‘I’m okay.’
‘Good, good! I was hoping you would call, there is so much I want to say to you, things I keep thinking about to tell you and that I think might help you to—’
‘Sarah.’ She drew breath, interrupting the woman’s flow. ‘I dialled you in error.’
‘In . . . in error?’ Her voice was thin. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, it was a misdial. I was closing the text you sent me, and . . .’
‘I see. So you didn’t mean to call me? Didn’t want to chat?’
Victoria knew well enough the sound of a voice that was trying to cry in secret as it spoke, as if a little overwhelmed with disappointment. The guilt that bloomed on her tongue was quickly replaced with the sweet taste of vengeance. Victoria was hurting and she wanted to hurt those who had hurt her and, as there was only this woman left, she took the full brunt.
‘That’s right.’ She bit the side of her cheek. ‘I didn’t mean to call you.’
‘Well,’ Sarah sniffed, ‘now that we are on the phone, however it came about, do you have a minute to talk?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid. Bye, Sarah.’ Victoria ended the call and went back to the dog-eared page of her novel.
NINE
She liked sharing a house with Flynn; they had a further three days of playing grown-ups, having sex and smoking weed as the sun went down. It was the cosy domesticity of eating and waking together that was enough to keep her loneliness at bay. It was also a taster of a different kind of life, one she had never properly considered, but where she lived with someone she loved and they looked after each other, just like she and Prim had done. She was undoubtedly happiest when naked with Flynn and the thought of him going to Newcastle was one she pushed to the back of her mind.
‘Daks? It’s me!’ She slumped down on to the stairs and smiled into the phone.
‘Hey, you. How’s life in Surrey?’
‘Peachy.’
‘You sound it. This is good, my friend, very good!’
‘I have been baking!’
‘Sorry, Vic, I think the line must have gone a bit dodgy, either that or my hearing has gone; I thought for one terrible moment you said you had been baking!’
‘Very funny.’ She laughed more than the joke warranted, happy – beyond happy – that things were restored between her and the girl she so loved. ‘I have actually found it quite therapeutic. I’ve made brownies!’ She giggled, deciding not to divulge all of the ingredients.
‘Wow! Brownies! Well done, my clever friend.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I can’t wait to come home. I have eaten my body weight in cake and am quite keen to leave before I actually explode!’
‘Don’t explode.’ Victoria laughed, knowing it would not occur to her friend to simply say no to the cake on offer. ‘Anyway, I think I might have just the incentive you need to want to be in shape, plus the perfect thing to occupy your thoughts while you are away.’
‘Oh God, that sounds ominous. Okay, shoot.’
‘I am going to have a party! Or, more specifically, we – we – are going to have a party!’ She couldn’t help the creep of excitement in her voice.
‘A party? When?’ Daksha sounded more perplexed than thrilled. Parties were not and never had been their thing.
‘Saturday night.’
‘Oh my God! This Saturday?’
‘Yes. Why, do you have plans? Because if you do, cancel them!’
‘Ha ha! Four days’ time? How much weight can I lose in four days?’
‘Quite a lot, if you stay off the cake.’ Victoria laughed again.
‘Not gonna happen. Where’s the party?’
‘Here, at Rosebank.’
There was a moment of hesitation before Daksha replied. ‘Really? You want to have a party at Prim’s house?’ Her friend’s shocked tone put a big dent in Victoria’s happiness and irritated her in the way that dissent when an idea was good often did.
‘Actually, it’s my house now. And yes, right here.’ She looked around the hallway and tried to imagine the twinkle of fairy lights and the low hum of conversation over the chink of glasses.
‘Who are we going to invite? Do we know enough people to make a party?’ Daksha laughed as she voiced the uncomfortable truth.
‘Well, maybe not, but Flynn McNamara does.’ She screwed her eyes shut and danced her bare feet on the step below, knowing the bombshell she was about to drop.
