The Day She Came Back(60)
‘Courtney!’ she managed. Her eyes then fell upon the boy wedged beneath the voluptuous Courtney on the mattress. And that’s when she did throw up, managing to grab a handbag that had been discarded on the floor by the end of the bed. Lowering her head into it, she deposited the remainder of her wine and lager consumption and much of a large mug of tea.
‘That’s my bloody bag! My phone’s in there! What the actual fuck?’ Courtney wailed, as the boy sat up and tried to hide his nakedness. That boy was none other than Flynn McNamara. Of course it was. And by the looks of things, his pants had fallen off.
‘Victoria!’ he called after her as she ran to the bathroom, locking the door behind her before she finished throwing up into the loo, and running the cold tap to rinse her face and mouth. Standing in front of the mirror above the sink, she stared at the person reflected back at her.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘And what the hell are you doing?’
Plucking the bottle of Chanel No5 from the glass shelf above the wide pedestal sink, she carefully removed the lid and sprayed it on to her décolletage and wrist, which she brought to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was a sweet scent of remembrance that brought Prim into the room. The tears that followed were different from the angry, thin tears that had dogged her for weeks, they were drawn from a deeper place, a place where the memory of the life she had shared with Prim played like a home movie. A warm place full of love, and in it there was no place for strangers, loud music, drugs and certainly not for shitty boys who lied.
‘You are Prim’s granddaughter. You are Sarah’s daughter. You are Victoria. And you are Victory. And right now, you need to be an industrious coper, the very best kind of person!’
Sitting now on the edge of the bath, she tried to think of the best course of action. With her phone in her hand, her fingers trembling, she scrolled through her limited contacts and, with time against her, dialled the number of the person who had told her they would be there for her day or night, all she had to do was pick up the phone . . . The closest person she had to Prim, almost family.
While she waited for his arrival she reached into the laundry basket, threw on her pyjama bottoms and donned the trainers she had abandoned before her bath only hours earlier. She went into survival mode, steeling herself to face Flynn and wishing again that Daksha were here. To think she had wanted nothing more than sex with Flynn this very night.
‘Okay.’ Again, she stared at her face in the mirror. ‘You are a Cutter-Rotherstone and you’ve got this!’
Ignoring the quake in her gut, Victoria raced through the upstairs rooms, throwing belongings and clothes out of windows and screaming at the interlopers, ‘Get out! Get out now!’
She spied Flynn and Courtney hand in hand as they fled Prim’s bedroom, giggling together and in a state of semi-undress. Her gut folded with humiliation and fury. Suddenly she heard screams, and the music came to an abrupt stop. She was glad that it had but also fearful as to why. The bodies on the stairs started to gather themselves and leave via the front door and, with their exit, came the beginnings of relief. Not that it was over quite yet.
She watched from the half landing, the one where she liked to sit and watch the sun cast purple, blue and yellow squares on to the honey-coloured carpet.
Flynn and Courtney reached the bottom stair, still hand in hand, he with his backpack slung over his shoulder. At the same time, her saviour came into view. The screaming in the drawing room had stopped and people were streaming from its confines and heading out of the front door in haste with barely a backward glance.
‘Ah, courgettes guy!’ Flynn called out.
Gerald stood squarely in front of him. ‘My name is Mr Worthington.’
‘My apologies, Mr Worthington.’
She watched as Flynn became the charming boy who had drawn her in. All part of the act, no doubt.
‘Get out of this house!’ Gerald was clearly not quite so easily taken in.
Flynn stepped forward. ‘Oh, come on, don’t be like that! I’m drunk and maybe a little high.’ He snickered. ‘But it’s all cool here. It’s all cool.’
‘I said get out of this house!’ Gerald stood his ground.
‘I need to talk to Victoria . . .’ He let go of Courtney’s hand and turned, trying to locate her.
‘You are not going to talk to Victoria, you are going to leave this minute!’
‘Or what? What will you do, throw a courgette at me?’
‘No.’ Gerald didn’t budge. ‘I don’t need courgettes, son. I’ve got this.’ And from behind his back he pulled a revolver and, with both hands grasping the pistol grip, he aimed it at Flynn.
Victoria gasped. This was insane! Gerald had a gun, a bloody gun! Courtney screamed, loudly, and clutched her vomitty bag to her voluptuous chest, as if this might offer the protection needed, and Flynn lost most of the colour in his face.
‘All right, all right!’ Flynn held up his hands. ‘Take it easy!’ he managed, his voice quavering with fear as he sidled past Gerald and out of the front door.
Gerald lowered the gun and swept the rooms, making sure the last of the stragglers had left. Victoria felt a strange mixture of relief that Gerald had come to her rescue, or rather Rosebank’s rescue, but also a little afraid that he might be furious. He did, after all, have a gun.
Victoria walked slowly down the stairs and into the now empty drawing room, which carried the odour of too many sweaty bodies that had been squashed into a confined space and the tang of booze, cigarettes and weed. She threw open the windows, inviting the chill night air to whip around the walls, trying not to look at the detritus that littered the parquet flooring: the empty cans trodden flat, vodka bottles, cigarette butts ground underfoot, and discarded hippy crack canisters that had been used and abandoned. Her tears flowed and she did nothing to stop them, taking great gulps of air to fuel her sobs. She shifted a flattened cushion and sank down on to the sofa.