The Day She Came Back(58)
Victoria made her way out into the hallway and stood on the second stair, enabling her to look out over those arriving. She jiggled on the spot to the beat and let out random shouts of ‘Woo-hoo!’ for no particular reason. She saw at least ten heads of people she didn’t know or recognise crowding through the front door all at once. Girls with poker-straight hair, their faces daubed in glitter paint, wearing faux fur bomber jackets, bikini tops and platform boots, accompanied by boys with slicked-back hair and sharp cheekbones sporting bare chests inside zip-up tracksuit tops – beautiful, beautiful people. And they were at her party.
‘Hi!’ She raised her hand in greeting, which was universally ignored. ‘I’m Victoria. This is my house, my party! I’m with Flynn!’ she hollered, one arm outstretched, the other fiercely gripping a can of lager, the drink to which she had now switched. One man raised his fingers in a peace sign as acknowledgement and looked at her over the top of his sunglasses but, other than that, no one seemed particularly interested in her name or her announcement. She felt the crushing blow of disappointment and loathed how much she wanted these people, whose opinion she shouldn’t care less about, to like her. It was very different to the scenario she had played out in her mind over the last few days, where a gaggle of girls crowded around her in the kitchen, having introduced themselves. Shiny new friends.
So you’re with Flynn? Ohmygod, he’s gorgeous!
Cute couple, I love your hair!
Your house is so cool!
You should come out with us, come shopping!
Instead, people filed past indifferently as she watched from her vantage point on the stairs. Strangers snaked into the drawing room, as if drawn by the repetitive beat, dancing as they moved forward with their arms raised, elbows up and out. Some, she noted, were holding cans; others carried half bottles of spirits; and a couple were smoking. Taking Flynn’s advice, she decided to go with the flow, keep chill and join in. That was the answer.
In a moment of drunken clumsiness, with a lack of coordination and unused to wearing the towering heels, her foot slipped on the bottom stair and she tumbled inelegantly forward, launching her can and its contents in the air and landing in an ungainly heap on the hall floor with her shirt/dress having ridden up over her hips and exposing her underwear. There was a roar of laughter, and no one helped her up. She felt like crying, but instead managed to get on to all fours and lever herself up against the newel post, pulling the shirt down to cover her modesty. Her ankle throbbed and, even though she wasn’t crying, her eyes watered and, wiping her cheeks with her fingertips, she saw that her mascara streaked her face. ‘Fuck it!’ she yelled, and danced her way back into the kitchen, trying to make everything okay and wishing that Flynn was by her side. Grabbing a square of kitchen roll, she wiped her eyes and lifted the bin lid to throw it away.
She was unsure which particular odour caused the bile to rise in her throat. It could have been the old, cold, dead prawn noodles that lined the bin or the gone-off milk that sloshed in the bottom of an open plastic bottle or possibly the cold bacon fat that was inadequately wrapped in tin foil; not that it mattered, the result was the same. As the smells reached her nostrils, Victoria bent her head low into the bin and vomited. And then vomited again. She felt her skin break out in an uncomfortable sweat as the room span. She gripped the countertop as thick dribble hung from her chin in a lacy bib.
‘Oh my God! What is that stench?’
She whipped her head around to see two of the bomber-jacketed, poker-straight-haired girls looking at her like she was . . . like she was disgusting.
‘’S’okay!’ She raised her hand. ‘I’mokay!’
The girls wrinkled their noses and shook their heads in a way that was both pitying and dismissive. It was then that she felt the next bout of sickness rising and, rather than let them witness her shame, she ducked into the larder cupboard and vomited into the stash of shopping bags that sat in a box in the darkness. The sound of the girls’ laughter was enough to finally encourage her tears to the surface. Pulling the door closed, Victoria removed her ridiculous shoes and sank down until she sat on the floor of the dark, cool cupboard, vomit covering the damp front of her clothing, her hair mussed and her make-up ruined. Her breath, she knew, was foul, and still the room span.
‘I want to go home . . .’ she murmured, as her sob built. ‘I just want to go home . . .’ But therein lay the problem. ‘I liked things the way they were before. I liked it when I didn’t know, when I thought I was happy . . .’
She placed her head on the wall and welcomed the brief respite from the company of strangers. It was hard to say how long she stayed in the dark confines of the larder while the party raged around her, but long enough for her to start feeling the beginnings of sober. With her head in her hands, Victoria cried.
‘I am in a bloody cupboard!’ she whispered. ‘And I am covered in sick.’
When her tears had subsided sufficiently, she crept out and washed her face in the sink. Knowing she certainly did not want any more wine, she made herself a cup of tea and laughed, looking out over the wide sweep of the back lawn, wondering what Daksha would make of it all.
Yes, I swear to God! Everyone was dancing and I was in the kitchen, looking like I’d been dragged through several hedges backwards, all on my own, making a cup of tea. And you know why, Daks? Because it’s ‘always the right time for a cup of tea!’