* *
For the rest of my run, then while I shower and change, Hollie fills my head. I try to imagine what’s distressing her as well as what she’s hiding, feeling an obligation to tell her father about our conversation. It gives me a dual reason to go and buy flowers this morning.
It’s a ten-minute drive to the next village. Stephanie’s shop is on the outskirts, one of a number of small businesses that have premises within a range of stylishly converted farm buildings. Turning into the yard, I park in one of the cobbled spaces just outside her window.
Pausing for a moment, I look through the window, where inside, Stephanie’s talking on her phone. I watch her for a moment. She’s attractive in a deliberate sort of way, with angular features and a hardness that even too much makeup doesn’t hide. Today, she’s clearly agitated, her face flustered as she speaks on her phone. As she ends the call, she stands in the window, not moving for a moment. Then, seeing my car, she seems to obviously compose herself.
I recognize the scent of eucalyptus as I open the door. Stephanie’s behind her desk, going through what looks like a list of orders. “Hello.” I watch her guardedly.
“Elise . . . I won’t be a moment. How are you?” There’s no trace of the agitation I witnessed earlier. As always, her every movement is measured.
“Fine, thank you. I was hoping for some spring flowers to brighten the house.” As I speak, I’m thinking it isn’t just the house, it’s my life that needs a facelift. “This weather being so gray...” I gesture toward the window.
“It’s a terrible winter.” Putting down her book, she looks up. “But at least you get to see the sun.”
“Not so much at the moment. I haven’t had any long-haul trips for ages.” On a good day, I still get a blast of sunlight through the aircraft windows as we break through the clouds, but not always. “Can I see what you have?”
“Have a look. I had a delivery this morning.” She gestures toward the far end of the shop, which is where she sets out buckets of flowers. “Let me know if I can help.”
Wandering over, for a few minutes I lose myself in the array of flowers, before pulling out bunches of narcissi, iris, ranunculus and carrying them over to her counter. Stephanie eyes me curiously. “Is there an occasion?”
I shake my head. She’s probably itching to know if there’s a party she isn’t invited to. “Pure self-indulgence.” I pause. “I saw Hollie this morning.”
I watch a flicker of something cross her face. But whatever it is stays locked inside. “Is everything OK? She seemed upset.”
This time Stephanie looks at me. “Oh, everything’s more than OK.” Her voice is bitter, her words sarcastic. “Hollie has James exactly where she wants him.”
“It can’t be easy.” Not wanting to be drawn into Stephanie’s family politics, I glance around, looking for a way to change the subject, my eyes alighting on a row of plants with dark green fernlike leaves, arranged on a shelf. “Those are unusual.”
“Yes.” Without looking up, she carries on wrapping my flowers. By the time she’s finished, her face is flushed. “That will be sixty-eight pounds.” Then as I hand over my credit card, she sighs. “Look, you may as well know, things are not alright. Hollie’s determined to create a rift between me and James. I won’t bore you with the details. I was talking to the school—just before you came in? She’s missing too many classes. James needs to be firmer with her, but he won’t.” She breaks off. “Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m boring you with this. Everyone has their own problems.”
As her eyes hold mine, I can tell she knows Andrew’s having an affair. Is it with her? I stare at her, trying to imagine them together, then snap myself out of it. “Thanks.” Gathering up my flowers, I can’t get out of there fast enough. She’s right. I have more than enough of my own problems, without taking on hers.
Niamh
Hollie was friends with Dylan first. But now that he’s gone, she has me.
“People are so horrible, Niamh . . .” She was sobbing. It took ages for me to get the truth out of her, that one of her teachers had phoned her father, because the school is worried about her.
“The teacher said I wasn’t eating. They think I’m anorexic. I don’t eat because I can’t,” she added theatrically. I could understand her being upset about a teacher poking her nose in, but her hysteria left me mystified.
But as I found out, it was always the same. Like her clothes, Hollie’s defenses are paper-thin. Every barbed word pierces her skin, is personal. She has no armor against a world she believes is set against her.
The day after my parents went to the pub with everyone else, when I come back from school, before the bus stops, Hollie’s sitting on the wall, waiting for me, her eyes red, as if she’s been crying. As the bus slows and I get off, she falls into step beside me. Even before she speaks, I feel her restlessness radiate into me. “I hate this place,” she tells me, meaning the village. “Is your mum home?”
“I don’t know.” I lose track of when she’s flying. Every week, my mother’s roster is different. “You can come in if you like.”
Hollie looks wary. “Not if she’s there.”
I frown at her. Hollie doesn’t usually mind my mum. “Why not?”
“I just don’t want to see her. OK?” Her voice is fierce.
At the bottom of the drive, I glance toward the house. My father’s car is there, which is odd. “She’s out. That’s my dad’s car.” I look at Hollie. “Are you coming in?”
She hesitates. But she knows we won’t see him. “OK. But if she comes back I’m going . . .” There’s an odd look on her face.
Whatever it is that’s on her mind, I know she’ll tell me. It’s the reason she comes here. She doesn’t have anyone else. I try the back door, finding it locked. “He must be out.” I unlock the back door, and Hollie follows me in. I sling my bag on the floor, while Hollie goes over to the huge vase on the table. Usually empty, today it’s filled with all kinds of flowers.
“D’you want a drink?” As I look at her, it’s like she’s inhaling them.
Then she looks up at me. “What is there?”
Shrugging, I go to the fridge, frowning as I pass the sink filled with several more bunches. What is it with my mother and all these flowers? “Orange juice, milk, Coke...”
“Is it diet?”
Hollie’s skinny. That her teacher phoned her dad didn’t surprise me—I hardly ever see her eat, but when she does, she wolfs down food as though she’s been starved for a month. Checking the can, I nod, passing it to her, getting another for myself, before going to the pantry for a bag of chips.
“Let’s go to your room.” Hollie’s more on edge than usual, constantly glancing through doorways and windows, as if expecting someone to appear.
“Yeah.” But she runs ahead as I pick up my bag and walk upstairs.
In
