style="font-size:15px;"> But what if it’s Melissa? I don’t want her to think I wasn’t going to apologize.
I quickly climb out of the bath and pull on my robe, which clings unpleasantly to my damp, mottled skin. Stuffing my feet into slippers, I hurry out of the bathroom, calling out, ‘Hang on!’ in a voice that sounds shrill even to my own ears.
There are two shapes lurking behind the frosted glass and I hesitate as I get to the bottom of the stairs. It could be Jehovah’s Witnesses or something. Whoever it is, they are very insistent. The doorbell rings sharply again.
‘All right, I’m coming!’ I say to shut them up and fling open the door.
‘Oh,’ I say.
Jehovah’s Witnesses suddenly seem like very much the better alternative.
‘Hello Hester. I’m sorry if we got you out of bed.’
Saskia is wearing highly age-inappropriate shorts, a tight t-shirt, and oversized sunglasses that obscure most of her face.
Nathan looms just behind her. He’s looking down at the toe of his grimy white plimsoll as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Most bizarrely, he’s holding two bunches of flowers wrapped in brown paper that I recognize from Petal and Vine, the overpriced flower shop down the road. One must be for Melissa, to say thank you for the party. But why the heck are they here, on my doorstep?
Have they come to tell me off? I am incensed by this thought and find myself blurting words out before Saskia can speak again.
‘If you’ve come round here to make me feel guilty,’ I say, ‘then I can assure you there is no need. I plan to apologize later. You can’t possibly make me feel any worse than I already do.’
Saskia reaches out her hand to touch my wrist, but I take a step back. She’s always touching people; it’s like she can’t speak without making physical contact with the person opposite her. Well, I’m in no mood for her nonsense today.
‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,’ she says in a voice that is even more gravelly than usual. ‘We’ve come to apologize to you. At least, Nathan has. Haven’t you?’ She says his name sternly and he steps forward.
The boy – and he really looks like a boy today – turns his strangely coloured eyes on me and his cheeks flush a deep pink under his light tan.
‘Yeah,’ he says and clears his throat before continuing. ‘The thing is, I did something really stupid. So it’s sort of my fault you puked up everywhere.’
I flinch at his coarseness. As if I need reminding!
‘Fuck’s sake, Nathe!’
I tut, loudly. She’s almost as bad as he is! No wonder he speaks like that. The boy shoots a panicked look at her.
‘Sorry! Um, what I mean is, I did a really moronic thing for a laugh. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.’
‘What did you do?’ I want nothing more than for these ghastly people to disappear.
‘I spiked your drink,’ he says in a rush, glancing at his mother. The thin, tight line of her lips reveals the true age of her face.
‘What?’ I can’t seem to make sense of any of this.
‘You asked for a Pimm’s and I added a massive slug of vodka to it,’ he says, blushing harder.
My stomach seems to drop. ‘Why?’ I manage to breathe. ‘Why would you do something like that?’
He shrugs with one shoulder. I want to slap him hard around the face for being such a childish, pathetic specimen of a boy at sixteen.
‘I dunno, I only did it for a joke,’ he says. ‘I thought it would be funny to see you a bit pissed because you’re always so …’
‘Nathan!’ barks Saskia.
‘Sorry,’ he shoots another panicked look at his mother, then turns back to me. I can’t help feeling this entire apology is only really aimed at her.
‘I mean, I just didn’t … think,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say.
I can imagine so very clearly what it would feel like to strike that cheek. The smoothness, despite the speckle of juvenile beard. It’s so vivid in my mind, the satisfying slapping ring, the warm tautness of his young skin against my palm, that for a second I think I have actually hit him.
They are both staring at me, a little curiously now.
‘I really am sorry, Hester,’ he says, a bit more boldly. ‘I bought you these to apologize.’
I eye the flowers and then reach for them. They are beautiful and totally out of my budget. But I can’t bring myself to say thank you.
‘He bought them with his own money,’ says Saskia, a wheedling note to her voice. As if I should be impressed!
I want to tell them to go away but force myself to be polite. I will not stoop to the level of these appalling people.
‘I have things to attend to,’ I say. ‘Good afternoon.’ And I close the door in their faces.
I do still have some vestige of dignity.
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