by Amelia Grace
I leaned on my elbows and opened Xander’s letter.
Dear Fleur and Andi,
I am formally requesting the private use of your Raleigh Cruiser bicycle for the total time of four hours on Sunday.
It’s my mother’s 60th birthday. She means so many things to so many people. But mostly, she has been the greatest support of my life choices and I want to do something special for her.
Your bicycle is the exact same one she had in her twenties. Since I cannot give the bicycle as a gift, I would like to use it to help return her memories of that time in her life.
Your consideration of my request is much appreciated.
Yours sincerely,
Xander
My heart dropped. What a sweet thing for a son to do for his mother. I stood up straight. Formal letters are all good and dandy, but Gram won’t lend out her beloved bike if she hasn’t met him. In fact, she would never let anyone use her treasured bicycle. It was her most precious possession.
I carefully folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope, then texted Gram.
ME: Dear Gram. How are you?
She replied almost immediately.
GRAM: Darling Andi. I’m home and I’m tired
but my head feels better than it was. I hope
the flowers are behaving.
ME: They are blooming difficult! As soon as I have
them out on display, they are gone. Business is good.
Will you be here on Thursday?
GRAM: As long as I’m fit and able, dear.
ME: Great. I have someone you need to meet.
Will 9am be good for you?
GRAM: Hmmm. I’m intrigued ... looking forward to it.
ME: Excellent. Thanks Gram. Rest up and take care of you. xxx
GRAM: Will do. xxx
I found some floral paper and wrote to Xander.
Dear Xander,
Gram would like to meet you on Thursday, 9am.
Be prompt.
Andi
I folded the letter and placed it in an envelope, then wrote his name on the front. I hurried through the store to Gram’s bicycle and placed the envelope in amongst the symphony of coloured old-fashioned peonies in the basket. I hoped he hadn’t given up on the idea. A contact number would have been good.
I returned to the store just before the flurry of patrons. It was a madhouse. I needed to speak to Gram about employing another fake florist.
The afternoon went by in a blur of customers, flower cuttings, orders, deliveries and invoices. When I finally closed the doors at 5pm, I still had work to do, not to mention the tally of the days takings and ordering of flowers for the next day.
The sun had long set when I locked the shop doors behind me. The female only taxi was already waiting for me, as I always planned. It was safer that way. I blew air between my lips. I couldn’t wait to return to my own career and the cocoon and personal security it provided.
Chapter Eleven
THURSDAY ARRIVED WITH AN EXCLAMATION MARK! Gram was back at the helm, her smile adding a surreal light to the store. She was the colour of pink, like strawberry ice-cream on a hot summer’s day—welcome and refreshing. She stood at her workbench of flower imagination, creating bouquets of beauty and elegance with a natural flair that was impossible to emulate. She was most certainly in her element and habitual happy place, miles away from the trauma that had happened a couple of days ago, and I prayed would never happen again.
The doors opened at 8.30am, and Flowers for Fleur was filled with a stampede of people. More people than usual. More than the regular café coffee and tea junkies. More than the daily flower addicted people and browsers. People came to see if Gram was okay. She was a much-loved local store owner who had served the township of Tarrin for fifty years. I’m sure she knew everyone’s secrets.
‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ It felt like the millionth time I had said it. I really needed to cut off the books word. No one came here to buy books!
The man standing before me lowered his head and gazed into my eyes, his pupils dilated. I stiffened as my heartbeat raced. He scanned me from my head to my waist, his eyes hovering over my chest for way too long before he made contact with my eyes again. He was the colour of flashing dark, dark red. He was a fist thumped on the piano keys, numerous times. I found it hard to breathe.
‘I did come to buy some flowers. But I think I found something better.’
I raised an eyebrow at him while panic raced through my veins, stinging me. ‘Flowers for your girlfriend?’ I asked, ignoring his insinuation, trying to be courageous. I swallowed.
