Page 90 of Vying Girls

‘Strap a dick to yourself and you will be too.’

‘Pass. And you know, guys don’t have a choice. You do.’

I shake my head, picking up my cutlery. ‘Scratch wife life. You’re a fucking mum.’ I point to the chair next to me with my knife. ‘Sit and eat. We’ve got shit on.’

‘We do? Care to elaborate?’

I grin. ‘Road trip, baby.’

Her eyebrows shoot up as she chews. ‘We’re getting off the island? You and me?’

‘You and me. Pack yourself an overnight bag.’

‘Shit. Almost forgot there’s a world outside of Hazelhurst.’ She smiles, clearly thrilled with the prospect.

‘Something I strive to do.’

‘Why’s that?’ When I only shrug, she asks, ‘So where we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

In truth, I wouldn’t be bringing her with me if not for the circumstances. I watch her eat, feeling her legs swing under the table. There’s a weird apprehension, right in the place my heart should be. Tilda’s been begging to get inside, to know the creature within. Well, here you go, baby. Today’s the day.

I only hope she’s not too much. I hope she realises how hard this is for me.

Because if she still wants me after this weekend, it’ll be a fucking miracle.

It all crowds in on me, the silence of the street, the birds in the perfectly pruned trees, the mix of old Victorian and modern-build houses. How many of those fucks still live here? I often wonder that, unable to help my eyes from skipping around the houses they used to party at. I wonder if they know who I am, if they’re watching from their windows and remembering.

Tilda looks around curiously. Have to give her credit for not asking too much. She can probably feel my weird energy, she’s good like that. In tune with me, empathetic to whatever’s going on upstairs. We’d been on the train an hour, another hour in a taxi after that. I had it drop us off in the village so we could buy food for the weekend.

She snaps to attention when I turn onto a bricked driveway. I slide my hands into my pockets as I face her, watching her take in the white-painted house, the black front door, the trailing plants just starting to green on the walls.

She looks at me inquisitively.

‘My house,’ I say. ‘Where I grew up.’

Her face lights up with interest. She looks it over again. ‘Is anyone in?’

‘No. Who would there be?’

‘It’s just you in that?’

‘Barely even.’

Did I even visit at all last year? I can’t remember. The front garden looks alright so I’m assuming the gardener’s still doing his job. The house is like something I keep on a shelf. It belongs to me but it serves no purpose.

I turn back to see Tilda staring at me, one of those dopey smiles on her face.

‘What?’

She pitches forward, attaching our lips for a quick second. ‘Thank you for bringing me here.’

‘You’re only here because Nic’s psycho cousin’s after you.’

‘Okay.’ She heads to the door with a little skip. ‘Whatever you say, Harriet.’

She puts a hand on my hip as I fish for the keys, her thumb stroking soothingly. It’s a weird feeling. First time walking through this door with someone else in years. Even Nic’s never been here.