‘Well, yes, I am sure he does, but what makes you think he’ll want to come to our party? We’re hardly Flynn McNamara-worthy. He’s barely spoken a word to us in the last five years, save your outside-the-shop chit-chat the other week.’ Her voice dropped an octave, as if she, like Victoria, was aware that this chat had happened on the day that her life was about to change . . .
‘Actually, it was his suggestion that we have a party.’ Victoria paused. ‘He suggested it over breakfast this morning.’
Daksha let out a small giggle. ‘Of course he did. In your dreams. Don’t tell me: he made you scrambled eggs while naked?’
Victoria bit her lip and grinned. If only you knew . . .
‘No, Daks, not in my dreams. This is absolutely for real! Oh my God! I’ve got so much to tell you. He pitched up here the night you and I . . . you know, when your mum came to get you . . . and he has been staying here for the last few days and only left briefly the other morning because I kind of made him because I needed a break, but he came back. He’s out now seeing friends, but he’s coming back again tonight!’ She shoved her knuckles into her mouth, hoping this might take the full force of the excitement that threatened to burst from her. She hadn’t realised that the telling about Flynn would be nearly as thrilling as the actual being with Flynn, if not more so.
‘You are joking me?’
‘I am not joking. He has been staying here and we shared a bed and slept on the sofa and we have kind of, you know, we have done stuff. Lots of stuff,’ she whispered, wary of her ancestors’ portraits and photographs all around. ‘And it’s good and he’s great and, when I am with him, I can forget all the other shit that’s going on. He is exactly what I need right now. I like him, I do. I mean, I don’t think it’s a long-term thing, or a serious thing, of course not, he’s going off to Newcastle, but it’s good fun. He’s sweet, and he makes breakfast!’ She laughed. ‘So, what do you think?’ She sat back on the stairs.
‘I . . . I still don’t know if you’re mucking about.’ The laughter had gone from Daksha’s voice and this alone was enough to cause a flare of embarrassment.
‘No! God! Why is it so hard to believe? Because I’m not Courtney? Because I like books, not boys? Why can’t I like both? And why do you think I am so out of Flynn’s league? What is so wrong with me, Daks?’ Her tone was sharp.
‘Nothing! There is absolutely nothing wrong with you!’
‘That’s not what it sounds like. You sound really pissed off, actually.’
‘Because I am pissed off. Actually.’
‘I can tell. Why can’t you just be happy for me?’ She hated that those darn tears were still so very close to the surface, and she cursed the catch in her throat.
There was a beat or two of silence while she waited for her best friend to speak. The tension was palpable.
‘I have been happy and sad for you your whole life. I have lived all your emotions with you, good and bad. And the fact that I am a little taken aback by your crazy, sudden news is because to have a party in Prim’s beautiful house that she gifted you is bloody madness! And the Victoria I know and love would not dream of doing anything like that, not because she is boring, but because she knows how absolutely shit it would be if anything happened to any of Prim’s lovely things, if her home got destroyed. And for your information, Victoria, I do not and have never thought that Flynn McNamara was out of your league, but I have always, always thought that you were way out of his.’
The silence across the miles rang out.
Victoria didn’t know
what to say, but Daksha did.
‘I have to go. My mum’s calling me.’ Her lie was brazen and obvious. ‘See you soon, and I hope your party is a great success.’
With that, she ended the call abruptly, the implication being that she had no intention of being part of any event, this Saturday or any other.
The phone call had been draining. Victoria, weakened, crawled up the stairs and along the corridor until she fell on to her bed. This grief business was tiring and it sledgehammered her when she least expected it, adding a layer of exhaustion to anything else negative that happened, like a chaser to knock her out. She folded her pillow into her chest and fell into a deep sleep.
The front doorbell woke her. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept, but long enough for the sun to sink and night to pull its inky shade on the day.
Flynn . . .
