The Day She Came Back

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Midnight?’ he screeched, as if scolded. ‘What party ends at midnight? It probably won’t start until gone ten, eleven!’

  ‘Really?’ It was her turn to screech.

  He crossed through ‘neighbour notes’ and handed her back the pen.

  ‘Let’s just go with the flow, see how things develop and keep chill. Okay?’ He had kissed her then; the number of kisses she had lost count of, but she knew it was a lot more than thirteen. In truth, she felt more nervous about the party than excited, but she didn’t want to quash Flynn’s excitement. Not only did she want to please him but, for one night, she wanted to be the kind of girl who had a party and didn’t give a fig what the neighbours thought. Flynn handed her the joint, which she took into her fingers.

  ‘Okay.’ She kissed him again.

  After sleeping late and eating one of Flynn’s gargantuan breakfasts, much of Saturday was spent in preparation. Victoria had run the vacuum over the carpets and swept the flagstones. All precious or valuable items had been locked in the cupboard in Grandpa’s old study on the second floor, and shelves and surfaces had been cleared of glassware and ornaments, replaced with coasters, should someone decide to abandon a glass or can on a shiny surface. The door to the garden room was locked. Access to Prim’s beautiful plants was strictly forbidden. Victoria carried with her a feeling of intense anxiety, unaware that hosting a party would bring this much pressure. There were a million things to worry about: would people turn up? And if they did, would they have a good time? Did they have enough booze? Would people drink too much? Would the music be too loud? Not loud enough? What if the whole thing was a flop? Should she and Flynn sneak off upstairs? When could they sneak off upstairs? What should she wear? How should she do her hair? These last two items would have been a doddle with Daksha on hand to offer advice, but her friend was far from on hand and this thought was constantly at the front of Victoria’s mind. Daksha’s absence removed a huge chunk of her joy.

  ‘Wowsers! You look fricking amazing!’ Flynn grinned at her from the open door of the bathroom across the landing as she took the small gold-tasselled key and locked the door to Prim’s bedroom before putting it in the brass plant pot on the landing. She walked slowly towards him in her silver high heels – the first time she had ever worn them, having bought them from a charity shop a few months earlier. Her legs were shaved and slathered in glossy lotion and her perfume spritzed in long bursts. The look on his face was one of appreciation as he took in the oversized shirt she had decided to wear with a large leather belt around the waist, thus turning it into a dress. A very short dress, but a dress nevertheless. Her hair was loose, and she had, for the first time in her life, applied fake tan to her pale, freckled skin. And with a slick of red lipstick purloined from Prim’s dressing table, she was all set.

  ‘I mean it – amaaaa-zing!’ He whistled, reached out, pulled her to him and, with his hand in the small of her back, kissed her. ‘You want some?’ He proffered a joint he had rolled earlier and she took a single long, deep draw before heading down the stairs and into the kitchen for a cold glass of wine. She felt euphoric, excited, elated and sexy – the heels certainly helped, but there was no doubt this was shaping up to be quite possibly the best night of her life! She felt magnificent!

  Victoria hadn’t planned on getting drunk, far from it, but nervous anticipation meant she knocked back more than she might usually; in fact, more than she ever had. Her state of inebriation not only helped combat the horrible feeling of isolation without Daksha by her side, it also felt like the only way to handle the terrible lag between getting ready for the party and people actually arriving. She sipped wine quickly and refilled her glass regularly, taking the joint from Flynn’s fingers whenever he passed. He was busy, preoccupied, whispering in corners with his mate and queuing up tracks for later. It was a reminder of how new they were that, rather than take his hand as she wished, she felt more comfortable dancing alone in the kitchen, practising a few steps and watching her reflection in the window to check out her moves. She looked good and was at the glorious arc of inebriation where she didn’t realise quite how drunk or stoned she was.

  She watched Flynn and his friend swallow a pill and grin at each other.

  ‘Boyfriend . . .’ She practised the word out loud, and it made her laugh. ‘’Smyboyfriend . . .’ she slurred, raising her glass to him.

