Flynn shook his head. ‘Yeah, and about me not feeling anything for him. I keep a lot of shit locked in. It’s easier, I think.’
‘I won’t tell another soul.’ She meant it.
‘I know.’ He smiled at her, that glorious, stomach-flipping, lopsided smile. ‘You are cool, Victoria.’ Not for the first time since his arrival she thought of Prim and the chat they had had before she and Daksha had left for town, on her very last day . . .
‘Oh, darling, I don’t think I have ever been cool!’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been cool,’ she whispered.
‘You are. You are really cool and smart. Why didn’t you apply for university?’
‘Lots of reasons.’
‘Tell me four of them.’
She loved the random number. Flynn sat back in the chair and folded his arms as she reached for the sugar bowl and heaped two large teaspoons into her mug.
‘Because I want to carve my own path and I don’t want that path to be too predictable. I think that’s the most exciting way to live.’
‘Easy, I guess, when you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. Poor people crave the stability of that predictable path.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I’m not blaming you, just sayin’.’
She gave a half laugh, embarrassed that he too might recognise she was now ‘a woman of means’.
‘Come on: three more,’ he urged now, holding his tea in his cupped palms. His gaze, she noticed, was now slightly more focused.
‘Erm, I couldn’t decide what I wanted to study and so I figured that, if nothing was leaping out at me as an obvious choice, did I really want to commit to it for three or four years of my life?’
‘Fair enough. Next one.’
‘I . . . I didn’t want to leave my gran on her own. Prim, her name was Prim, Primrose.’ She swallowed. ‘She wasn’t ill or anything, but I knew she liked having me around and I knew she wasn’t getting younger.’ She felt her tears pool and widened her eyes, trying in vain to dispel them. ‘Although now I might make a different decision. Funny how a few bits of information can change your view on just about everything. Can make you question your loyalty.’
‘Okay, and the last one?’ he asked softly. Reaching out, he placed his hand over hers, acknowledging her sadness, and in truth she took immeasurable comfort from it.
‘My mum went to university and she never came home, and the thought of that happening to me scares me more than I can say.’
He nodded and leaned in. No wisecrack, no quip, no opinion. She felt the damp path her tears had left on her cheeks. ‘And I have never told anyone that before.’
‘I won’t tell a soul.’ He smiled. ‘Why didn’t she come home? Was this when she . . . I mean, I had heard . . .’ he whispered.
‘Drugs.’ It only felt like a half lie.
And without any more words, Flynn stood from the chair and walked around the table to where she sat and went down on his haunches. She placed her hands either side of his head and looked into his eyes as he stretched up to kiss her. It wasn’t the frenzied, urgent kissing of her dreams or imaginings, instead it was quiet, contained and almost chaste, and she was grateful for it.
‘Don’t cry,’ he soothed.
‘I can’t help it. I’m really, really sad.’
Flynn took her hand and led her into the drawing room, where he lay on the sofa. She slipped into the narrow space beside him, glad that she was not alone and quite unable to describe the feeling of utter abandonment as he drew the patchwork quilt over their tired limbs. It was heady and intoxicating to be in such close proximity to this boy, dizzying and wonderful. She inhaled the scent of him and liked the way his very essence caused desire to flare in her gut. His touch was rough and unconsidered, his breathing heavy and his eyes fixed. And it felt . . . it felt glorious. Many were the hours she had lain in her bed, imagining what this might feel like, and here she was! The flames of joy flickered, filling her up until it was a furnace that fuelled her.
Flynn lifted her face to his and kissed her, kissed her properly, with promise. It felt a lot like a beginning. Her skin prickled and every nerve and every fibre in her being yearned to feel his skin against hers. Victoria peeled off her vest and shrugged her bony hips out of her cut-offs before lying on top of him. She liked the way he pushed down on her back muscles, forcing out any gap between them, as close as they could be – well, almost.
It was only tiredness that put a halt to their making out. And with the rare and wonderful comfort of being held and with her head resting on his chest, Victoria felt safe and slept until mid-morning.
