The Day She Came Back(53)
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but clearly thought better of it, before turning slowly, taking one last lingering look at the front of Rosebank, the house and gardens he had been tending for the best part of thirty years, and walking over the gravel towards his van.
Victoria watched him leave with something like satisfaction lining her gut. She looked up towards the brooding sky; it looked like rain might be coming in. She welcomed the idea, the washing away of the summer heat that was thick with lies and deception, which spun webs inside every room.
Her pulse settled. With Flynn out of the house and Daksha away, she felt the tendrils of loneliness reach out and stroke her skin. Grabbing her novel, she sank down on to the sofa in the drawing room and opened it at the place where she had folded a corner of a page as a marker, a habit that used to infuriate her gran. Her eyes swept around the room: cushions were still littered on the floor, and the dirty plates, which had started to give off a rather unpleasant hum, were still on the coffee table. She knew these things would have infuriated her more.
The last time she had read was on the day Prim died. They had lain in the steamer chairs, her reading and Prim watching the lake, commenting on the ferocious heat and the bees that buzzed around the irises, noting their industry and choreographed moves. Their conversation came to mind. This, like every other memory, now tainted with the betrayal of lies.
‘I sometimes wonder, Prim, if my mum took too many drugs because Marcus had died, like something Shakespearian, you know: couldn’t live without her one true love?’
‘I think you’ve been reading too many books,’ Prim had snapped.
‘Guilty as charged.’ Victoria lifted the novel in her hand.
‘I also think, darling’ – Prim’s tone, softer then – ‘that you shouldn’t romanticise what was a very painful and unattractive time. A tragic time . . .’
Victoria ground her teeth and kicked out at the coffee table, making a mug wobble. Yes, tragic and truly Shakespearian how you plotted and lied to me . . . It was as she remembered this conversation that her phone rang; she lifted it to her chin and spoke as she settled back in her seat, her novel poised.
‘Victory.’
The word and the sound of Sarah’s voice was enough to make her jolt. She wondered if she would ever get over the fact that her wish of having a direct line to her mother might come true. This, however, was not how she had envisaged it.
‘Victoria. Yes.’
‘Sorry, Victoria.’ Sarah corrected herself speedily; her voice had an undercurrent of excitement and anticipation. ‘I had a missed call from you. I’m so sorry – my phone was off, I’ve only just seen it. Is everything okay? Are . . . are you okay?’
No, I’m not! I am still mad and confused and scared of being on my own, and Flynn McNamara has been staying here and we have had sex, twice! And I’m worried I didn’t feel more – and I smoked a joint and liked it. And what I don’t like is being on my own, but then I crave space, confusing right? And I miss Prim, the Prim I thought she was who was always honest with me, the Prim who told me I knew every little thing about her, but I didn’t, did I? And I hate the Prim who lied to me – and I just took this out on Bernard and it felt good, but now I feel like shit . . .
‘I’m okay.’
‘Good, good! I was hoping you would call, there is so much I want to say to you, things I keep thinking about to tell you and that I think might help you to—’
‘Sarah.’ She drew breath, interrupting the woman’s flow. ‘I dialled you in error.’
‘In . . . in error?’ Her voice was thin. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, it was a misdial. I was closing the text you sent me, and . . .’
‘I see. So you didn’t mean to call me? Didn’t want to chat?’
Victoria knew well enough the sound of a voice that was trying to cry in secret as it spoke, as if a little overwhelmed with disappointment. The guilt that bloomed on her tongue was quickly replaced with the sweet taste of vengeance. Victoria was hurting and she wanted to hurt those who had hurt her and, as there was only this woman left, she took the full brunt.
‘That’s right.’ She bit the side of her cheek. ‘I didn’t mean to call you.’
‘Well,’ Sarah sniffed, ‘now that we are on the phone, however it came about, do you have a minute to talk?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid. Bye, Sarah.’ Victoria ended the call and went back to the dog-eared page of her novel.
NINE
She liked sharing a house with Flynn; they had a further three days of playing grown-ups, having sex and smoking weed as the sun went down. It was the cosy domesticity of eating and waking together that was enough to keep her loneliness at bay. It was also a taster of a different kind of life, one she had never properly considered, but where she lived with someone she loved and they looked after each other, just like she and Prim had done. She was undoubtedly happiest when naked with Flynn and the thought of him going to Newcastle was one she pushed to the back of her mind.
‘Daks? It’s me!’ She slumped down on to the stairs and smiled into the phone.
‘Hey, you. How’s life in Surrey?’
‘Peachy.’
‘You sound it. This is good, my friend, very good!’