses him so intensely for a moment, just a moment, and—
“I never do.”
“Good lad.”
“Roman?”
A voice floats down the staircase, through the parlor and the study, a lovely voice like one on a radio or a nature documentary with a smooth accent just like Uncle Logan and Grandfather’s and Roman’s.
Remus jolts for the archway of the parlor, where he stares up at the face of the voice in question.
Remus’ entire body locks up for a moment.
He looks almost entirely like his photograph, except at this angle Remus can see the port-wine stain splashed across his cheek and he’s changed the way he styles his hair. His Dad is dressed in tailored palazzo pants, brown, high-waisted, and cinched at the waist with a crisp white shirt, with pretty gold-and-pearl dangly earrings and a matching bracelet.
He’s still so handsome; even outside of the elaborate suit he’d worn for his wedding all those years ago, he looks like a movie star.
And then Remus is running.
“Dad!”
“You’re back!” His Dad says, quickening his pace down the stairs, and Remus flings his arms around his shoulders, burying his face into the crook of his neck.
His father presses a kiss to his temple, and smooths a hand over his hair just like Roman said he would, and Remus inhales like he did with Grandfather too. Remus’ burgeoning vintner nose picks up freesia, sandalwood, sage; some fancy, expensive cologne to match with the rest of his glamorous appearance.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Remus says, and hopes beyond hope he isn’t snotting into his father’s fancy shirt. What a first impression that would be, even if his Dad doesn’t know he’s making one!
“And I can’t believe it’s you,” his Dad says, putting his hands on his shoulders and pulling back to look at his face. “And with dyed hair!”
“A boy I met at camp did it—do you like it? Do you hate it?” Remus says anxiously.
“I absolutely love it,” his Dad reassures him, smoothing a hand over it. “Very unique! Whichever friend of yours helped with this managed a good dye job for a boy your age! Oh, and a switch to silver, I see,” he adds, touching Remus’ earrings.
“Uh—yeah, I thought I’d try it.” Remus says. “Silver and diamond—old classics, right?”
“It’s all very chic,” his father says warmly, and Remus glows from the praise. His Dad thinks he’s chic! “Experimenting with your style is precisely what you should be doing at this age. I’m very proud of you, finding ways to express yourself like this.”
His Dad is proud of his self-expression!
“Any other surprises?” His Dad says, grinning. “I’m afraid I shall have to have a stern word with any of your camp counselors if you managed to sneak off and get a tattoo or something.”
Remus laughs, wiping a hand under his eye and shaking his head.
His dad cups his face and sweeps his fingers under his eyes.
“What is it, Rome?”
“I’m sorry,” Remus chokes out. “It’s just—I’ve missed you so much!”
“Oh, darling,” his Dad says, leaning in to hug him again. “It seems like it’s been forever.”
Remus snuffles, leaning harder into the embrace. “You have no idea.”
⁂
Roman, Janus thinks as he observes his son carefully splitting open a scone and smothering it with jelly, seems a bit… different.
He seems mostly recovered from his tearful little wobble on the stairs—at least, he’s been devouring the tea that Logan’s set up for them both.
(Logan, the neat freak, is unpacking Roman’s luggage to tuck it all away and start on laundry. Clutter seems to give him hives, always has, since they were children together and Logan would categorically refuse to leave any room without returning his books to the shelf and the toys to their proper places.)
Perhaps it’s just because he’s a few centimetres taller. Or he’s jet-lagged, or it’s the hair, or he’s recovering from eight weeks spent around a boisterous crowd of teenage boys.
There’s something. Janus just can’t quite put his finger on it yet.
“Should I get more?” Janus says, watching Roman carefully as he attempts to fit the scone into his mouth whole. “Would you rather a late lunch or an early dinner? I know plane meals aren’t necessarily the most appetizing…”
Roman shakes his head, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. Janus waits patiently as he chews, takes a small mouthful of tea, and swallows.
“It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper tea, s’all,” Roman says, before he picks up a sandwich.
“Well, I can certainly understand that,” Janus says, picking up a sandwich himself. “No one makes a cuppa quite like a James. I’ll have to thank Logan again.”
Roman nods eagerly in agreement, about to shove the sandwich into his mouth before he hesitates and takes a much more manageable bite.