Victoria pulled on her dressing gown over her clothes to ward off the chill of early evening and trod the stairs.
She had barely opened the front door when Flynn rushed in and lifted her clean off her feet, spinning her around, kissing her neck.
‘This is happ-en-ing!’ he sang.
‘What is?’ She laughed, wriggling to be free and giving that girly giggle, desperate to feel wanted, trying to bury the disappointment she felt at Daksha’s words, which had cut her fragile stays of confidence. And in truth, much preferring his infectious enthusiasm for the event than her so-called best friend’s fun-sucking negativity.
‘Party central!’ He put her back on firm ground and she noticed he had changed his clothes and showered, glad that he had gone home and that his parents wouldn’t now be worried. ‘Do you know Sab in the lower sixth?’ He spoke quickly, clicking his fingers. ‘Hangs out with Jordan and Jay and that lot?’
She shook her head. None of the names were familiar. ‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Well, he’s borrowing decks off his cousin.’ He clapped in delight.
‘Decks?’
‘Decks!’ He laughed loudly. ‘Music decks, for djing!’
‘Yes, Flynn – I know what they are!’ Did everyone think she was stupid or had been living in a cave? ‘I just didn’t realise you were thinking of decks for the party.’
‘How else would we get music?’ He looked at her quizzically.
‘I thought . . .’ What had she thought? ‘I thought we might put a phone in a speaker with a good playlist.’
He laughed loudly again and, not for the first time that day, she felt stupid. ‘It can’t be a big, big party, Flynn, not like a nightclub thing. Not here.’ She was adamant: Daksha was right about one thing, she would absolutely hate for any of Prim’s lovely things to get broken.
‘No, of course not. Just a nice gathering, some mellow music and a chance to all let our hair down before we jump on trains to uni!’
‘Not all of us,’ she reminded him, wondering for the first time if she had made the right decision, and feeling a flicker of panic – everyone is going to leave . . . She tried to picture the house with no Prim, no Daksha and no Flynn, before rubbing the tops of her arms inside her dressing gown to warm them.
‘No, not you, Miss Supercool, intent on paving your own way. Travelling the world!’
She nodded, unwilling to share the fact that the plan was looking a little sketchy with the way things between her and Daksha stood at that very moment.
‘I thought we could make noodles for supper?’ he asked casually, removing his jacket and tossing it on to the stairs as if he had lived here for years and they were a couple. It calmed her fears a little.
‘Noodles sound good.’ She smiled, heading to the kitchen, switching lamps on as she went and aware of the deep rumble of hunger in her stomach. She watched him wield the knife against the chopping board like a pro, thinly slicing spring onions, carrots and broccoli with speed.
‘I like this.’ She smiled from the doorframe against which she leaned.
‘You like what?’ He looked up.
‘I like . . . the two of us being here and kind of looking after each other a bit.’ She felt her cheeks bloom with embarrassment, still so wary of saying the thing that might make Flynn McNamara bolt for the door.
‘I like it too.’ He held her gaze.
‘It’s . . . unexpected.’
‘I think the best things often are, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. Although I’m trying not to get too used to it. I mean, you’re heading off to Newcastle in a couple of weeks . . .’ She let this trail.
‘You can come to Newcastle. Jump on a train and I’ll show you the sights.’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘Yes! Of course I would!’ He tutted and waved the knife as if it was a forgone conclusion. It filled her with a bubble of joy – maybe this was more than a holiday fling; she welcomed the thought.
The two sat end to end on the sofa, bowls held to their chests as they fed the long, salty noodles into their mouths, nibbling at the spring onion and spicy prawns that ran through them. Victoria was aware of the illegality of eating in the drawing room. Always a no-no as far as Prim was concerned; she had insisted on them eating at a table. But then there was much Prim would not have approved of: bare feet on the sofa, the washing-up sitting idle in the kitchen sink, Flynn’s jacket discarded on the stairs, where someone might trip over it, having sex wherever and whenever the fancy took them, smoking weed in the garden room – oh, and the planning of a party where a DJ was going to take up residence with his decks. But then there was much about how Prim had lived her life that Victoria did not approve of: lying about the fact that her mum had died, watching her pray to her mum in heaven when she was in fact only in Oslo, without saying a word . . .