‘They could be for you if you let me—’
‘Can I help you with your purchase, sir?’ It was Darcy’s deep voice. It was blunt. I breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Ah ... no. I was just asking for some flowers. Simple really.’
‘Is it?’ Darcy said. ‘I know the flowers that will do the job for you.’
‘You do. You like the same things as me?’ the man narrowed his eyes at Darcy.
‘No. But I know your type. I know what you need,’ said Darcy.
He raised his eyebrows at Darcy.
‘Men know men,’ Darcy elaborated.
‘Lead the way,’ he said, dipping his head.
I watched as Darcy led the customer away. I couldn’t call the customer a man, because real men don’t treat women as objects or play things. But Darcy ... he was my hero. I watched as he chose a bouquet of flowers and handed them to the person inhabiting a male body, then took the cash from him.
I served three more customers before I saw Darcy walking towards me.
‘How did you know?’ I asked when he handed over the money.
‘His foulness surrounds him like a visible stench. Men have radars for people like him and I could see you recoil at his presence.’
I closed my eyes and ran my fingers over my forehead trying to stop the flashbacks of three years ago.
‘I also told him you were mine,’ Darcy said, and smiled coyly.
‘You did?’ I said, raising my eyebrows.
‘It was a test for him.’
‘Did he pass?’
‘No. He’s bad news ... I’ll stay with you until you get into your taxi tonight.’
A shudder vibrated through me. I visualised my self-defense moves and wriggled my toes in my steel-capped boots. I knew exactly where to damage him should he attack. ‘Thanks, Darcy. You’re the best.’
‘I know,’ he said, and smiled at me. Not a smile of happiness though. It was a smile of pity. I hated the pity smile. It made me feel more damaged than I already was. Damn the bloody pity smile! I hated people knowing any part of my story—what had happened to me. He only knew one part because of necessity, to stop him from thinking I was insane. He’d found me mid-PTSD—when I was trying to wash the blood from my hands. The blood that wasn’t there. I was stuck in the loop of delusion and couldn’t break free. He had pulled me away from the tap and wrapped his arms around me from behind.
‘Stop, Yolande ... breathe,’ he had whispered. He took me to a table and sat me down, then made me a cup of tea. I told him a fraction of my story. Not everything. He had gone pale when I told him about the blood. He left the table and went to the café kitchen, leaned over the bench and drank two glasses of cold water.
There were only five other people who knew limited fragments of what happened on that terrible day of the scars—my parents, grandparents, and my psychologist, Dr Jones. No one else would ever hear the story from my lips. Ever. There was no use digging up the past. It was dead and buried ... like ...
I knotted my fingers together then smoothed down my apron. I had jobs to do. And so did Darcy. ‘Let’s knock off early tonight—5.30! Deal?’ I said and took a deep breath.
‘Deal,’ Darcy said, and gave me a thumbs-up. He returned to the coffee machine and slipped back into his role as the kind-hearted barista.
Flowers for Fleur was insanely busy and I found it hard t
o catch a breath between customers. I had just served the tenth person and entered the sales data into the account book when I looked up at the next patron, and there he stood. Xander.
‘9am. Like you said.’ He gave me a crooked smile and lowered his head, his dark hair falling over his blue eyes. Today he was dressed in a long-sleeved, pale blue button-up shirt, and trousers the colour of stone. My heart skipped a beat.
‘I ... didn’t think you’d come ... after you left the other day—’
‘It’s not about me.’ He frowned. ‘You did read the letter, didn’t you?’
‘Yes ... I did.’ Why did he make me feel so self-conscious? ‘Follow me.’
I left the sales desk and walked over to Gram. She was humming one of Grampapa’s songs while she worked on a creation of flowers. My heart warmed. She looked up at me and then over my shoulder at Xander, where her eyes remained.
‘Gram. I’d like you to meet Xander. Xander, this is my grandmother, Fleur Lawrence.’
Xander leaned forward and held out his hand to Gram. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Lawrence. I trust you’re feeling better today,’ Xander said.
