Chapter 18
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
After Florence leaves, I bury my head in the pillows, cursing my stupidity.
Why the hell did I tell her about Juliana?
Now she’s going to see me as the dude with the dead girlfriend.
It will put her off, like it’s put off the majority of my friends, who have slowly drifted away from me.
My family was brilliant when it happened, but now even they’re reluctant to mention her name in case it sets off my anxiety. Which is what’s happening now.
I inhale deeply, exhale, and repeat it several times to slow my breathing, like my therapist taught me.
My lips burn a little as I breathe. They feel slightly sensitive, like when you’ve brushed your teeth, step outside, and take a breath of freezing winter air.
Is it Florence’s doing? She really needs to get her circulation checked if her lips are that cold.
After five minutes or so, my breathing calms, and I start feeling a bit silly lying here in my underwear. Should I get dressed? She’s taking a while. Maybe they’ve run out of teabags, and she had to go out?
I reach over the side of the bed, ease my phone out of my jeans pocket, and lie back on the bed, checking my messages.
There’s one from my brother.
Bro! Florence is hot. You should definitely go there.
(Don’t tell Amber I said that!) Talk to you later.
PS: Hope her leg is ok after the Cujo attack.
(crying with laughter emoji)
I roll my eyes. Andrew is a pain in the arse at the best of times. But he’s my only sibling, so I have to put up with him.
Not bothering to reply, I click off my phone, lean over, and slide it back into my pocket. As I do so, I happen to glance under the bed and see the edge of a book. Must be Florence’s bedtime reading ...
Stretching my hand out as far as it will go, I grasp the edge and draw the object slowly towards me.
I’m expecting a historical tome. But when it appears, it’s not a book at all.
It’s thin, square, and has a gold clasp on the edge of it.
The spine is ragged, and the whole thing looks really old.
A family photo album? Or has she bought it off Etsy?
Florence is so into the Victorian period that I wouldn’t be surprised.
My fingers brush over the faded black cover with flower and vine embossing, unsure if I should open it.
But a photo album isn’t a diary by any means.
So I feel I’m quite within my rights to have a quick peek.
Unlatching the gold clasp, I carefully open the album to the first page.
A sepia-toned Victorian portrait is mounted on the black card.
A smile spreads across my face as I gaze at the image of a young dark-haired woman.
Wow, it is a family photo album. Despite the old-fashioned dress and hairstyle and her serious expression, Florence’s resemblance to her great-grandmother is uncanny.
I turn the page. Florence’s great-granny is now dressed in a 1920s flapper dress complete with a jewelled feather headband.
The black-and-white photo isn’t formally posed.
She’s leaning against a wall, looking slightly away from the camera.
The image is blurred, as if the photographer had a dirty lens.
But it can’t be the same woman if it’s the 1920s, I reason—it must be her grandmother.
I turn to the next page, which has another black-and-white photo.
The same fuzzy woman is now dressed in capri pants and has a 1960s beehive hairdo.
She’s sitting in an armchair, looking up and laughing, as if the photographer has said something funny.
Her hand is raised as if she’s about to cover her mouth but hasn’t quite got there in time.
Is this now her mother? I wonder, feeling bewildered.
But she looks exactly like Florence. She even has the same slightly twisted left lateral incisor.
Heart pounding, I turn to the next page, but it’s blank.
Quickly, I flip through the rest of the album, but there are no further photos.
I’m about to place it under the bed again.
But something makes me lean over, take my phone out of my jeans pocket, and snap a quick shot of the 1960s photo—then another, zooming in on the woman’s teeth.
It’s not uncommon for dental traits to be hereditary, but an exact match to a parent’s teeth is rare.
I probably shouldn’t check her dental records just to satisfy my curiosity .
.. But it’s bugging me. I’ll just have a quick look tomorrow.
I mean, this has to be her mother. It can’t be Florence; she’s only in her twenties.
Even if she uses Botox, it’s not that good.
A door bangs shut in the distance. I hurriedly shove the album back under the bed, scoot under the covers, and lie there innocently with my eyes closed, as if I’m napping.
‘Hey,’ Florence says softly. I crack open an eye to find her perching on the side of the bed. She offers me a mug of tea.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, sitting up to take it.
She smiles at me, and I can’t help staring at her teeth. The exact same teeth in the photo. There has to be a rational explanation because the irrational one is mind-blowing.
‘Everything all right?’ she asks, noticing that my hand holding the mug is shaking.
‘Yeah, just recovering from a slight panic attack. It happens if I talk about the accident. Sorry for getting all emotional.’
I take a gulp of tea, practically searing my lips.
Florence tucks a hot-water bottle with a pink knitted cover under the covers, and it rests warmly against my thigh. The heat from it is actually quite comforting. It’s sweet of her to get it for me.
‘Well, you don’t have to apologise, honestly,’ she says. ‘It must have been awful for you.’
I take another sip of scalding tea so I don’t have to answer. ‘Are your flatmates home?’ I ask to change the subject.
Florence nods. ‘Yes, one of them. Sadie and her ... man.’ She twists her hands in her lap, and her impeccable long purple nails catch my eye.
I feel bad that she may have got them done especially for Sunday lunch.
Not only has she been attacked by my mother’s dog, but she’s also been forced into playing emotional nursemaid to me.
To repay her kindness, I’ve been nosing around in her personal stuff. What a creep!
I gulp the rest of my tea guiltily. ‘I should probably go,’ I say. ‘But thanks so much for this.’
‘Oh, are you sure? You can stay if you like. I’m not up to anything. We can chat or—’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve got stuff to do at home. But I’ll message you, if that’s OK?’
‘Sure,’ she says, sounding disappointed, and takes the empty mug from me. I struggle into my jeans underneath the covers, not really wanting to put on a show in my boxers.
Florence hands me my trainers silently as I button my shirt, and I sit on the bed, jamming my feet into them without bothering to unpick the laces.
My phone with the illicit photos is burning a hole in my back pocket.
I can’t meet her eyes. But as I go to pick up my coat from the armchair I laid it on, I notice she’s not looking at me anyway.
Her focus is trained on the side of the bed I’ve just vacated.