SEVEN
Victoria opened her eyes and found she was smiling. This had been rare in recent weeks and the feeling of bunched-up excitement deep in her stomach even rarer. Flynn was no longer on the sofa, but she could hear him pottering in the kitchen as the bang and crash of pots and pans echoed along the hallway. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him still being here, about him having been here at all, but turning her head to inhale the cushion that held the scent of his head was enough to send her into a dizzying spin. Plus, it was nice to have company. She kicked her legs against the sofa cushions, childlike. They had enjoyed skin-on-skin fumbling in the dark, which had not only been exciting but also the most glorious distraction imaginable. Who would believe it? And, actually, the question was more: who did she have to tell now that Daksha was not instantly the person she felt she could text/call/speak to? A quick check on her phone confirmed her friend had not composed something comical and cutting by way of reparation, as she usually did after even the smallest tiff. This felt different, like a deeper cut, and she didn’t like it at all. It would have hurt a lot more, however, if she were not already feeling a little bruised and let down by life – what was one more loss?
She stood, stretched and raked her fingers through her unwashed hair, strangely caring little just how presentable she was, as if they had quickly got past such things. Her skin still glowed at the memory of his hand resting on the flat of her stomach.
The sight of him in the kitchen was both surprising and thrilling. Her concerns about his presence evaporated, wiped out by the frisson of joy in her gut. Flynn hummed as he whipped eggs in a bowl and took his time over grinding in fat twists of black pepper and then sprinkling salt flakes from a respectable height.
‘Eat your heart out, Nigella!’ She leaned against the dresser, happy to watch him work.
‘What time do you call this?’ He flapped the dishcloth towards her. ‘I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all morning and you roll in, expecting to be fed!’
She laughed, a softer, more natural kind of laugh this morning, because she felt the first forgotten flickering of happy, because he had kissed her passionately and she no longer had to fear that first kiss, because Flynn McNamara was the boy she had thought about for more nights than she could count and because he was still here and he was cooking her breakfast. There was also relief, and her interior monologue was very clear as to why:
See, you are not alone. Flynn is here, no need to be scared. Someone is here with you . . .
‘I see you found everything you need?’ She took a seat at the table and saw for the first time the messy counters, the sink full of dirty implements and the discarded rubbish strewn on the floor.
‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Apart from the toaster, and we can’t have bacon, egg and hash browns without toast; that would be so wrong.’
‘It would, and the toaster lives under the sink.’ She pointed.
‘Lives under the sink,’ he repeated. ‘Like a naughty or unwanted pet. Tommy the toaster!’
‘Tommy the toaster,’ she agreed. ‘I think he nibbles the trapped crumbs, those dark bits that fall from the bread and become charcoal, lurking in the crevices so you have to turn the machine upside down over the sink and give it a good whack. I always think it’s very satisfying to see them all tumble out. And very disappointing if you don’t get a rich haul.’
�
��Poor Tommy, no wonder he hides under the sink if all you do is shove bread in his mouth and whack him on the arse.’
‘I think some people pay good money for that.’ She grinned.
‘True that!’ he yelled with a flourish of his whisk as he set the eggs to one side and placed the skillet on the stove. ‘What shall we do after breakfast?’
‘Oh.’ This was unexpected. She had thought that he might leave after eating, and yet here he was, arranging the day ahead. It made her feel a little giddy that he was making a plan and also a little relieved that he was not intending to leave any time soon. ‘I’m supposed to be working in the coffee shop today, a late shift.’
‘How late?’ he asked over his shoulder as he wrestled Tommy from under the sink.
‘Start at four, finish at eight.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No, Victoria. After we have eaten breakfast we need to watch a movie.’
‘Which movie?’ She was confused, wondering if she had lost the thread.
‘Any movie! And then after that we might watch another.’
‘And after that?’ she asked playfully, feeling quite ecstatic at the thought of a duvet day in front of the TV with this boy she so liked and who she hoped might be up for more of that kissing. A day where she didn’t have to think about anything. The prospect of a mental break from her anguish was a welcome one and she relished the thought of not having to try and figure out who had lied and why.
