The Day She Came Back(42)
‘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.