her – when he turned to flick his spent cigarette into the kerb – that sense of his vulnerability was even stronger. Just his face, his swollen cheek, his look of shame, his look of love, were sufficient to make her completely rethink her decision, and consider going with her feelings after all.
But she held firm. There was too much pain and anguish to bear. She stopped on the pavement, and nodded towards the car. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you. So, please, just go away, Paddy, and leave me alone.’
She was surprised by the calm way she’d managed to get the words out. And mindful, which made her resolve that bit stronger, that what Lucy had said about her naivety wasn’t true. She had been here before. She might be here again. Probably would be, if she didn’t end it now.
‘Vic, babe, please,’ he began, opening his walnut-brown arms out to her.
She walked around them, eyes down, and started up her path.
‘Please, Vic. I love you. Vic, please hear me out.’
She ignored this as well, and reached into her handbag for her key.
But it was her mother who opened the front door.
She heard Paddy mouth ‘Fuck’.
Vicky took in the sight. The haystack hair. The old trackies. The frayed jumper. But her mam looked reasonably sober, which was something, at least. But she shouted at Paddy, even so.
‘Just piss off, you little pipsqueak! You hear me? Bugger off!’ Then she yanked Vicky roughly over the threshold and slammed the door.
‘Spoke to Lucy,’ she explained. ‘Once you’d left.’
That had been that. Even Paddy – local bad boy and hard man that he was – wouldn’t want to get embroiled in a set-to with Vicky’s mum. Not because he couldn’t pulverise her, either mentally or physically, but because he had a reputation to protect. An old lady? You just didn’t go there.
So he called. She never answered. But the phone rang incessantly. Till, by teatime, her mam – Vicky had pleaded that she didn’t – picked up the receiver and roared down that at him as well.
And then silence. Till around eleven, when Vicky went to put a note in one of the milk bottles, and found the most enormous bunch of deep, blood-red roses. A couple of dozen, at least. And on a Sunday. Where on earth had he found them?
Her mother, half way down her second bottle of cider, squinted at them through her cigarette smoke.
‘Undying love?’ she slurred. ‘Yeah, and I’m the bloody pope.’
He’d called again then – had he been waiting somewhere, watching to see she’d got them? And every inch of her, angry and full of hurt though she still was, wanted to rush into the hall again and answer the phone.
‘I mean it, girl,’ her mother said, though Vicky had made no actual move to pick the receiver up. ‘You do that and I’ll cut the fucking cord.’
So it was Monday before Paddy was able to pin her down finally. After work. And on a day when – surprise, surprise, surprise – Lacey had called in sick. There’d been flowers there, too, another big blowsy bunch of them – this time gerberas and chrysanthemums and tiny pearls of gypsophila, driving Leanne into a frenzy of speculation.
‘Come on, spill,’ she kept saying, knowing nothing about Lacey apart from her apparent illness. ‘What’s he done? Come on, tell me – he must have done something.’ But, determined not to air the whole humiliating episode in public, Vicky held her line – that it was just because he might, almost certainly would, be going away tomorrow, and wanted to send her flowers while he still could.
The irony of her fiction wasn’t lost on her. Because Paddy only made such gestures when he’d wronged her in some way. ‘You got me. I’m your gift,’ he’d always joke. ‘What other presents do you need?’
And then, eventually, it was Lucy who did for her. She called in her lunch break, as any caring best friend would, to check she was okay, to check she’d stayed firm. To check she hadn’t ‘caved in, like you know you always do, in the face of his pathetic floral offerings’.
It might have been the words she’d used. It might have been the looming court case. But, either way, when Leanne found her later, after Lucy’d left, and between clients, she was sobbing her heart out in the back room.
And of course, Vicky told her what had happened.
‘The fucking tart,’ was Leanne’s considered opinion of Lacey. Then she shook her head. ‘So that’ll mean we’re an apprentice short again, won’t it? I doubt she’ll show her face again here, will she?’ She grinned, and clapped Vicky on the back while she snivelled. ‘Still,’ she added, ‘you can do lots of overtime, can’t you? You’ll have a bit of time on your hands after all …’
She grinned at Vicky. ‘That’s a joke. To make you laugh. You dozy mare! But seriously, Vic, you want my honest opinion?’
Vicky nodded.
‘Well – and don’t hate me, but if the poor sod’s being carted off to the nick in the morning, shouldn’t you at least give him the benefit of the doubt? He’s clearly sorry. Bloody hell – and that’s my kind of sorry!’ Vicky had already told her about the roses. ‘And he obviously loves you. Why else would he go to such lengths? And it’s not like you have to do anything other than listen. That’s what I’d do,’ she finished, crossing her arms across her chest. ‘Though chance would be a fine thing, of course.’
So Vicky did give him the benefit of the doubt, even though there had never been any, when he arrived at the salon ten minutes before closing, exactly as she’d always known he would.
And there was a certain power in being so desperately needed, so she not only listened, she let him take her back to his house where – his mam and dad being up to their elbows in flour down at the bakery – she allowed him to apologise, and apologise, and apologise, and then, because no one understood him like she did, she allowed him to make love to her, as only he could.
And forgave him, as only she would.
But that night of passion ten days back, though she’d love it to have been so, had not been the one that had resulted in this fairy-tale conception. She knew it hadn’t. Well, it might have, but that was academic now anyway. She’d known she might be pregnant for a good three or four weeks before that, because she’d already missed one period and the next one hadn’t happened yet, hence the realisation. And the purchase of the test.
She’d still kept her fingers crossed, of course, and a part of her, albeit a tiny one, had still believed she might not be. Not just because Paddy was always so careful, but also because she knew periods didn’t always happen when they were supposed to. Specially when you’d not been having them that long. Her mam’s didn’t settle down till her twenties, she’d said. God, her mam. Having to tell her mam she was pregnant … She couldn’t even think about that right now.
Then there was Lucy. Lucy’s periods were all over the place and always had been. She never knew when to expect them, and she missed them loads, too. It had gone on so long that she was even under the doctor about it. They were trying her on the pill now – about which