  Sab and his two mates had set up the decks in the drawing room, where the furniture had been pushed to the sides of the room and the rugs rolled and put in a spare bedroom. The three of them nodded their heads in time to the relentless beat of a track that to her untrained ear sounded exactly like the last one they had played. She knew, however, it was more than her credibility was worth to ask if they had any Ed Sheeran or George Ezra.

  Flynn caught her eye and winked; as usual, desire flared in her gut. This was happening: she was hosting a party with Flynn McNamara and, of all the girls he knew, she was the one he wanted. For the first time ever, Victoria felt a swell of something in her chest, and it felt a lot like belonging, a lot like popularity, and she liked it. In that moment she wasn’t thinking about Prim, she wasn’t thinking about Sarah, she wasn’t thinking about much, other than getting Flynn alone, upstairs, and the sheer joy of feeling his hands on her skin. The thought in itself was enough to make her throw her head back and laugh! It was like she had a glorious secret.

  With a glass of wine in her hand, she heard Flynn and the DJ boys laughing loudly in the drawing room and, just as she was wondering if anyone was ever going to show, and caring little at that point whether they did or not, she heard a different kind of laughter. Guests! By the time the first of the revellers arrived, a little after 10 p.m. she was positively sloshed and viewed proceedings through an alcohol-induced haze.

  Victoria made her way out into the hallway and stood on the second stair, enabling her to look out over those arriving. She jiggled on the spot to the beat and let out random shouts of ‘Woo-hoo!’ for no particular reason. She saw at least ten heads of people she didn’t know or recognise crowding through the front door all at once. Girls with poker-straight hair, their faces daubed in glitter paint, wearing faux fur bomber jackets, bikini tops and platform boots, accompanied by boys with slicked-back hair and sharp cheekbones sporting bare chests inside zip-up tracksuit tops – beautiful, beautiful people. And they were at her party.

  ‘Hi!’ She raised her hand in greeting, which was universally ignored. ‘I’m Victoria. This is my house, my party! I’m with Flynn!’ she hollered, one arm outstretched, the other fiercely gripping a can of lager, the drink to which she had now switched. One man raised his fingers in a peace sign as acknowledgement and looked at her over the top of his sunglasses but, other than that, no one seemed particularly interested in her name or her announcement. She felt the crushing blow of disappointment and loathed how much she wanted these people, whose opinion she shouldn’t care less about, to like her. It was very different to the scenario she had played out in her mind over the last few days, where a gaggle of girls crowded around her in the kitchen, having introduced themselves. Shiny new friends.

  So you’re with Flynn? Ohmygod, he’s gorgeous!

  Cute couple, I love your hair!

  Your house is so cool!

  You should come out with us, come shopping!

  Instead, people filed past indifferently as she watched from her vantage point on the stairs. Strangers snaked into the drawing room, as if drawn by the repetitive beat, dancing as they moved forward with their arms raised, elbows up and out. Some, she noted, were holding cans; others carried half bottles of spirits; and a couple were smoking. Taking Flynn’s advice, she decided to go with the flow, keep chill and join in. That was the answer.

  In a moment of drunken clumsiness, with a lack of coordination and unused to wearing the towering heels, her foot slipped on the bottom stair and she tumbled inelegantly forward, launching her can and its contents in the air and landing in an ungainly heap on the hall f
loor with her shirt/dress having ridden up over her hips and exposing her underwear. There was a roar of laughter, and no one helped her up. She felt like crying, but instead managed to get on to all fours and lever herself up against the newel post, pulling the shirt down to cover her modesty. Her ankle throbbed and, even though she wasn’t crying, her eyes watered and, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, she saw that her mascara streaked her face. ‘Fuck it!’ she yelled, and danced her way back into the kitchen, trying to make everything okay and wishing that Flynn was by her side. Grabbing a square of kitchen roll, she wiped her eyes and lifted the bin lid to throw it away.

  She was unsure which particular odour caused the bile to rise in her throat. It could have been the old, cold, dead prawn noodles that lined the bin or the gone-off milk that sloshed in the bottom of an open plastic bottle or possibly the cold bacon fat that was inadequately wrapped in tin foil; not that it mattered, the result was the same. As the smells reached her nostrils, Victoria bent her head low into the bin and vomited. And then vomited again. She felt her skin break out in an uncomfortable sweat as the room span. She gripped the countertop as thick dribble hung from her chin in a lacy bib.

