Forty-Three

Memory 22

It was October. I’d wanted to meet Mr and Mrs MacDuff for … well, we’d been together since my birthday, just before Christmas. So I’d hoped to meet them for at least ten months.

Viggo always seemed to invite me over when they were out to dinner, or at work. Or on holidays in the Seychelles.

I’d asked, a couple of times, tentatively, if they might like to meet me. Viggo had blown me off. “Of course. But, you know, they’re busy …”

I’d let it drop. And months went by.

And then

I don’t know what got into me. I knew that Viggo hated doing things he hadn’t planned. He had his schedule honed to perfection and he became intensely grouchy if it got out of whack.

But I was excitedthe Bangarra bookshop had shelved their copies of a new political memoir Viggo was coveting, a couple of days earlier than it was due out. I just happened to be in the shopgazing wistfully at a Patrick Rothfuss I knew I’d never have time to readwhen I saw the memoir on the new release stand. I knew Viggo was desperate to read it, so I bought a copy and asked Dad if we could stop off at Viggo’s on the way home.

“Of course,” he said. “But I do have to go home straight away. Australia and the Windies are on the telly …”

“It’s fine, Dad,” I said. “Just drop me off. I’m sure Viggo and I will end up spending the afternoon together. I’ll ask him to walk me home after, or I’ll catch a bus.”

“He bloody better walk you home,” Dad said. “No daughter of mine is getting sent home from her boyfriend’s house on public transport.”

“He might have plans …” I protested.

Dad shook his head. “No plans are more important than my little girl. Jed always walks you home.”

“Jed’s not my boyfriend!”

“More’s the pity,” Dad muttered.

Then, I thought he was being sarcastic.

“Remember,” Dad called as I bounced out of the car, “he walks you home. You deserve nothing less. Don’t let him make you feel otherwise.”

And I called back, “He makes me feel amazing.”

Dad nodded. As I remember it now, though, he didn’t look completely convinced.

But, at the time, all I cared about was getting to Viggo and giving him his book.