‘I dunno, we’ll play it by ear . . .’ He stopped what he was doing and stared at her, his expression serious, and she felt the flutter of something deep in her chest as he continued to stare, taking her in. And it was in this moment that Victoria wondered if she had finally, finally, gone full chip.
She was carefully formulating her response when the doorbell rang and they both jumped.
Daksha . . .
Relieved in part that her friend had come back, she decided to go straight in with a big hug that she would hold for a little too long – this, she knew, would speak more than any words – before dragging her straight into the drawing room and giving her the five-second low-down, whispering of course, knowing time was of the essence.
Youarenotgoingtobelievethis, but Flynnisinthekitchnenhespentthenight andnowhesmakingeggsforbreakfast! Ohmygoddaksthisisactuallyhappening!
She bit her lip to stifle a squeal at the raucous delight she was certain would follow this revelation; she and Daksha had been known to squeal in unison over far, far less.
The face that greeted her as she flung the front door open was not, however, that of her friend, but someone rather different.
‘Gerald!’ She smiled, hoping the disappointment she felt at the sight of him didn’t leak through into her expression and then feeling instantly guilty that his presence irritated her a little. Why, oh why had he decided to visit today of all days, when she was . . . preoccupied. Daksha, she knew, would have joined in, pulled up a chair and not diluted the wonderful atmosphere! But Gerald? He was a visitor on a whole different scale.
‘Good morning, Victoria. How are you today, dear?’ He ducked his silver head to walk forwards, as he had done numerous times before, and she had little choice but to stand aside and allow him entry into the hallway. She turned briefly to look back towards the garden room, half expecting to see Prim drift into view.
Gerald, darling. Good morning! Let’s pop the kettle on – I’m assuming it’s too early for gin?
‘I’m okay. Thank you.’
‘Well, that’s very good to hear. I must say I have been mulling over the thing we discussed and I can only come up with more questions than answers. It’s not something you hear every day and it requires a lot of thought.’
‘Yep, that’s about the sum of it,’ she agreed.
He gave her the smile that made his eyes crinkle up at the sides and, paying no heed to the warmth of the day, he unwound the maroon knitted scarf from his neck with one hand and deftly hooked it over the bannister in a well-practised movement. In his other hand, he gripped a wide, newspaper-wrapped bundle, which he now presented to her with his heels together and his head tilted, giving the act a certain grandeur.
‘I was up at the allotment this morning, and these beauties are flourishing. Thought you might like some. Prim used to slice them very thinly, sauté them with a little garlic and pepper and finish with a generous squeeze of lemon. They are perfect with any meat or alone with lumps of crumbly cheese. Feta is best, and a large glass of white!’ He tapped the side of his nose as if sharing a confidence, not a recipe.
‘Courgettes!’ She inhaled the distinct, earthy scent of vegetables freshly picked. ‘Thank you, Gerald. I shall do just that.’
She felt torn, wanting to invite the kindly man in and make him a cup of tea, just as Prim would expect her to, but similarly wanting him to skedaddle back out the way he had come, leaving her alone to enjoy her brunch with Flynn. Flynn! Just the thought of him in her kitchen was enough to make her beam and her toes grip the floor. There was also a thin veil of self-consciousness over her – she had, after all, had a boy here for the best part of the night, and she wondered if, in the wake of her new and enlightened physical experience, she looked changed in any way.
‘I also wanted to say, and don’t think I am interfering, dear, because that is the last thing I would want to do and you must feel free to tell an old fuddy-duddy like me to mind my own beeswax!’ He smiled. ‘But I noticed on the day of Prim’s funeral that it’s a lot more than the tomato plants that are in need of some attention. The geraniums need deadheading, and one or two of the orchids need a little spritz. I would hate to see her plants wither, she loved them so, and I was wondering whether it might be appropriate for me to—’ He stopped mid-sentence as Flynn appeared in the hallway, holding the skillet of eggs.