I frowned at Xander and his formal words.
Gram took Xander’s hand and held his eyes in hers for longer than necessary. Did she know him? ‘Yolande, darling, please ask Darcy to make me a pot of tea, and Xander, what would you like?’
Xander turned to me. ‘Coffee, please ... Yolande,’ he said, and raised his eyebrows while he said my name.
I narrowed me eyes at him. He only knew me as Andi. It was only natural for him to react that way with my full name. ‘Of course, Gram. Would you like to sit at one of the tables?’ I asked, before I went to order their tea and coffee.
‘Most certainly,’ she said, filled with enthusiasm.
I left them to their conversation while I kept the wheels of the flower shop turning. Each time I glanced over at Gram and Xander at the cafe table, they were in deep conversation.
Forty-five minutes later, while I was tidying Gram’s workbench, I heard my name called. I looked up to see Xander standing by the entrance. Gram was beside him, smiling. What had she done? Gram gestured for me to join them. I put down the loose rose petals, brushed my hands down my apron, checked that my chest scar was covered and walked over to them.
‘Andi ... I have agreed for Xander to borrow my bicycle for Sunday, on one condition, which he has agreed to,’ Gram said, touching Xander’s arm.
‘And that would be?’ I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. Gram had never trusted anyone with possession of her bike, not even me.
‘That you accompany Xander to his mother’s celebration to ensure the safety of my bicycle.’
BOOM! Right then and there my world darkened, and anxiety reached its ugly hands up to my throat to stop me from breathing. ‘But, Gram, I—’
‘It’s all organised. Xander will meet you here at 1pm Sunday.’
‘But, Gram, I—’
‘I, what, dear?’ Gram asked with both eyebrows raised at me. Her look told me that no excuse would do.
‘I’ll be here ...’ I said in a quiet voice. I looked at Xander. ‘Email me the details,’ I said with the last of my breath, then turned on the heel of my steel-capped work boots and hotfooted from the store via the back exit.
I leaned against the brick wall and sucked in a sharp breath, then bent over, overcome with nausea from anxiety. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t go to the party. I won’t feel safe ... I won’t be safe ...’
Footsteps crunched on the gravel then stopped. The shoes I could see belonged to Gram.
‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s been three years, and nothing has happened to you,’ she said sternly.
‘Only because I plan everything meticulously before I go, and am surrounded by friends and family I know and trust to look out for me.’ I kept my eyes on the ground.
‘Yolande, you can’t live your life in the shadows anymore. You are running in fear, every day. Everything you choose is based on fear. It’s time to give it up. You are your own worst enemy. Now enough of this nonsense, we have all put up with it for far too long!’
Her words of criticism hit me in the chest and stung my heart. My eyes burned and I stood. ‘You’re right, Gram. I’m a terrified little girl inside this grown-up body of mine. I’m a worthless loser who has no right to enjoy my life after what happened.’ I took off my apron and contained the sob that wanted to escape from me. ‘I’m sure Charlotte or Lucy will come in to help you if you ask.’ I threw my apron at Gram.
And ran. Fast.
‘You can’t keep running, Yolande. Face your fears and be bigger than them. Make sure you’re here on Sunday at 1pm. It’s an afternoon garden party. Think Audrey Hepburn. No safety boots!’ Gram called out after me.
I kept running.
I didn’t turn back. I just ran.
Chapter Twelve
I SAT IN THE CHAIR OUTSIDE THE PSYCHOLOGIST’S OFFICE. I’m sure it had a permanent imprint of my butt on it. My mother’s hand was around my upper arm like a vice so I couldn’t run. She knew me well. Thank God. I didn’t want to be here, but I did. I needed to be here. Darkness had reached up to pull me under, yet again.
A woman in her thirties came out of the office. She had manicured nails, perfect hair, make-up, shoes that weren’t steel-capped safety work boots, and a matching handbag. But I couldn’t see what colour she was. Not when I felt like this.
