The Day She Came Back(47)

Warts and all . . .

Flynn kissed the base of her throat again, and she was lost to him. The feel of his skin against hers, the way he held her . . . it was as close to intoxication as she could get without drinking or smoking one of Flynn’s dodgy cigarettes. Yes, in the midst of the murky waters of grief, this glorious physical experience was not only all-consuming but wonderfully life-affirming. At a time when her world had been mired in death, it felt good to be reminded of something that was so good about being alive!

Flynn reached down and she heard the snap of his waistband and then, in an instant, he was naked. It was at this point, when things were about to go further than she had planned and far more quickly than she had considered, that she decided to take the plunge. After all, who was going to stop her or advise differently? This thought was fleeting, as what happened next came so naturally.

She wriggled low on the mattress and watched him in the half-light, knowing she was setting a course from which there could be no return, but she did so willingly, wanting to be wanted. This was how she would show everyone who had lied to her that she was moving on: a new, adult version of the Victoria they had duped, and one who would care less. With her eyes now closed, she felt the weight of him pinning her. It was both thrilling and reassuring, and she placed her lips on his bony, tanned shoulder. The anticipation made her head swim and her heart beat fast. He held her hair, and the two strangers found a rhythm that united them, briefly taking her away from that place of emptiness where her every thought was wrapped in sadness and doubt . . .



Propped up on her elbow, Victoria now watched Flynn snoring, with his arms above his head. The tea-coloured lace edging of Prim’s pillow framed his young face. She had, of course, discussed sex with Daksha, seen movie sex and read about it a fair bit too, but actual sex had been nothing like it, nothing like it at all. Turning on to her side, she reached out and carefully laid the photo of her youthful grandpa in all his dashing glory face down. She had expected to feel differently, to feel . . . something, hoping at some level that the act might be a bit like shaking off an old skin, leaving her fresh and new and a whole lot more confident, happier. But, in truth, the overriding sensation was one of disappointment with the gnawing gripe of loss still acute in her gut. It wasn’t that she had expected violins, roses, sweet words of sentiment and a moving soundtrack, but she had thought maybe there might be some discussion, a cerebral connection of sorts. Instead, her sex with Flynn was noisy, a bit awkward, slightly painful even. To say it was unpleasant would be a step too far, but there were certainly no fireworks, not even a crappy sparkler, and still the thoughts she’d hoped the act might help erase whirred louder than ever. And now Flynn was in the deepest sleep, snoring, while she stared at the ceiling. No, this had been nothing like movie sex. If movie sex was diving into a deep, warm bubble bath where scented candles flickered on a shelf and a wide, soft towel awaited her when eventually she rose from the depths of the tub, this sex was a quick wipe down with a cold flannel.

Flynn shifted position and his snores roared. She wondered how sleep could be so instant and consuming when, for her, this big thing that had happened needed to come to rest in her thoughts. So that was it, virginity lost on the same day she had smoked a joint. Quietly, she pulled back the duvet and, retrieving them from the floor, she pulled on her T-shirt and pants, thinking how crazy life could be and how you never knew what might happen when you opened your eyes to greet a new day . . . Instantly, she thought of Sarah and saw her standing at the side of the lake.

‘This is going to be hard for you to hear . . .’

Fuck you, Sarah! Her imagined response.

Victoria crept to her own room, where she retrieved her laptop and slipped under her covers. She opened the next couple of emails and read two more of the letters.

March 2001

Rosebank

Epsom

Surrey

You are pregnant? Sarah! You are truly? I have read and reread your letter so many times I know it by heart. A baby! A baby, Sarah! Daddy and I are beside ourselves! Life’s greatest gift, and one we ourselves had to wait decades to receive. But, oh, the joy when we did! You were and are our whole life – our whole life.

I cannot stop crying.

I never, ever imagined in a million years that the day you told me I was going to be a granny it would be via letter from a rehabilitation centre with your life so wildly off track. I have laughed and cried and paced the rooms into the early hours, trying to order my thoughts and feelings.

Is the baby okay? Are you okay? How does it work, now that you are pregnant? Does your treatment stay the same? I have so many questions. How are you feeling? What do you need? What can we do?

I am hoping that this baby is the incentive you need to see sense and when this is over, come home . . . please, please, please, I am begging you to come home. Just you and the baby. We can make it work. We can make anything work. We have the space. It will be wonderful. Please, please, please, Sarah, think about it, and think about what will be best in the long run.

I noticed in your letter you have started going by the name Sarah Jackson. I haven’t told Daddy yet. I think that will hurt him more than I can say. Is it something you have decided to do on the spur of the moment, as some kind of protest, or did you actually get married? I write that with a nervous laugh and a shake to my hand. I pray to God you have not, but in all honesty, Sarah? Nothing would surprise me.

A baby . . . A baby! It is all my hopes and dreams come true, yet because of the situation you are in, my worst nightmare too.