Piss-Poor, Set Up and Stony Broke; the story of the recision of my allowance

I've posted before about my parents, but for those of you who haven't read about them before and are too damned lazy to go through my archives, here are the highlights:

• My mother is a suburban socialite, a vision in Jaegar, addicted to the application of Mr Sheen to her rosewood furniture, and a WI paragon. I am the source of her lifelong shame.
• My father is a cosmetic surgeon, the type who advertises in the back of glossy magazines; heroically dedicated to making female dreams of thinner thighs and bouncier breasts come true.
• Neither of them know this blog exists. I hope to hell that they never will.
• My parents got divorced when I was quite young.
• I got a pony to soften the blow of Daddy disappearing into a shag-happy sunset with a younger, blonder version of my mother, who, thanks to my father, sported bouncy tits and thinner thighs. It seemed like a good deal at the time.
• My father is the classic story of a middle-aged man growing old disgracefully. It's kind of shamful to be seen in public with him at times.
• And yes, I am embarrassed at being given an allowance by my daddy at the grand old age of twenty-seven, but sometimes a girl's moral high ground disintegrates at the prospect of a life without blow or new shoes.

Anyway, Lighterate recently asked why I've been cut off from the paternal purse strings, so here's the story.

My suddenly reduced cash-flow poses a big, big problem considering that the rent is due next week, Helen has about as many pennies to rub together as I have (so, not a lot), and there's this great big credit card bill sitting on my desk getting redder by the second. Whatever, I'll figure something out, but this is all the fault of my stepmother, aka The Bitch.

Since my parents got divorced my father has gone through women like I get through packs of Marlboro. The initial affair, the one that struck the hammer blow for my parents divorce, lasted all of five minutes and then he was on to the next. He has a particular type, my father, which he adheres to it like a religion. All the women kind of merge into one; blonde, botoxed, silicon from lips to tits and preferably very, very tall. For this reason he is particularly keen on Russian women, and since my father is kind of wealthy and enjoys flashing his cash about, Russian women are particularly keen on him.

Unsurprisingly, The Bitch is Russian. She has the flinty eyed gaze that comes from generations of her people freezing their asses off on the Steppes and the kind of haughty high-boned face that always looks bored. In my more twisted moments I imagine her eyes looking out from over my father's shoulder, him in the throes of passion, her dispassionately examining her manicure and fantasising - Gucci, Chanel, Tiffany, Bulgari, Cartier....mmmm. I don't know what he sees in her, apart from the fact that she is very, very beautiful. Actually, that is what he sees in her. I shouldn't make the mistake of assuming that my father is any less shallow than he initially appears to be; he's not.

So I go to meet my father for lunch at Daphne's, a long-standing tradition, partly introduced by the fact that The Bitch can't stand having me in their apartment for more than five minutes. The moment I catch sight of his face I know I'm in trouble. He's usually pretty jovial-looking but this time he has an unmistakeable set to his jaw. I pretend not to notice, smile brightly and drop a kiss on his slowly thinning head (he's about two seconds away from hair transplants). He's like, sit down Sara. Uh oh. I'm like, is something wrong? I desperately rack my brain for what he might have found out about; nothing comes up. As far as I'm aware he thinks I'm squeaky clean.

He pours me a glass of wine, then says, Iryna is very worried about you. I'm like, what? I mean, let's get real here - The Bitch would like nothing better than for me to dissappear into thin air, preferably extremely painfully and with no hope of return for a number of lifetimes. I'm way too much of a threat to her anticipated retirement fund. Yes, he says, Iryna is worried because a friend of hers saw you at Embassy last weekend and you were, how can I put this... inebriated on something other than alcohol.

I'm speechless. I haven't graced that place with my presence for ages, and anyway, how the hell did The Bitch find out about my little weakness? It must have been a stab in the dark that hit home; she may be borderline evil but, as demonstrated by her latest little stunt, she's certainly not stupid. She knows what will push my father's buttons. He may be engaged in the ridiculous and futile activity of chasing after his lost youth, but he is, and always has been, fervently anti-drugs. I guess it comes from repairing too many celebrity septums over the years.

Daddy, I say, trying to smile through gritted teeth, I don't know what you're talking about. Iryna is mistaken. I don't think so, Sara, he replies, Iryna says her friend saw you stagger out of the bathroom with - he delicately traces a moustache on his upper lip - a trace of white powder just here. She was quite specific about the details.

By this point I've lost my appetite, a shame since the food at Daphne's is usually something I look forward to. I knock back my glass of wine and make a last ditch attempt to regain parental favour. Daddy, I go, I haven't set foot in that particular club for a long time so I really don't think the accusation is grounded in reality.

My father narrows his eyes at me, are you trying to say that Iryna is lying? Why would she lie to me, Sara? I shrug, I'm sure she has her reasons. Big mistake. I forget that my father takes any slurs about The Bitch very, very personally; I don't know what kind of hold she has on him but I suspect a tight vice around the balls is involved. Sure enough, he throws his napkin down and hisses, look me in the eye and tell me that you have never taken cocaine.

There is a brief moment when I think that maybe I can pull it off. I look him straight in the eye, open my mouth to protest my innocence, and then my eyes fall away, I blush, and all that comes out is a stammer.

My father's face is pure thunder. His lips are tight as he shoots me a filthy look and says, I thought so. He stands up, pushes his chair back, gets his wallet out from his jacket pocket and throws a handful of notes onto the table. This, Sara, is the last you'll get from me until you've straightened yourself out. I've reached the end of the line with you. Then he walks out.

Fuck. Talk about hitting me where it hurts.

It upsets me so much that I cry a bit on the bus home. And jeez, I hate crying in public.