Chapter 21
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
After leaving Florence’s flat late Sunday afternoon, I trudge back to my own silent, empty one. There’s nothing to do but heat up a bowl of minestrone soup in the microwave for dinner and stand there watching it going round and round like the question in my mind.
Why does Florence so strongly resemble those three women in the photos?
The answer when it comes to me is simple, and I sag against the counter in relief.
Because it is Florence, you dummy. Duh! Didn’t she say her flatmate Hester was involved in the theatre?
The actors must have held a few themed parties over the years, and she’s dressed up and gone along too.
The photos are just for fun. Admittedly, the faded Victorian one is extremely realistic .
.. But I push any doubt to the back of my mind.
It’s easy enough to recreate that old-fashioned look with the right props, and Photoshop has sepia-type filters.
The microwave dings. I slip on an oven mitt, feeling a lot better that I’ve figured it out, and it’s nothing weird at all. The savoury smell of the soup, when I extract it from the microwave, makes my stomach grumble loudly. It’s been hours since lunch; maybe I’ll have some cheese on toast too.
I’m lying on the couch after my makeshift dinner, absorbed in a sci-fi series and attempting to relax, when my phone dings.
Probably Andrew trying to rile me again.
I ignore it. Then it dings again ten minutes later.
For God’s sake, is he deliberately trying to piss me off? I pause the show and look at my phone.
It’s not Andrew. They’re messages from Dad.
Hi Damian, just checking in. I hope Florence wasn’t too traumatised? Is her leg ok? Your mother is chatting to one of her friends on her phone in the lounge so I’ve come into the study for some DTO. Love Dad.
I chuckle at that. DTO means ‘Dad Time Out’, a polite way of saying Mum’s animated conversation is getting on his nerves and he’s over it. I move on to his second message.
Hi again, I’ve been racking my brains all day trying to remember where I’d seen Florence before. I was just having a flip through some of my old photo albums. Check out the attached.
I open the attachment, and my heart skips a beat.
Dad has taken a screenshot of a Kodak colour photo that features a group of youths at a party in a random lounge.
From the clothes and the hair, it must be the 1980s.
I recognise my lanky beardless dad in an AC/DC T-shirt.
Standing next to him is his suave older brother, Tim, in a white linen suit à la Don Johnson.
Tim has his arm around a pretty blonde girl with big teased hair.
She’s wearing a short leather skirt with a studded belt and a black halter top with a skull and crossbones.
Her lips are scarlet red, and she’s pouting at the camera.
But it’s the beautiful slim goth girl in ripped jeans and black leather jacket next to her that my gaze is drawn to.
Her dark hair is short and spiky. But the purple lipstick, pale skin, and those violet eyes are unmistakable.
The photo is from a party at Tim’s flat in 1983 (there was a date on the back).
The quality isn’t great, it must have been a bad batch of film, or someone didn’t know how to use a flash, but the likeness of the dark haired girl to Florence is uncanny, don’t you think?
Her blonde friend went out with Tim for a couple of months.
I can check with him but I’m pretty sure her name was Sadie . ..
An icy chill runs down my spine as I gaze at the photo of the two girls. Sadie. Surely, this can’t be ... Florence and her flatmate?
I remember Tim being quite upset at the time as they broke up suddenly. I think he must’ve really liked her. Anyway, maybe you can make better sense of it all than me. Love Dad.
I smile wryly at his closing sentence. Thanks, Dad, for opening Pandora’s box, shutting the lid, then quietly slinking off.
But his discovery is timely, and I can’t ignore it.
Based on this new evidence, Florence is not just an enthusiastic attendee of themed parties.
She was actually at a party in 1983, which makes her as old as my father!
Bitsy going crazy at her for no reason.
Feeling no pain after being bitten.
Weirdly cold hands.
Her ageless appearance ...
Yeah, my freak-o-meter is back on high alert.
***
During my lunch break the next day at work, I check Florence’s X-rays against the 1960s photo I have on my phone.
I’m 99.9 per cent sure that it’s definitely her—not that it helps me much as, unlike Dad, I didn’t think to see if there was a date on the back of the photo to prove it.
But just thinking about the possibility that she’s even older than my dad, like another twenty years older, blows my mind too much to even contemplate it. My emotions are all over the place.
Then I get a message from her, which makes me feel guilty on top of it. Like she somehow knows I’m sitting here, poring over her dental records while eating my tuna salad sandwich. Her message is nothing pointed, just friendly.
Hey how’s it going?
But I can’t bring myself to reply in a similar tone as if nothing’s wrong. So I leave it and concentrate on my afternoon patients.
On the way home after work, I receive another one. Still friendly, but slightly more worried.
Hey Damian, did you get my last message? Hope your day went well.
I leave that one too.
By the time I reach my flat, my anxiety is building momentum, about to take off like a speeding car without a driver.
My hand is trembling so much it takes a couple of tries to slot the key into the lock.
Once inside, I slam the door and lean against it, dragging in deep lungfuls of air.
I laugh at myself a little when I’ve calmed down.
I’m acting like she’s stalking me, for God’s sake.
Pull yourself together, Dr Rhodes.
It sounds like something Florence would say.
I have every intention of replying to her after I’ve had a long relaxing hot bath, but then I decide to cook myself a healthy dinner and listen to a podcast.
So I don’t.
I’m zoned out on the couch, listlessly flicking around Netflix, unable to settle on any particular show, but wanting something—anything—to keep my mind off her when I receive another message.
Hey, is everything all right? If you’re sick let me know and I’ll come round and take care of you. I owe you one after Bitsy (winking emoji)
The subtle implication that she’ll do more than serve me chicken soup causes goose pimples to scud along my arms and my cock to harden spontaneously. I’m too scaroused to know how to reply.
So I don’t say anything.
***
That night, I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep. My therapist would probably say the extreme anxiety I’m experiencing is a natural reaction after what happened with Juliana. I’m having feelings for someone. Therefore, I’m protecting myself so I don’t get hurt again.
But it’s more than that.
There’s something in particular about Florence that 10 per cent of my brain understands perfectly and the other 90 per cent is desperately trying to flee from.
Around 2 a.m., I drift off and start having a vivid dream.
I’m hovering in a purple light above Florence’s bed.
She’s down below, curled up in white silk sheets.
Upset. Crying because I haven’t replied to her messages.
‘I’m up here!’ I call, but she keeps on sobbing.
I flail my limbs around, but I can’t force my body to go lower.
There’s some trick to it, but I can’t figure out what. It’s so frustrating.
Then I look down, and the bed is empty. Where did she go?
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I slowly roll over to find her hovering above me so we’re face to face. I reach out for her, drowning in her intense violet eyes. Her lips don’t move, but I hear her say distinctly, ‘Don’t leave me, Damian. I need you.’
I wake with a start to find my arms sticking up in the air like I’ve been holding onto someone. Lowering them, I sit up and flick on the bedside light. It’s freezing cold in the room, but I’m overheating, my thin T-shirt clinging to my sweat-covered chest.
Blindly, I reach for my phone, determined to message Florence right now despite it being 3 a.m. But when I unlock my phone, I see she’s sent me another message five minutes ago.
Damian, there are some things I need to share with you. Can you meet me at The Brief Encounter on Friday at 7pm? If you don’t show then I won’t bother you again. You have my word.
I reply with: OK, I’ll be there.
Switching off the light, I snuggle down under the duvet, exhaling quietly.
Florence isn’t denying there’s something weird going on, and I’m finally going to hear the truth.
Part of me is reluctant to hear what that truth is, but there may still be some rational explanation.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.