The Day She Came Back(37)
Well it’s 2.45 in the morning! I should be sleeping . . .
She fired it off with a sense of nervous anticipation, unsure of the convention when it came to chatting like this.
But your not sleeping – your chatting to me.
Victoria cringed at his grammatical error. She might not have been au fait with the rules of flirtation, but she knew enough to stay shtum on this.
You got me!
Have I?
Came his immediate response.
It would have been hard to describe how this brief exchange, his words curt and unimaginative, made such a difference to her state of mind. It was the finest distraction, and also, at some subtle level, she wanted to talk to someone who had no part in the whole sordid lie that was her life. Her first thought, with a ball of excitement gathering in her gut, was to shout for Daksha and show her the messages, picturing how they would hug each other and squeal with childish excitement, but Daksha was no doubt sleeping deeply in her loving home with her mum and dad keeping watch and her siblings within earshot along the corridor. Unlike her, who was all alone, having more or less sent her one friend and ally packing. It was this thought that sent a wobble of fear through her very core. Looking out of the side window towards the path, which snaked its way around the house, she wished she had had the forethought to draw the curtains. She listened hard now, in case there might be footsteps on the gravel, alerting her to . . . what? An intruder? Now she gathered the quilt around her shoulders a little tighter and curled her toes beneath the fabric.
I honestly don’t know what to say to that.
She wrote the absolute truth.
Ill take it as a yes.
What was it with him and apostrophes?
A yes to what? I don’t know what the question was?
Victoria felt bold and liked the rush of confidence that swelled in her veins.
The question was, would you like some company?
Now?!
Her panicked response.
Her thoughts were so frantic they collided with each other, making it almost impossible to think straight and come up with a coherent plan.
I haven’t washed my hair for days! How can I see Flynn! I’ve got a spot on my chin. He wants to come here, to this house, right now? It’s late! I’m wearing dirty shorts! Do I like him? Do I know him? What would Prim think? What would Daks say? This boy who I have thought about for years wants to come here and see me!!!
Sure.
Felt like the best response.
On my way. We can talk about Chelsea’s latest performance! Ha ha! (they are blue ones by the way!)
This final message sent Victoria into something of a tailspin. Letting the quilt drop to the floor, she ran around the sofa for no good reason, before rushing up the stairs and into the bathroom, where she thoroughly cleaned her teeth and rinsed with mouthwash twice for good measure. She stared at her reflection and pulled her hair back into a loose knot before letting it down again and then putting it up again. There was no disguising the dark circles of grief that sat beneath her eyes or the lack of polish to her skin, which she had neglected in recent times. But this was who she was and this was how she was. She remembered what Prim had said about when she met Grandpa and he had liked her for being her, ‘warts and all’. Her tears gathered and she cursed the memory, which like all memories of her gran right now were bittersweet, tinged with the pain of recent loss and betrayal. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted the irony seep of her blood.
‘Why the fuck did you do it to me?’ she asked the mirror, picturing her gran standing behind her at a time when she might stop by to chat while Victoria got ready for bed, in the time before – when she was in the dark; before she felt like her whole life had been compromised.
The wardrobe doors were propped open with bundles of dirty laundry. Prim had been fastidious about gathering up anything on the floor and shoving it into the washing machine. Victoria rummaged through the rail stuffed with overloaded hangers. To her dismay, she discovered that many of the items in there were no more than jumble fodder. Old sweatshirts with transfers of ponies on the front, dresses that were at least three sizes too small and a whole range of school uniform for the school she had left a few months ago now. She chose her linen shirt from the laundry pile, giving it a quick sniff before spraying it with her perfume and slipping it over her vest. It was as she stood back and pondered what to do about the bottom half that the front doorbell rang. Too late; her denim cut-offs showing off her chicken legs would have to do.
Despite having known that Flynn was en route, it still shocked her. It was rare, if not unheard of, for the doorbell of Rosebank to ring any time after dusk.
Supposing it wasn’t Flynn?
Being alone in the house for the first time in the dead of night, intrusive, fearful thoughts gathered around her. She felt her blood race as she looked at the closed doors along the landing, wondering what might lurk behind them. It wasn’t so much that she had relied on Prim to come out wielding a hammer in the event of an emergency, more that she had never considered there might be an emergency, not with her gran close by, keeping her safe. Prim, the woman who tamed her wild thoughts when her grief felt a little overwhelming.
‘What a joke!’
She gripped the bannister as she crept down the stairs. His dark hair was visible in the small leaded window at the top of the door.
And then, just like that, there he was.
‘Hi, Flynn.’ She spoke with as much calm as she could muster. Trying desperately to give the impression that it was no big deal, an everyday occurrence. Whereas, in reality, it was the stuff of her daydreams come true. Flynn McNamara was in her house! Standing in the hallway in the middle of the night with his backpack in his hand. She had quite forgotten what the sight of him did to her: warmed her gut, made her smile and sent shivers of longing through her body.