Americans have eroded his table manners, Janus thinks but doesn’t say, taking a sip of his own tea.
“Tell me all about camp,” Janus says. “Have you made plenty of new friends?”
“Some,” Roman says, then, gesturing to the streak in his hair, “The guy in my cabin who helped me do this—Augustus, but everyone calls him Gus—I guess I got closest to him. He’s an American, he lives in California.”
Janus’ back stiffens. Ever so slightly. Not so much that Roman can tell.
“Have you ever been to California?”
Hm. Maybe he could.
“Once,” Janus says in a light, airy tone, setting down his sandwich. “A long time ago, before you were born.”
Roman accepts this without much commentary, instead changing the subject to how Camp Walden looks; Janus has heard some of this from Logan, but it’s nice to hear it in Roman’s own words.
And also to steer away from that particularly smiley, tall, infuriating, dishy subject—
Stop, Janus orders himself, and refocuses on Roman’s descriptions of the lake, watching the way his hands cut through the air as he describes it.
(It’s no use; Janus thinks of him at least once a day, (oh he’s lying to himself with that number) more so when Roman smiles in that way he does, that same dimple flashing out of his cheek.)
And then Janus’ landline rings.
Janus sighs in frustration, setting down his teacup. “I’m sorry, dear, would you mind—”
“No, go on, go on,” Roman says, getting up himself; Janus crosses the room, picking up the phone and placing it to his ear.
“Janus James speaking.”
He turns slightly to watch out of the corner of his eye as Roman meanders to his dresser. Roman lifts his cologne to his nose, sniffs it, and examines the label; he sets it down, and then lifts the lid of his jewelry box.
Little cad is probably trying to find some jewelry he can pretty-please borrow it for just thirty seconds Dad please, Janus thinks in amusement. He hopes he does; Janus thinks those imitation-emerald teardrops might suit him well, now that it seems like he’s taking steps outside of his red-and-gold signature colors...
An aggrieved sigh makes its way through the phone lines. “Hi, Janus, it’s Vendela.”
“Ah. Hello, Vendela,” Janus says, trying not to wince; if Vendela is calling, then it’s probably a fiasco. “How’s the photoshoot going?”
“No one can make a decision and everyone is five minutes away from nuclear war, from the sounds of it. I mean, really, we’ve had this look set for ages—”
“Precisely—we’ve had it set for ages, can’t you manage without me? Roman’s just gotten home from camp.”
“Oh, bring him, please, if that’ll get you here!” Vendela urges, then, in a whisper, “this photographer they’ve brought is a nightmare, honestly, and this director of photography barely knows lace from satin, so he’s no help at all—”
“Okay, hold on a moment.” Janus puts his phone to his shoulder. “Roman?”
Roman turns from where he’d been tracing the frame of one of Janus’ sketches, the first design that had really netted him any sort of main-stream attention.
“Would you mind terribly coming to the studio with me?”
A huge grin bursts out on Roman’s face. “I’d love it!”
⁂
And so they’re off through the streets of London again, Remus now admittedly a little loopy from the whole meeting his Uncle and Grandfather and Dad and that tea may have been a bit more caffeinated than he’s used to and also the jet lag—but Roman had said it would get worse if he went to sleep earlier than he usually went to bed according to local time, so up Remus will stay with absolutely no napping.
His Dad holds his hand when they walk along major streets, which, if it were anyone else, Remus would probably protest, but as it is, Remus is happily swinging their hands between them and is only vaguely aware that he’s probably jabbering Dad’s ear off.
“—and eventually I ended up winning a key to the kitchen in a poker game, so I could get into the kitchen at night like all the older boys at camp.”
“Yes, I remember you wrote me about that. Odd tradition, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Remus says in an enthusiastic tone he realizes is a bit off for Roman on this particular subject, but he hastily adds, “Dad, there are so many weird American foods!”
There. He’s righted the course. Roman had been very enthusiastic about the concept of American foods.
“I don’t doubt it,” Dad says, amused, then, craning his neck to look ahead, “ah, blasted traffic! They’ve started construction up there since you’ve been gone.”
Remus nods, pretending he knows anything about London roads.
