When I didn't speak to dad

Fourteen years ago, when I was 22, my mother discovered that my father was having an affair. She asked him: "Can you give her up?" My father paused. Probably only for a few seconds, but it was too long for her. He wasn't fighting for her. He wasn't falling over his words to tell her that it was a mistake; that he loved her. No, in his male, measured, scientist way, he took his time. That's when he broke her heart. And mine. When he finally answered "With difficulty", she simply picked up her handbag and walked out.

His protestation that the "difficulty" was in professional terms - he was collaborating on a scientific paper with his lover - fell on deaf ears. After 23 years of marriage, my mother never spent a night under the same roof as him again.

I was on holiday in Spain when our family splintered. On my return, my mother took me out to dinner, told me what had happened, then went to live in our Cotswolds home. My father remained in the Kensington apartment where I was staying.

I'll never forget the look on Daddy's face when I came home that night. He was standing at the top of the stairs in his pyjamas; suddenly old and tired, yet boyish, fearful and ashamed. All I remember thinking is, "I mustn't cry. I'm starting a new job tomorrow, my first day as a proper journalist." Emotionally, I had shut down, winded by shock.

Because of my father's career, his presence in my life has always been shadowy, but I had no idea how desperately I would mourn the loss of him in our family. An Oxford academic and scientist, he was always away at conferences or buried in his study when I was growing up, so why should I miss him now? At St Paul's Girls' school in west London, I was embarrassed by him. He would turn up in the Kickers shoes he bought in bulk, too short flared cords and frayed tweed jackets. I wanted a smooth, Cityslicker father in a pinstripe suit.

As my parents' separation got under way and our homes were sold, what I really wanted was a father. But I was too hurt and angry to let him near. My sense of betrayal, and outrage on my mother's behalf, was so intense that when we did meet, my rage would flare up and I could barely speak, let alone be civil. There was too much to say so usually we said nothing, walking in infected silence around Hyde Park, or suffering excruciating dinners at his Pall Mall club. Unable to admit to myself, let alone to my dad, how much I needed him, I shut him out completely. As he did not know how to reach me - which I took as a sign that he didn't love me enough to fight for me, just as he hadn't fought for my mother - he withdrew. We didn't see each other for the next 10 years.

Navigating my twenties, I thought that success would override my pain. I got a perverse pleasure from writing tabloid articles that I knew my father considered beneath me - let alone a blatant trashing of the illustrious Pasternak surname. What a waste of an Oxford degree when I wrote meaningless guff about society players. Worse was when I wrote a book, Princess in Love, about James Hewitt's relationship with Diana. I knew that my father was appalled but, because we weren't speaking, he never told me. I can only imagine his discomfort in the rarefied circles in which he moved that his daughter had written something so mortifyingly vulgar.

As I didn't trust men - how could I? - I ended up in a disastrous marriage. I told my husband-to-be not to bother asking for my father's permission for my hand. To save face, I allowed my father to give me away and deluded myself that in the car on the way to the church we would finally heal our rift. That as my mascara streamed, he would utter the words I longed to hear: that he loved me and was proud of me. Instead, he wittered on about the traffic build-up on the M25.

Ironically, it was during my marriage breakdown two years ago that things improved. I arrived at my father's office one day, sobbing and hysterical. A decade's anger and disappointment came rushing out. I didn't pull any punches but in my distress I had at least turned to him - and he met me with open arms. I blamed him for my inability to trust a man and screamed that I felt I had been brought up by a single parent - my mother. She never remarried; she has forgiven him, but only recently, and is relieved that I am now on good terms with him. When I later walked out on my marriage before we had reached our first anniversary, his reaction touched me deeply: he saluted my courage.

His affair, by the way, ended after a few years; he has what he calls an "SO" (significant other), but he has never remarried.

