The Day She Came Back(39)

‘So you don’t remember him?’

‘Again, weird.’ He yawned, suggesting the night might finally be catching up with him. ‘I was born after he died so I don’t remember him at all, but my mum and dad always told me I had a big brother watching over me, and they’d kind of point upwards. I thought for years he lived in the loft and wondered why I’d never met him.’ He smiled at her and she took this as permission to release the giggle that was brewing behind her lips.

‘I thought he might come down when I was at school or while I was sleeping, like we had the job of being my parents’ kids on a shift system. And then by the time my little sister, Maisie, was old enough to be told about him, I heard my mum tell her that Michael junior was in heaven, and that’s when it clicked for me.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seventeen.’ He smiled, and again she laughed, liking this ready, easy humour. It put them both at ease.

‘Just kidding, I must have been about six.’

‘That must be really hard. Your poor mum and dad.’

‘It is hard, even now. They still mourn him, of course, but I can’t because I never really knew him. I’d never tell my parents that, though. They cry on his birthday and the anniversary of the day he died, and I sit with them and they hug us, like we are sad too, and Maisie and I look at each other, a bit embarrassed, but I don’t feel much at all – I never knew him, he’s just a baby photo on the sideboard.’ He rubbed his eyes and exhaled foul breath. ‘God, I’m starving!’

Her eyes fell upon the chicken dish prepared by Mrs Joshi. ‘Do you want some chicken?’

‘Yeah! Chicken!’ He sat up, brightening.

She ladled two large helpings of the succulent dish with its aromatic coconut-scented sauce and dug the spoon back in to retrieve the golden, plump rice from the bottom of the pot, which nestled on a bed of onions. A quick whizz in the microwave, and the smell of the steaming-hot fare filled the room with the subtle scent of spice, tantalising enough to make her taste buds sing.

Flynn took the fork she offered and dived straight in, filling his mouth and refilling the fork before he had finished chewing.

‘Oh my God! This is so good! Did you make it?’

‘No. Daksha’s mum made it.’ She felt the pang of guilt that here they were, tucking into the food Mrs Joshi had made in good faith before being summoned to come and drive her daughter home from the house where she no longer felt wanted.

‘Do you want a glass of wine?’

‘A glass of wine?’ He let out a loud guffaw and small flecks of rice flew from his mouth and landed on the table. ‘What are you, like, sixty?’

She felt the bloom of embarrassment on her neck and chest.

‘No, I just . . . My gran always drank wine with her dinner and she used to give me a glass with supper sometimes.’ There was much she hated about the situation: the fact that she was having to discuss Prim, as well as trying to justify her habits. She also smarted from his criticism: the fact he thought it was uncool that she drank wine at all, and finally, that she had absolutely no clue as to what the fashionable or right thing was to do.

What would Courtney do?

Picturing the drinks cabinet in the dining room, she mentally worked her way through the shelves: port, brandy and advocaat, which had probably gone off, and a bottle of whisky bought for Grandpa’s wake and still, as far as she knew, unopened.

‘What do you usually drink?’ She hated the timidity to her voice, confirming again that this wasn’t the real her but the doll-like and dumb version of her, trying to be the kind of girl that a boy like Flynn McNamara might like.

She continued to summon her inner Courtney, and thought of Daksha, knowing this one aspect would be the thing she remembered for the retelling, where she would embellish and make it funny. That was if they ever reconnected and she got the chance. A thought that, in the company of this boy, didn’t distress her as much as it should have.

Flynn paused mid-mouthful and considered what might be his tipple of choice. ‘I drink beer or vodka, but mainly beer and then vodka afterwards, and then sometimes I switch back to beer.’

‘I don’t think we have beer or vodka.’

We . . . we . . . there is no ‘we’, it’s just you now . . . just you in this big old-lady house of lies with your bottles of wine and fine antiques . . .

‘Could I have a cup of tea?’

‘A cup of tea?’ This time, her laughter was the relieved kind. ‘Yes. That I can manage.’ She abandoned her food and filled and flicked on the kettle. ‘Well, this is a strange evening. One I won’t forget.’ She found it a lot easier to talk freely and be herself when looking away from him. Maybe that was the key, to always avert her eyes . . . ‘I didn’t think when I sat on the sofa tonight that it’d end here in the kitchen at this time, eating supper with you, Flynn.’

‘Me either.’

‘What made you decide to message me? You never have before.’ She placed two mugs on the countertop with teabags nestling inside and retook her place at the kitchen table.

Flynn finished his mouthful, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and rested his fork on the edge of the bowl.

‘It was when I saw you the other week when you walked past and we talked a bit.’

Yes, that day . . . The guilt she had felt was now replaced by a frothing anger. I wish I’d got home earlier, I wish she had told me herself and given me the chance to ask her why!