“All right, hold on tightly, now, we’re taking an uncharted course.” Dad says, and Remus falls in quick step alongside his Dad as they skirt around cars come to a dead stop in this traffic, heading quickly for another sidewalk.
“What was your favorite?” Dad urges, squeezing his hand once they’ve gotten past all the cars. “Of all these weird American foods you tried.”
“Chili,” Remus blurts out, curses himself for saying his favorite food rather than Roman’s, and then realizes that Dad probably wouldn’t have asked if he already knew what Roman’s favorite American food is.
“Isn’t that some sort of stew? Odd choice for summer.”
“Nice on rainy days, though,” Remus says, craning his neck up to look at the cloudy, overcast skies above.
“Yes, I suppose a nice warm stew is rather nice on rainy days—and we’re back on course,” Dad says, adjusting the brown, buttery leather satchel slung over his shoulder with his free hand. “Just a bit longer now, Roman, I wasn’t expecting us to have to deal with a fashion emergency today…”
“S’allright,” Remus says contentedly, skipping over a crack in the sidewalk. “I like the studio. An official photoshoot sounds fun.”
“Well, I’m pleased one of us thinks so,” Dad says. “Tell you what—we’ll stop at that dreadful little chippy you like on the way back. I’ll phone Father and Logan for their orders, remind me to do that after the shoot, won’t you?”
“Deal!” Remus says happily. Roman had raved about fish and chips; Remus is excited to try for himself.
And soon—very soon—a building Remus has only seen in sketches:
JANUS JAMES is on the building above an awning, and Remus pulls his Dad up to the window, gawking at the mannequin.
The mannequin is wearing a dress that would look perfectly at home in a Disney movie: a full, ballgown style skirt, dramatic lace details, the back studded with buttons like pearls.
They’ve also put a Vespa in the display. A full, real white Vespa!
“Wow!” Remus says.
“Well, I had to do something while you were away at camp,” Dad says, amused, and Remus curses himself again: what if this had been a design that Roman had seen a hundred times before?!
There’s a mannequin clearly meant to be a spouse, too, in a suit that matches-mostly-but-not-too-matchy, in Remus’ professional opinion; he stares up at it thoughtfully.
“You know who would look beautiful in that?” Remus says, pointing. “Like, really beautiful?”
“Who?” Dad says, still examining the display with a critical eye.
“You.”
That gets Dad’s attention. “Me?!”
“You look really good in white and pearls!” Remus says, gesturing to his outfit today; Dad’s added a matching brown coat to his flowy pants, and the buttery brown satchel is resting casually on his shoulder. Remus is frankly uncertain how he still looks like he could be on the cover of a magazine after walking through city streets for so long.
Dad snorts, reaching over to gently tweak his ear. “I think this jet lag is making you a little loopy.”
Remus cannot deny that. Especially in comparison to what must be Baseline Normal Roman Behavior.
“C’mon,” Dad says, physically turning him away from the window and towards the door. “Let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”
They enter the boutique, and Remus, wary of his near miss with the window, tries his absolute best to act like he’s never seen the inside before.
But it’s really something.
There’s flowy white gowns made of almost every material and style Remus can think of, and quite a few he can’t even name; suits are tucked alongside one side of the building; and Remus can’t get much of a closer look at the impressive chandelier or the couches meant for people to spectate dress shopping without losing track of his Dad, who is heading for a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY with the sort of confidence that, Remus assumes, can only come from having his name on the building.
Remus falls into step beside him as Dad traverses up the stairs, past a few assistants who bid them both hello and keep going, and finally, he opens a door ahead of them.
“All right, I’m here,” Dad announces, removing his jacket and satchel and tossing them onto a nearby chair without breaking stride on his way to the mode.
Remus gapes safely at the scene before them. Makeup artists, lighting technicians, the director of photography, and some of who must be Dad James employees who are fixing the train of the models’ dress all turn to look at him.
“Ah, we’re saved,” says the woman who Remus is pretty sure is Vendela. “Sorry—we don’t know what to do with the veil…”
“If she wears it, it covers the back of the dress,” the photographer explains, “if she doesn’t, it looks—”
“Incomplete,” Dad finishes for him. “Quite right. Now,” he addresses the model, “can you try turning sideways with your chin up?”