I pulled a face. I wanted a matching handbag. No I didn’t. I wanted the perfect hair and make-up. No I didn’t. I wanted to be her instead of me. She didn’t look like she had any problems.
She turned her perfectly painted face towards me and smiled. One of those smiles that says, “I’ve got my shit together. I like me!” Maybe when I came out of my therapy session with Dr Jones today, I’ll come out looking a million bucks—like her. A new person. A new past. My baggage gone like it was permanently lost on a plane flight, or spewed out into space, never to return.
I swallowed. The bitter reality was, this is me. Fucked up. Because of two men. Two cowardly bastards. I hated them. I hated them with every fibre of my being. I hated what they had done to me, what they had done to Mia—what I had become.
I lowered my head and sobbed.
My mother shifted in her chair and handed me a tissue—my dear mother, who had the same blonde wavy hair and blue eyes like Gram and me. Except their hair fell to their shoulders, styled of course, while mine, dyed brown, fell to the middle of my back. Wild. I took the tissue from her and silently uttered a thousand apologies. Every parent deserved for their child to grow up happy—happy with a job, happy with friends, happy with themselves, happy with a partner, and babies. Not a self-loathing person like me. I should have d—
‘Yolande.’ Dr Jones’s voice was comforting, like a warm childhood blankie and a mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace.
My mother’s grip loosened on my arm and I stood, eyes focussed on the floor. I took slow steps into the office. The familiar office. I’d been here so often I was wondering when she’d ask me to pay rent.
Dr Jones put a light hand on my shoulder and led me to the couch. Usually she asked me whether I wanted to sit on the chair or lie on the couch. Today there was no such question. She knew me well. For a moment I wondered if psychologists ever saw a psychiatrist or psychologist themselves? Who did they go to when they had a problem?
While my body moulded to the curves of the furniture, Dr Jones went to make of pot of tea. I heard the chink of the china teacups and saucers and the boiling water. I closed my eyes and rested my hands on my stomach. I knew what questions were coming. And I knew how to answer them so she heard what she wanted to hear, which was not necessarily my truth.
But today, I had decided, I was going to answer her questions, for me—for my truth, in the hope that it would set me free. My stomach quivered. Courage. Step boldly. I had to do this for me.
At the sound of approaching footsteps I opened my eyes. Dr
Jones placed two teacups and saucers on the table in front of me. I reached over and picked up a cup. The warmth of the brew touched my lips and I relaxed a little. Aah ... tea ... the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept, according to Frances Hardinge.
‘What brings you here today, Andi?’ Dr Jones asked, sitting behind me, so we were not face to face.
‘The darkness within,’ I said, and sipped on some more tea. ‘And fear.’
‘Ah ... good old Darius Darkness. Your friend. What is he trying to tell you?’
‘I deserve everything that happened. I almost believed him. But Darius is such a liar. He’s relentless at times.’
‘Well done, Andi. So, I’m assuming fear has jumped onboard to weigh you down?’
‘Yes.’ I sipped on my tea. It warmed my throat and my stomach. I welcomed its warmth.
‘Fear of?’
‘Gram wants me to go to a garden party with a stranger to protect her bicycle. She told me not to wear my steel-capped boots.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘Terrified. I spiralled into a panic attack. I almost vomited from the anxiety it brought on. I took off my apron, and threw it at her, then ran. I ran away from Gram! I felt so terrible. She’s not well you know, and I did this to her on top of what she’s going through.’
‘Why did you throw your apron at her?’
‘She told me not to live my life in the shadows anymore. She said I was running in fear ... all the time. She said everything I chose to do is based on fear. She said, “that’s enough of this nonsense, we have all put up with it for far too long!”.’
I started to sob. I had failed everybody. I was a burden to everybody. I stole happiness from everyone who knew me. I felt like I was the colour of black, absorbing everyone else’s colour.
‘What did you think of your grandmother’s words?’