During the past six months, we have begun to forge a real friendship. Firstly, before my new fiancé, Martin, proposed, he did go to my father's club and, much to Daddy's delight, asked him for my hand. When we then discovered that I was pregnant, my father's joy was palpable. I had had no idea how badly he wanted a grandchild (I am his only child). Now that his
first granddaughter is due in October he has involved himself more in my life than ever before, ringing for chats and updates.

However, the biggest catalyst to our relationship has been this week's publication of his book, Quest - a study of man's evolution. In his bid for publicity, he has had to become involved in the world of the media he once abhorred. Suddenly, he has a newfound respect for my profession. Where before he shuddered at the thought of ever cashing in on the Pasternak name (he is Boris Pasternak's nephew), he is now beginning to see the advantage. Over the past week, we have spoken countless times a day. I sat by the radio, my heart pounding with nerves, before he did an interview. As the hour progressed, I was bursting with pride. The father I had written off in my youth as a bumbling academic was charismatic, sharp and articulate.

While I am elated by our harmony, it has evoked grief about the decade we lost. I realise I did not know my father any more than he knew me. That he is now 72 has raised the fear of mortality and regret about how much time between us was wasted. It is terrible to love someone who loves you and still keep your hands behind your back. I am only grateful that we were able to reach out before it was too late.

Quest. The Essence of Humanity by Charles Pasternak is published by Wiley at £16.99.

It is a scene now as familiar as a yellow cab on Broadway or the neon glow of Times Square. A small group of men and women huddled in a dimly-lit doorway, their faces illuminated by the brief flare of a lighter or the scrape of a match. These are the smokers of New York, an outlawed caste who take their guilty pleasures where they can. Mostly, these days, it is out on the streets, after an almost total ban on smoking in any indoor public place was introduced nearly two months ago.

Restaurants, bars, hotel lobbies, even the platforms of Grand Central Station, are now one giant no-smoking zone. For a while the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel held out, its owners insisting that they were still filling out the paperwork for an exemption. But after a columnist in the New York Times turned stool pigeon, the mayor's smoking police paid a little visit to the Plaza. The ashtrays have now gone.

In their place is a bizarre new etiquette. Even the most crowded bar has a row of empty stools. Don't make the mistake of sitting on them. Those half-empty Manhattans belong to smokers, the ones you pushed past on the way in. It is the same in restaurants. As each course is cleared, there is the sound of scraping chairs as half the table rushes for the exit.

The non-smokers stay behind, gloomily attempting conversation across the empty place-settings. At the same time, it is an open secret that there are places where you can still light up. They call them " smokeeasies" and their location is as closely guarded as any Prohibition-era gin joint. "I'm not telling you where they are," said one friend. "You might write about them. I saw what happened to the Oak Bar.''

Under the old rules, it was legal to smoke at the bar or in restaurants seating fewer than 35 people. This seemed to suit everybody - the

1.5 million who smoke and the five million who don't - beyond the most hard-core health campaigners.

Unfortunately, these included the mayor of New York, Michael Bloomberg. His ban was introduced in April. Now inspectors patrol the city, handing out summonses that start at £250, but can rapidly escalate into thousands for repeat offences. Even putting out ashtrays can get you busted.

Among the early victims was the staff canteen of the posh Hotel Pierre and Senor Swanky's, a Mexican café on Columbus Avenue where a guest lit up in the loo. In those first few weeks, it seemed that God was on the mayor's side. This June was officially the wettest for more than 100 years.

The smokers hunched their shoulders against the deluge as the raindrops trickled from the end of their Marlboros. You could tell a hardened smoker because they had not just a hacking cough, but a bad case of the sniffles as well.

Now that New York is the usual July sauna, there are new complaints. The chatter of smokers on street corners is upsetting the neighbours. And an unsightly carpet of cigarette butts litters the entrance to even the smartest restaurant.

How it will end remains to be seen. Some bar owners are making dire predictions of bankruptcy. As for the mayor, his ratings in the opinion polls are barely hitting 30 per cent, one of the lowest ratings in history. These days, even City Hall is fuming.