‘Morning!’ He waved the spatula in his hand.
‘Good . . . good morning.’ Gerald straightened and flattened his shirtfront with the palm of his hand. ‘I am sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.’
She saw the old man’s gaze wander to the open door of the drawing room, where she knew he would spy the patchwork quilt, heaped and abandoned on the floor by the sofa, whose cushions were awry and topped with a discarded bra. The coffee table was littered with empty food bowls, with licks of spicy coconut sauce congealed on the sides, and half-empty mugs of tea, one placed on the novel that she was yet to finish.
‘This is Flynn.’
‘Flynn. I see.’ Gerald nodded. ‘How do you do?’ He held out his right hand, as if to shake hands with her friend, but as both of Flynn’s hands were occupied he instead raised it into a wave.
‘Would you like some breakfast? I’ve made plenty.’ Flynn jerked his head towards the kitchen. His offer sounded genuine and she liked how he included Gerald.
‘Have you now?’ Gerald paused, his smile a little forced. ‘Well, thank you for that kind offer, but breakfast was a long time ago for me. I am, in fact, already thinking about lunch!’
‘No worries!’ Flynn smiled and returned to the kitchen. Gerald’s slight and tone were not lost on Victoria, who knew that Gerald, like Prim, would think that lounging around at this time of day with no chores done and only just starting breakfast would indicate that they were lazy. But there was something more. She felt by the stiffening of his spine and the slip of his smile that he was judging her for allowing this boy into her family home. And whilst she reminded herself that it was absolutely nothing to do with Gerald what she did and who she did it with, it didn’t feel nice at all, the idea that her gran’s beau might in some way think she was being disrespectful or sleazy, and so soon after saying goodbye to Prim. In fact, how dare he? It was an incredibly rude and judgemental way to behave towards Flynn, who had done nothing other than offer Gerald breakfast! Sweet Jesus, did everyone think they could comment on her life? Intervene? Take control?
‘Thank you for my courgettes, Gerald, and yes, please do wh
atever you think is best with the plants; I’d hate to see them wither too. It would be the worst. Anyway, this isn’t getting breakfast served!’ She looked towards the kitchen. ‘And I am starving!’
The man rocked on his soft-soled shoes and looked a little lost for words.
‘Maybe . . . maybe you could let me know when would be a good time to come and tend to them?’ He shot a look towards the kitchen.
‘Maybe I will do that.’ She was aware of the change in her tone but wanted to get her message across – bloody Gerald! Bloody Prim! And just like that, she was right back to her gran’s betrayal . . .
‘Righto. Well, we’ll leave it at that then.’ Gerald gave a small, tight-lipped smile and reached for his scarf before letting himself out of the front door.
Victoria laid the bundle of courgettes on a shelf in the fridge and sat at the table, where Flynn had set two places.
‘Was he a friend of your nan’s?’ Flynn asked as he placed a loaded plate in front of her. She laughed at the sheer volume of food: a pile of crispy bacon, a small mountain of soft, buttery scrambled eggs and three golden, crisply fried home-made hash browns. This was accompanied by several slices of bread, all browned to perfection by Tommy and spread generously with butter.
‘This looks amazing! Thank you, Flynn, and yes, he was her kind of boyfriend, I suppose, and now, apparently, he thinks that gives him the right to pitch up and tell me what to do.’
‘Did he tell you what to do?’
‘Not in so many words.’ She flicked her hair over her shoulders. ‘But you know when someone is having a sly dig at you and you know it? It was like that. And it makes me mad! I mean, God, I’m not a kid!’
‘You are definitely not a kid.’ He smiled at her and her stomach flipped. ‘I didn’t think people would bother having boyfriends or girlfriends when they were that ancient.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ She picked up a rigid strip of bacon and snapped the end off into her mouth. The salty fat melted on her tongue and her hunger surged. She reached for another piece. ‘Oh my God! This is so good! She picked up her fork and attacked the food mountain in front of her.
The Day She Came Back Page 13