Another Tale Of Infinite Dreams.

"He did WHAT?!" Naomi screamed at me.

I grimaced and almost braced myself, waiting for her to slap me. It was that evening, I'd just put Vibeke to bed, and I was now sitting over tea (and coffee) with Naomi filling her in on what had happened. By the time I'd gotten Vibeke earlier, the band had already departed, leaving a pair of free tickets for us to the show tomorrow night and sending their apologies they couldn't say goodbye to me. Well, all but one of them did.

Naomi had just told me he'd come back from "the walk" seeming a little...distracted. And I had sort of scoffed, sighed, and said something like, "Probably pissed off I didn't ask for seconds."

Which precipitated the whole sorry story spilling out of my mouth. Well, it was far from sorry. The sex had been magnificent. Just a pity about who I'd done it with.

"He just turned around and left."

"Oh holy Jesus. That fucking prick! I can't believe he did that to you!"

"Hey, he's used to it. It's not exactly the first time."

"But how could he...I mean...for fuck's sake, you were breaking down in front of him, demanding an explanation after all these years, and with all the respect he has for you he just fixes his hair and fucks off?!"

"What respect? Naomi, he pushed me into a toilet cubicle and had sex with me. Hardly the most romantic thing in the world. And to think, all I wanted to do in those few moments was go down on him..."

"I can't believe it. I don't blame you for it, before you get defensive or anything. I don't blame you at all. You were pretty defenceless in the face of all that feeling and emotion. I mean, you have just spent the last few years raising his child, you're only human."

"You'd think that would have hardened me against him."

"Don't be silly Frankie," Naomi said, shaking her head and leaning in closer to me. "I know how you talk about him, how I talk about him, how LJ and Nat and all of us talk about him, but we all know how you really feel."

"What do you mean?!" I was a little angered by this analysis.

"Frankie, don't fool yourself. You gave birth to a little piece of him that you've been doting on for 6 years of your life. Six years. That child is a product of your feelings for each other and she's a reminder everyday of what you shared together. A walking, talking glimpse of the past and how different it all was. You look at her everyday, and you see him. I know you do. I know you think about him all the time and I know you secretly still wish, every minute of every day, that he was here with you."

I didn't attempt to argue. She was right. I knew it. I didn't even try to fight it. It's funny how people use hatred to mask grief. I'd been telling myself I despised him for six years and yet cried myself to sleep so many nights over a vain, insipid wish that could never be fulfilled. When I couldn't get Vibeke to sleep as a baby, I'd wondered if she needed a father's soothing words. When she was learning how to ride a bike, I wondered if his stronger hands would have been better to catch her than mine. When she was leaving me to walk into the schoolyard for her first day, I wondered if I'd be less of a state with his presence behind me.

Sometimes I even wondered who would have minded her if we went away for a few days for our anniversary. Or wondered what he'd say about her, if asked by a journalist or fan. Wondered if he'd openly dote on her and gush over her to people he'd only just met.

The day she opened her mouth and demanded a guitar was one of the worst, and one of the best, of my life all at once. I was so proud to see her with such a powerful interest in music, and yet devastated that her father's knowing hands wouldn't be the ones guiding her on the instrument.

Dammit. Why hadn't I just opened my eyes one day and admitted I was still madly in love with him? I'd never stopped. If I had, I wouldn't have been thinking about him for so long every day. I wouldn't have been wondering how he'd address his daughter, what he'd get her for her birthday. I wouldn't have spent far too much time wishing his girlfriend would walk under a bus. I was allowed the bitterness inherent in single parenthood, but I wouldn't have been such a drama queen.

My daughter could benefit from a less distracted mother.

I opened my mouth to say something to Naomi, who was looking at me expectantly, with an expression of concern and understanding on her face. I almost wanted to kiss her at that moment, or at least hug the shit out of her. So I did the latter. I loved that girl so much - I loved ALL my girls, she was just the one I saw most often given we worked for the same magazine. They all knew me better than I knew myself, and they were the joint stand-ins for the parent Vibeke never had. I'd be lost without them and my little girl would certainly not be the happy-go-lucky, contented child she was. I owed them so much, and it was time I probably started showing them that.

I kissed her on the cheek and leaned back in my chair.

"I...need more tea," I said with a smile, and got up to boil the kettle again.

Just as I did the doorbell rang.

"Urgh. I'll just be a minute, Naomi!"

I walked out into the hall and prepared my excuse for whoever it was. No one short of my mother or sister was getting inside, I just wasn't in the mood.

That was until I opened the door.

And saw him standing there.

"Oh."

My reaction was fantastic, it truly was. Only the sight of the President standing there would have shocked me as much as he did. He stood in the doorway, blank expression on his face again, hat covering his head, hoodie and jeans with a studded belt. I noted silently to myself (and with some vexation) that he looked pretty damn good. The nose stud was still there and all, a decade later...

"We need to talk."

His words were short, firm, and to the point.

I nodded without any real thought. Given the impasse of thought I'd been buried under in the kitchen, I was almost glad to see him there. Then I remembered Naomi in the kitchen...and more importantly, Vibeke upstairs.

SHIT.

Well at least she was asleep, and he wasn't going further than the living room.

I turned to the kitchen and called as quietly as I could to Naomi. She came to the door and raised her eyebrows in stunned surprise when she saw who was standing beside me. He seemed to remember her; he half smiled and nodded at her. She didn't respond, just looked at me with a questioning expression.

"I need to talk to him. In private."

"OK, I'll head and see you..."

"Can you wait upstairs?"

"Eh?"

It took her a minute to twig, before she gasped a little, nodded, and made for the steps to the second floor.

"Just wait upstairs, and em, make sure everything's quiet."

"I will. No worries."

She disappeared upstairs and I stood back to let him in.

"Who would be making noise?" he asked. I could see suspicion in his face already, and sincerely hoped Naomi hadn't explained to the band who this interestingly-named "Vibeke", who was playing with their manager's daughter, was. And that they, in turn, hadn't mentioned to him that their interviewer had a six year old daughter hidden in the next room.

He was a lot of things but he wasn't stupid. He would put six years together in his head with my broken outburst in the bathroom. I just hoped he'd come up with five.

I beckoned to the living room and, ignoring his question, merely said, "Come on in. We can talk."