  ‘Oh my God! What is that stench?’

  She whipped her head around to see two of the bomber-jacketed, poker-straight-haired girls looking at her like she was . . . like she was disgusting.

  ‘’S’okay!’ She raised her hand. ‘I’mokay!’

  The girls wrinkled their noses and shook their heads in a way that was both pitying and dismissive. It was then that she felt the next bout of sickness rising and, rather than let them witness her shame, she ducked into the larder cupboard and vomited into the stash of shopping bags that sat in a box in the darkness. The sound of the girls’ laughter was enough to finally encourage her tears to the surface. Pulling the door closed, Victoria removed her ridiculous shoes and sank down until she sat on the floor of the dark, cool cupboard, vomit covering the damp front of her clothing, her hair mussed and her make-up ruined. Her breath, she knew, was foul, and still the room span.

  ‘I want to go home . . .’ she murmured, as her sob built. ‘I just want to go home . . .’ But therein lay the problem. ‘I liked things the way they were before. I liked it when I didn’t know, when I thought I was happy . . .’

  She placed her head on the wall and welcomed the brief respite from the company of strangers. It was hard to say how long she stayed in the dark confines of the larder while the party raged around her, but long enough for her to start feeling the beginnings of sober. With her head in her hands, Victoria cried.

  ‘I am in a bloody cupboard!’ she whispered. ‘And I am covered in sick.’

  When her tears had subsided sufficiently, she crept out and washed her face in the sink. Knowing she certainly did not want any more wine, she made herself a cup of tea and laughed, looking out over the wide sweep of the back lawn, wondering what Daksha would make of it all.

  Yes, I swear to God! Everyone was dancing and I was in the kitchen, looking like I’d been dragged through several hedges backwards, all on my own, making a cup of tea. And you know why, Daks? Because it’s ‘always the right time for a cup of tea!’

  She missed her friend. Missed her so much. Nothing, she knew, felt half as much fun when Daksha wasn’t involved. She felt for her phone but decided against calling, hating the tears that threatened.

  ‘Not tonight, Victoria. No more crying tonight.’ Sniffing, she managed to halt the tears’ advance.

  Having downed her tea and with the beginning of clarity edging her thoughts, she emerged from the kitchen to find the hallway busy with people. Ignoring the snickering and whispered comments about her appearance, she peered into the drawing room; the ten people dancing had become twenty or possibly nearer thirty, or more . . . the place was rammed. She watched the crowd take up positions in the spaces on the floor as if choreographed, comfortable and familiar with how to move to the pulse of the music. She watched through the open door as Sab placed one earphone over his ear and seamlessly led them like a puppeteer from one tune into another, and still they danced. It was like they were connected, his hands on the decks and the feet of those who now shuffled, slid and jumped en masse.

  Her eyes scanned the sea of heads, each and every one of them a stranger and not one of them remotely interested in talking to her. She was invisible. The way heels were dragging across the hardwood floor bothered her; similarly, she noticed a couple who had stretched out top to toe on the sofa with clunky boots resting on the dupioni silk. Another girl flicked ash over her shoulder, careless of where it might land.

  It was as if a switch had flipped in her brain. This was not fun. This was not the best night of her life, and this was her house. She wanted everyone to leave, she wanted the party to stop and she wanted nothing more than to lie in Flynn’s arms.

  Slowly, she made her way through the crowds and across the hallway, which was chock-full of bodies. Here there was less laughter and more shouting, people calling to each other to be heard, lobbing lighters and cigarettes across the heads of others and swilling booze from carelessly held cans. Then came the crash of glass, followed by a clap of derision from those standing close by. She didn’t know what had got broken: a wine glass? A painting? Her heart began to race as she sobered enough to feel the full fear of someone who was in a situation that was veering wildly out of their control.

  She needed to find Flynn.

