The Day She Came Back(56)

‘Would you like me to?’

‘Yes! Of course I would!’ He tutted and waved the knife as if it was a forgone conclusion. It filled her with a bubble of joy – maybe this was more than a holiday fling; she welcomed the thought.

The two sat end to end on the sofa, bowls held to their chests as they fed the long, salty noodles into their mouths, nibbling at the spring onion and spicy prawns that ran through them. Victoria was aware of the illegality of eating in the drawing room. Always a no-no as far as Prim was concerned; she had insisted on them eating at a table. But then there was much Prim would not have approved of: bare feet on the sofa, the washing-up sitting idle in the kitchen sink, Flynn’s jacket discarded on the stairs, where someone might trip over it, having sex wherever and whenever the fancy took them, smoking weed in the garden room – oh, and the planning of a party where a DJ was going to take up residence with his decks. But then there was much about how Prim had lived her life that Victoria did not approve of: lying about the fact that her mum had died, watching her pray to her mum in heaven when she was in fact only in Oslo, without saying a word . . .

Fuck you all! This her overriding thought on the matter.

‘I’m having a really nice time with you.’ He beamed over the rim of his bowl.

She smiled at him. ‘Me too.’

‘Heard from courgettes guy?’ He spoke through a mouthful.

‘Gerald? No.’ She shook her head, not overly bothered, seeing him as very much in the ‘Prim’ camp.

‘So he’s not going to pitch up in the morning with a bundle of rhubarb or some grubby carrots?’

‘No.’

‘Good, no one to disturb us. I like our morning sex best.’

Her laughter was loud and raucous; it felt simultaneously thrilling and shocking to be having these very open discussions.

‘Me too.’ She smiled at him. ‘Can I ask, Flynn, do your parents not mind that you don’t you sleep at home?’

‘Why would I sleep at home when I can sleep with you?’ He stopped eating and held her gaze, as if it were obvious, and it made her heart skip. He grabbed her ankle and ran his free hand up under her jeans and over her calf. ‘I like being with you.’

‘And I like being with you.’

‘This party is going to be kicking.’ He removed his hand from her skin and went back to his noodle consumption.

Yep, kicking . . .



Victoria walked home on Friday evening, having finished her shift at the coffee shop. It had felt good to concentrate on the making and serving of hot drinks and sticky buns, almost freeing, in that her grief was relegated for an hour or so. Stanislaw was sweet and asked repeatedly if she was feeling better after her recent sickness bug, which, ironically, made her feel sick. She had worked doubly hard, was extra polite to the customers and gave a greater share of her tips to the kitchen pot-washers than was necessary, trying to appease her guilt. Stanislaw was a good man. And it worked, a little. It felt odd walking the lane home, knowing that Flynn was at Rosebank waiting for her. His presence in the house felt comforting and invasive at the same time and her head swam with all that had happened. She still carried the strangest feeling, as if the sadness and the flurry of emotions were a whirling tornado stoppered inside a bottle and, try as she might, she still couldn’t smash it. If she let herself think about everything – it all felt like too much.

I lied to Stanislaw, and he deserves better. Prim died. My beautiful gran died! I found her. I can picture her face in that chair. My mum is not dead. She is not dead! Sarah is my mum and she is alive, living in Oslo! They lied to me, all of them, even Grandpa. Flynn likes me; Flynn McNamara, who is right this very minute waiting for me at home, something I have fantasised about for so many years. Flynn and I have had sex, quite a bit of sex, yes, me, me with my potato face! And Daksha, my sweet, sweet Daks, who doubts me, who isn’t here and who I miss so, so much . . . it’s all too much, all of it. I can’t think. I just need to keep smiling and keep going . . .

The party was the following night and she had left Flynn with a long list of instructions. He had queried some of them.

‘Nibbles? What’s that?’ He looked at her, his expression clueless.

‘You know’ – she tutted – ‘crisps and things for people to eat. In little bowls dotted around? We need to buy stuff.’

He had laughed hard. ‘You crack me up, Victoria.’ He plucked the red felt-tipped pen from her hand and put a thick line through the word ‘nibbles’. ‘And this one?’ He lifted the used envelope to his face, trying to decipher her writing.

‘It says “neighbour notes”. I thought maybe we should write little notes explaining to the neighbours either side that we are having a few friends over and so apologising in advance for any noise, and giving them a time we expect everyone to leave so they can see an end to it and know we aren’t going to disturb their sleep or anything.’

Flynn shook his head. ‘What time were you thinking, ten o’clock?’

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. ‘No, but midnight would be fair.’

‘Midnight?’ he screeched, as if scolded. ‘What party ends at midnight? It probably won’t start until gone ten, eleven!’

‘Really?’ It was her turn to screech.

He crossed through ‘neighbour notes’ and handed her back the pen.