The Day She Came Back(61)
‘I’ve had enough!’ she wailed into the silence. ‘I have bloody had enough! I don’t know what’s happened to me, but everything is upside down, Gerald. Everything is broken, everything . . . I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Come on.’ Gerald put his arm around her shoulders and planted a kiss on the top of her head. She reached up and held him close, clinging on, thankful not only for his intervention but that, unlike others she had trusted in recent times, he had kept his word and had been there when she needed him.
‘I’m sorry I was rude to you, Gerald. All you were doing was being nice, trying to help, and I was horrible to you – all you’ve done is bring me courgettes and be kind!’ she wailed. ‘I even shouted at you down the phone – I was showing off in front of Flynn.’ She cried harder.
‘That is water under the bridge.’ He coughed to clear his throat.
‘I’m sorry!’
‘No need to say it again. You don’t have to worry.’ He hugged her back and straightened. ‘Right, let’s lock the place up and come back tomorrow. You need sleep; a cup of hot cocoa and sleep.’
That sounded good.
She watched as he gently closed the windows she had only just opened and switched off the lights.
‘You’ve got a gun, Gerald! A bloody gun!’
‘Yes, dear. Yes, I have.’
TEN
It took a monumental effort for Victoria to open her eyes and face the day. Her preference would have been to sink down into the mattress, let her eyelids fall and sleep for a hundred years . . . but if the last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that this life of hers was no fairy tale. It had in fact been the first peaceful night she had had since Prim had died; she had nodded off feeling safe and calm, knowing Gerald was only a shout away. She now nursed her hangover in the florally decorated spare room at Gerald’s house, still wearing the oversized shirt with its dubious stains and her pyjama bottoms from the previous night, which, frankly, all needed a good hot cycle in the washing machine. She had been bundled into the car with a tear-streaked face and brought here by her knight in shining armour with the party mess partially contained and the rooms locked up.
An image of the state of the house, thoughts about the way the evening had ended, the horror of the party itself and the way she had caught Flynn in Prim’s bed with Courtney, was all more than she could stand. She pushed her face down into the pillow and wished, not for the first time, that she could rewind time.
A gentle but firm knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
‘Morning, Victoria. Breakfast is on the table.’
‘Thank you, Gerald, I’ll be right down.’ The thought of breakfast made her feel sick.
‘I didn’t want to say anything last night, figuring you had enough to deal with, but I noticed the French doors to the garden room had been forced open from the outside. No damage done inside, thank goodness, I think it was just someone having a nose around, but the frame needs a bit of attention and the lock has been smashed off and needs changing – should I give Bernard a ring, or can you do that?’
Victoria pictured Bernard sloping off down the garden path, looking hurt and a little lost. She felt like shit. It wasn’t his fault; she knew this, had always known it.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Righto. I’ll leave you to it. See you down in five.’ She liked his gentle instruction. It was how Prim used to operate – steering, gently guiding.
Victoria sat up, reached for her phone and dialled Bernard’s number. Her mouth was dry with nerves. There was no answer. She took a deep breath and left him a message.
‘Erm, Bernard . . .’ Dammit! These tears seemed to spring at the most inconvenient of moments. ‘It’s Victoria. I don’t really know what to say or how to say it; apart from I’m sorry. I am so sorry for taking my anger out on you. You didn’t deserve it. You were right: what were you supposed to do? You were doing a kind thing, a good thing for Sarah, and I can see now that to tell a little girl the truth . . .’ She shook her head at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘Well, it was not your story to tell, was it? I am truly very sorry. Please come back to work. I need you. Rosebank needs you. I did something rather stupid . . . had a party, and the house is a wreck. Someone forced the lock on the garden room door and, well’ – she closed her eyes, aware that she was probably rambling – ‘I am sorry, Bernard.’
Finally, having tied her hair up and washed her face in the tidy bathroom, removing the last remnants of her make-up, she made her way down the narrow stairs of the three-bedroom semi. The little square kitchen was bright, with a table on a supporting leg jutting out from the kitchen wall and a stool placed either side. She sat down. Gerald, she noted, was already immaculately turned out in pressed slacks and a white shirt beneath a cherry-red V-necked jersey as he warmed a teapot over the sink. She did her best to look favourably at the slices of toast in the kind of stainless-steel toast rack she imagined you might get at a seaside bed and breakfast. There was a selection of jams and a jar of Marmite and two small glasses of orange juice. Her appetite was zero, but his actions were dear and his effort so reminiscent of Prim and how she liked to serve breakfast in a particular way. It brought a lump to her throat.
‘This looks lovely.’