  ‘Flynn?’ she called out in the kitchen, and again in the hallway, before making her way into the drawing room and battling through the crowd to Sab and his mates. ‘Have you seen Flynn?’ she shouted.

  ‘Nah!’ came his downturned-mouth response, followed by a shake of his head, before he turned his attention back to the music. Victoria went hunting for the boy who could make this all stop, the person who had invited all these people to the party – his friends, his bloody friends! One thing she knew for certain: this was not a nice gathering and there was nothing mellow about it. She felt the very real beginnings of panic as she prowled the rooms and garden, looking for him.

  It felt like more people had arrived. Strangers crowded every corner. Some kissed wildly on cushions in the window seats where she and Prim had sat and read books; others lay in dark corners trying not to get trampled; one girl, she noted, was wearing what looked suspiciously like her ratty grey dressing gown. Her heart raced and her breath was coming fast.

  ‘Oh no! Not upstairs!’ Her heart continued to thud as she navigated the inebriated, the high and the sexual adventurers who cluttered up the stairs, tripping over the bodies, not caring at that point if they could see right up her short, short dress. The breath caught in her throat at the sight of people up here too, on Prim’s landing, where her gran had blown her a kiss goodnight across the soft carpet on more nights than she cared to remember, in this, the home Prim had lived all of her married life with Grandpa.

  ‘Night night, my darling, sweet dreams, see you in the morning . . .’

  Her head continued to clear and her anger burbled.

  I need to find Flynn . . . this is getting way out of hand! He can send them all home . . .

  ‘You need to go downstairs!’ she yelled, waving her arms to indicate where the stairs were, thinking this might help speed up the process. ‘You all need to go back down the stairs, this is out of bounds!’ she called again, trying to make herself heard over the beat of the music, which she was certain had gone up in volume. People ignored her, all apart from one guy, who gripped her arm and whispered, ‘Chill out!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she yelled back, and he laughed.

  Making her way along the landing, she put her hand on the handle to Prim’s bedroom, this special place.

  Please, please, no . . . She prayed that no one had done the unthinkable and found the key, taken up residence in this room, this one above all others. Even the thought of someone lying on Prim’s bed, near her things, was enough to make her tears gather and her gut bunch with guilt and regret.


  I’m sorry, Prim! I’m sorry!

  Opening the door quickly, there was a split second where she felt utterly paralysed. The long cascade of blonde hair shivering down the naked back of the girl was the first thing she saw. The same girl now kneeling with her arms raised provocatively over her head as she sat like a queen on a throne. The throne, however, was Prim’s mattress.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?’ she screamed through gritted teeth. ‘Get out! Get out of this room! What do you think—’ The words ran out as the girl turned around to face her and Victoria’s stomach jumped so violently she feared she might throw up again. It was none other than Courtney who pouted at her in the lamplight, pulling off the doll-like and dumb in a way she could never emulate.

  ‘Courtney!’ she managed. Her eyes then fell upon the boy wedged beneath the voluptuous Courtney on the mattress. And that’s when she did throw up, managing to grab a handbag that had been discarded on the floor by the end of the bed. Lowering her head into it, she deposited the remainder of her wine and lager consumption and much of a large mug of tea.

  ‘That’s my bloody bag! My phone’s in there! What the actual fuck?’ Courtney wailed, as the boy sat up and tried to hide his nakedness. That boy was none other than Flynn McNamara. Of course it was. And by the looks of things, his pants had fallen off.

  ‘Victoria!’ he called after her as she ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind her before she finished throwing up into the loo, and running the cold tap to rinse her face and mouth. Standing in front of the mirror above the sink, she stared at the person reflected back at her.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘And what the hell are you doing?’

  Plucking the bottle of Chanel No5 from the glass shelf above the wide pedestal sink, she carefully removed the lid and sprayed it on to her décolletage and wrist, which she brought to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was a sweet scent of remembrance that brought Prim into the room. The tears that followed were different from the angry, thin tears that had dogged her for weeks, they were drawn from a deeper place, a place where the memory of the life she had shared with Prim played like a home movie. A warm place full of love, and in it there was no place for strangers, loud music, drugs and certainly not for shitty boys who lied.