The model positions herself accordingly.
“Yes, I see the problem,” Dad says, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin. “Can I have the veil?”
An assistant quickly hands it over.
“Roman, darling?”
Remus startles, not expecting to be included in Grown Up Business Of Import.
“Pass me one of those hats on display in the window, will you please?”
Remus scuttles over to the display in question; he’s not really sure why his Dad has requested a hat rather than a tiara (several on display to the right) or a jeweled headpiece (one’s already attached to the veil, but there are more options in the display to the left) and hesitates at the sight of his options.
He picks the two fanciest—tophats, one entirely black and one entirely white—and moves to his Dad, holding them up for approval.
“Which do you like best?” Dad prompts him.
Remus cannot help but feel like this is some kind of test.
“The white one,” he says.
His Dad shoots him a smile, quick and secretive, and takes it before schooling his face back into a businesslike, stern expression. “Me too.”
The sense of approval washes over Remus with the enormity of an ocean wave.
“Try this,” Dad says, doing some sort of magic to affix the veil to the hat and passing it to the model. “Yes, toss the veil straight back and turn, I want to make sure the detail comes through…”
And as the model turns, Remus suddenly understands why he went for a hat rather than a tiara or a headpiece: the hat’s taller than a tiara or a headpiece would be, making the veil a bit shorter, which means the detail on the back of the dress is much more obvious.
Dad steps back, too, out of path of the camera, as various assistants and the photographer and director make sounds of approval and ahhs.
“See that? Beautiful, how it falls just there,” Dad says, then, to the model, “Don’t worry about the bouquet as much, just remember to look happy, it is,” with a sarcastic smirk, “your wedding day. What number is it now, your fifty-seventh shoot you’ve done with us?”
That does make the model laugh, and the camera goes off with a great flashbulb pop, and Remus witnesses his first ever high-fashion photoshoot.
Dad is too cool.
⁂
There must be something in his face by the time they get to the chippy, because Dad calls the chauffeur to come meet them there and drive them the rest of the way home.
As they wait—for both the orders and the car—Remus takes his chance.
“Dad?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Doesn’t designing all these wedding gowns ever make you think about getting married again?”
There is something almost like panic in his Dad’s eyes. Interesting.
“Or at least,” Remus pushes, “make you think about the F-word?”
“The F-word!” Dad exclaims.
“My father,” Remus says, trying to look innocent and probably failing, but Dad is too preoccupied by letting out the relieved laugh of a parent who realizes they get to live another day without explaining profanity to a child.
“Oh, that F-word.”
Remus raises his eyebrows at him.
“Well—no, actually,” Dad says. “I’ve never worn a wedding gown, you see, much less when I married the F-word.”
Dad’s name is called; they shuffle forward to accept their boxes of greasy food, then back to their waiting place. Remus thinks it might be a little bit torturous to wait until they get all the way back before eating this.
“You can’t avoid the subject forever,” Remus says. “Can you tell me what he was like, at least?”
His Dad sighs, chewing the inside of his mouth, before:
“He was quite lovely, to tell you the truth,” he says, then, quieter, “when we met, he was actually entirely lovely. Lovelier than I thought I’d ever… well.”
That tracks well with Remus’ standing of Pa, but Roman doesn’t know that.
“Did you meet him here in London?” Remus pushes.
“No—we met on the QE2.”
“The what?”
“The Queen Elizabeth II. It’s an ocean liner, it sails from London to New York,” Dad says. “You know how I am about flying, and I suppose your father wasn’t too fond of it either, and the opportunity presented itself—he told me he’d always wanted to try a cruise.”
Remus waits, quiet.
“We met our first night on board the ship, we were seated next to each other at dinner, and I suppose that’s history. He’s an American, you know.”
Remus digs deep for an appropriately sappy, Roman-esque question.
“Was it love at first sight?”
Nailed it.
Dad simply laughs, cranes his neck, and says, “Oh, look, there’s the car!”
Remus lets out a little sigh to himself, but he lets the inquisition go as his Dad shuffles the boxes and opens an umbrella for them both on their mad dash to the car, trying their best to avoid any puddle splatterings.
It’s not like, Remus reflects gleefully, I don’t have loads of time to keep asking him all sorts of questions.
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