Fuck you all! This her overriding thought on the matter.
‘I’m having a really nice time with you.’ He beamed over the rim of his bowl.
She smiled at him. ‘Me too.’
‘Heard from courgettes guy?’ He spoke through a mouthful.
‘Gerald? No.’ She shook her head, not overly bothered, seeing him as very much in the ‘Prim’ camp.
‘So he’s not going to pitch up in the morning with a bundle of rhubarb or some grubby carrots?’
‘No.’
‘Good, no one to disturb us. I like our morning sex best.’
Her laughter was loud and raucous; it felt simultaneously thrilling and shocking to be having these very open discussions.
‘Me too.’ She smiled at him. ‘Can I ask, Flynn, do your parents not mind that you don’t you sleep at home?’
‘Why would I sleep at home when I can sleep with you?’ He stopped eating and held her gaze, as if it were obvious, and it made her heart skip. He grabbed her ankle and ran his free hand up under her jeans and over her calf. ‘I like being with you.’
‘And I like being with you.’
‘This party is going to be kicking.’ He removed his hand from her skin and went back to his noodle consumption.
Yep, kicking . . .
Victoria walked home on Friday evening, having finished her shift at the coffee shop. It had felt good to concentrate on the making and serving of hot drinks and sticky buns, almost freeing, in that her grief was relegated for an hour or so. Stanislaw was sweet and asked repeatedly if she was feeling better after her recent sickness bug, which, ironically, made her feel sick. She had worked doubly hard, was extra polite to the customers and gave a greater share of her tips to the kitchen pot-washers than was necessary, trying to appease her guilt. Stanislaw was a good man. And it worked, a little. It felt odd walking the lane home, knowing that Flynn was at Rosebank waiting for her. His presence in the house felt comforting and invasive at the same time and her head swam with all that had happened. She still carried the strangest feeling, as if the sadness and the flurry of emotions were a whirling tornado stoppered inside a bottle and, try as she might, she still couldn’t smash it. If she let herself think about everything – it all felt like too much.
I lied to Stanislaw,
and he deserves better. Prim died. My beautiful gran died! I found her. I can picture her face in that chair. My mum is not dead. She is not dead! Sarah is my mum and she is alive, living in Oslo! They lied to me, all of them, even Grandpa. Flynn likes me; Flynn McNamara, who is right this very minute waiting for me at home, something I have fantasised about for so many years. Flynn and I have had sex, quite a bit of sex, yes, me, me with my potato face! And Daksha, my sweet, sweet Daks, who doubts me, who isn’t here and who I miss so, so much . . . it’s all too much, all of it. I can’t think. I just need to keep smiling and keep going . . .
The party was the following night and she had left Flynn with a long list of instructions. He had queried some of them.
‘Nibbles? What’s that?’ He looked at her, his expression clueless.
‘You know’ – she tutted – ‘crisps and things for people to eat. In little bowls dotted around? We need to buy stuff.’
He had laughed hard. ‘You crack me up, Victoria.’ He plucked the red felt-tipped pen from her hand and put a thick line through the word ‘nibbles’. ‘And this one?’ He lifted the used envelope to his face, trying to decipher her writing.
‘It says “neighbour notes”. I thought maybe we should write little notes explaining to the neighbours either side that we are having a few friends over and so apologising in advance for any noise, and giving them a time we expect everyone to leave so they can see an end to it and know we aren’t going to disturb their sleep or anything.’
Flynn shook his head. ‘What time were you thinking, ten o’clock?’
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. ‘No, but midnight would be fair.’
The Day She Came Back Page 17