The Day She Came Back(92)

This made him laugh cautiously, and he looked up into the bright morning sky, where birds flew overhead, possibly after refilling at the last bird service station before the motorway, stocking up on two different types of sweet, an out-of-date chicken salad sandwich and a compilation CD of crappy covers.

‘I . . . I don’t know what happened with Courtney,’ he stammered. ‘I regret it, I really do, and I am sorry, Victoria. I never wanted to hurt you. I think you are brilliant. You are cool. I was looking for you, I swear. I went upstairs, and there she was on the landing, and she just looked at me and . . .’

‘Let me guess: your pants fell off?’

‘Something like that!’ He laughed, and raised his palms as if it had been quite beyond his control.

‘Don’t worry, Flynn. It’s her superpower.’



Victoria spent the day cleaning the house and pottering in the garden with a new and profound sense of calm that was most welcome. She was, for the first time, able to walk into the garden room and see the beautiful display of orchids nestling along the back wall, rising up to give colour and form to the pale brickwork, and not the image of Prim slumped in the steamer chair with her head lolling to one side. She also felt lighter. Flynn’s words might have been too little too late, but they did have an effect on her and, despite her best efforts, she knew she would be unable to hold a grudge against him. If anything, she felt sorry for him. Flynn McNamara, the boy of her dreams, who had turned out to be just a boy; a boy who, like her, had his secrets. Who didn’t?

Her phone rang. It was Daksha.

‘Just checkin’ in, little miss.’ Her tone was nonchalant.

‘Hey, Daks!’

‘I was thinking, do you want me to come and sit with you, Vic? I could bring some lunch? Or we could bake?’

‘Daks, my lovely friend, today I want to be alone.’

‘You . . . you want to be alone? Oh . . . I just thought . . .’ It was rare for her to hear Daksha at a loss for words.

‘I love you, Daksha, I really love you, but I need to pull up my big-girl pants and cook my own food and sleep in my house, alone. I need to be mature: an industrious coper, the very best kind of person!’ She heard Prim’s voice in her ear, ‘That’s my girl . . .’ and she smiled, That’s right, I am your girl . . .

‘Okay, doll, but you know where I am if you need me.’

‘I do. Thanks, Daks. See you at the weekend?’

‘You bet.’

As dusk fell on the day, Victoria sat on the veranda in one of Grandpa’s old chairs with the double duvet wrapped around her. It sat snugly over her clothes and, with a red, moth-eaten woolly hat on her head, which she had found in Prim’s gardening trug, she was, despite the chill of the October night, warm and cosy. The fact that she looked a little peculiar didn’t bother her – it was, after all, highly unlikely anyone could see her here in the back garden of the detached house as she sat looking over the lake. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Prim to carry the burden of the secret her whole life, and it made her sad to think that behind the wonderful, outgoing, happy fa?ade, the woman who had danced with her at Grandpa’s funeral hid her own secret burden. Victoria would have liked to lighten it for her; it would have been the least she could do for the woman who saved her.

She fished for her phone in her pocket.

‘A misdial?’ Sarah answered casually.

‘No! Are you ever going to let that go?’

‘Not sure.’ She laughed.

‘I thought I’d call, as I’m sitting in one of Grandpa’s old chairs by the lake.’

‘Aren’t you cold?’

She blew her warm breath in a plume out into the dark, inky pallet of the night sky. ‘Says you, who lives in Norway!’ She laughed. ‘No, I have a coat on and an old hat of Prim’s I found, and my duvet is wrapped around me for good measure.’

‘Well, I’m stuffed on to the balcony in my pyjamas and Jens’s ski socks and jacket. And I might or might not have a large glass of red wine in my other hand.’

‘I’m picturing the lights on the water; I loved that view so much. I thought Oslo was beautiful.’

‘And I’m picturing the big moon that hangs so low over Rosebank that on some nights it felt like I could reach up over the lake and touch it. I used to sit with Dad and gaze at it.’

‘We look at the same moon . . .’ Victoria whispered.

‘We look at the same moon . . .’ Sarah managed.

‘What did we say about that crying thing?’ Victoria smiled.

‘I know, but it’s going to take a bit of practice.’ Sarah sniffed. ‘Go inside, don’t be cold.’ Her words sounded a lot like maternal concern, and it felt nice. ‘Yes, go inside and light a fire or have a warm bath. The deep bath in the bathroom on the second floor is the best, the one with a view of the oak tree. I used to spend hours lying in it.’

‘I might just do that. This has been . . . nice.’ She meant it, hating the inadequacy of her words. It was so much more than nice.

‘It really has. And thank you, Victoria. Thank you for calling and thank you for talking to me. It means more to me than I can say. Can I call you on your birthday?’ Sarah asked with a note of caution that was heartbreaking and unnecessary.