Later life relationships bring unexpected family issues. Like his adult daughter suddenly moving in. She’s come to stay with us for a year while she studies for her masters degree. She’s 28, only working very part-time, can’t afford rent and uni fees.
Not only didn’t I hesitate when he told me his daughter was going to be “homeless” – she couldn’t stay with her mum (his ex) because she lives in Scotland – I was actually the one to suggest we take her in, into the house in which we live together (my house, not his).
But the fact is, I barely know her because my relationship with her dad is relatively new. Just how little I knew her recently came to light. My partner and I had been away for the weekend. The morning after returning I went to retrieve my brand-new canary yellow jumper from the wardrobe. Dammit, it had disappeared, and I had a meeting to get to, so I opted for a blue blouse instead.
Returning home in the afternoon I popped into the not-too-shabby ensuite of the room where my partner’s daughter is currently lodging, to pick up her laundry from under the sink. Putting her laundry into the machine alongside ours is part of the service.
And there was my yellow jumper, the one she admired when I bought it one week before, the one I hadn’t yet worn, hanging up to dry on the edge of the shower cubicle. Actually it was already dry, she’d just forgotten to sneak it back into my cupboard.
Hell hath no fury like a woman who feels her generosity is being exploited. So when the house guest poked her head round my office door when she got back from uni in the evening, I was at my sternest and most imperious best.
“If you are going to borrow my clothes without asking, while hoping not to be found out, you need to be a helluva lot better at covering your tracks,” I snorted.
Her face flushed crimson. She didn’t really offer an excuse. And it’s not as though she doesn’t have anything to wear. She bought several bin liners full of vintage and second-hand clothes with her when she moved in, accompanied by the moths they were already infested with and which have now taken up residence in my wardrobe.
She’s a lovely girl most of the time, warm and smart and combative, a combination I like because it keeps me on my toes and livens up our quiet household where just the two of us reside.
This incident has thrown me: more than it might appear to merit. Jumpers, shumpers – who cares? But it was about honesty and trust. If she was raiding my wardrobe behind my back, what else was she up to ? It felt so underhand.
I wasn’t sure whether I should even mention it to her dad, because I knew he’d be furious and that would probably make things even worse. But I did, and he was surprisingly unfazed. “Stupid girl!” he said, “but actually she was always doing this, nicking her sister’s clothes when they were both at home. My older daughter would scream the place down when it happened, but it never stopped.”
I made him swear not to bring it up, and she must have thought I’d kept mum, because he didn’t say a word.
Since that incident, she’s been extra-helpful around the house, has made us some delicious dinners and taken me out for a meal to tell me how lucky she is to have been invited to stay. We’ve never mentioned the sweater incident again.
On so many levels it’s been lovely having a young person, a not-quite daughter in the house, especially as I still miss my son who moved out some years ago.
The other evening she was going out on date. “Anything you want to borrow?” I said. And then I gave her a hug. I think I’ll miss her when she’s gone. And at least I can flatter myself that she admires my style.
