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And anyway, where would I go? She told me she was moving away. I’m not even sure what her real name is—the blonde in the bar called her Trinny. Is it short for something? Trinity? But she called herself Catie. Catie, Trinny… Is her full name Catherine? Even if it is, I know nothing else about her, including her surname or where she lives. We purposefully didn’t reveal anything about ourselves. It was only supposed to be physical.
I turn to go back to the bedroom, and then I see it—the note lying on the kitchen counter. I stride over and pick it up. It’s a piece of lined A4 from a pad she must have retrieved from the dining table, and my Montblanc pen is sitting on top of it. She’s written a message in a neat, angular hand that’s not particularly girlish, although she has drawn a heart after my name.
Saxon <3
Thanks for a great evening! I had a fantastic time.
Three orgasms! In one session! A personal record :-)
In the words of Mr. Sheeran—you’re Perfect. I envy the girl who finally lands the fish.
Allons-y!
Catie (with a C) x
Allons-y is a reference to the tenth Doctor, who occasionally said the phrase, which is French for ‘Let’s Go!’
Holding the note, I walk back into the bedroom, climb on the bed, then flop back and stare up at the ceiling. I think of her choosing Ed Sheeran, and give a short, humorless laugh as I roll over and press my nose into the pillow she was lying on. Now my bed sheets smell like her. That’s fucking ironic.
I slide my hand beneath the pillow, then stop as my fingers touch something hard. Lifting the pillow, I draw the object out. It’s one of her shamrock earrings.
Resentment surges through me. It’s a trophy—a symbol of our passionate but impersonal one-night stand. She’s not my first, and she won’t be my last. How many other girls have I fucked, then rolled over and forgotten? I can hardly be hurt that she’s done the same to me. It’s modern life—and it works both ways. Girls use me too, and it’s never bothered me before. I’ve far too much on my mind, and in my life, to spare too much time dwelling on the redhead I’m never going to see again. Allons-y, Saxon! Build a bridge, and get over it.
Then I think about her terrible jokes—Doctor fucking Moo—and dancing with her to Barry White. About singing to her that she was my sun and moon and my guiding star, and the way she laughed and looked up into my eyes as if I was someone special. A wave of regret at the lost opportunity crashes over me.Fuck it.
The note in one hand, the earring in the other, I lie there and look out of the window at the rising moon for a long, long time.
*
Catie
Eight a.m. on Saturday finds me standing outside my father’s house in South Auckland.
I still call it my father’s house, even though he died years ago. I can’t bring myself to call it Greta’s house.
It holds a lot of memories for me. I stand out the front, hands in the pockets of my jacket, shoulders hunched, and study the window of the room above the living room. That was my bedroom from the age of twelve until I left when I was eighteen. The last thing I feel like doing is going back to this house. But there’s something I want inside, and this is my last chance to get it, so I have to go in.
I open the gate and walk up the garden path to the front door. When I left, Greta made me hand back my key, so I ring the doorbell. I’ve texted to say I’m coming around at eight, but I haven’t heard back, so I have no idea whether she’ll answer.
I leave it for thirty seconds, then I press the button again. Still no answer.
I do this three times. Then, finally, my irritation spilling over into fury, I hold the button down so it rings continuously.
It takes a whole minute before I hear muffled yelling from inside the house. Three people are arguing. I keep my finger on the button, though, and eventually footsteps approach the door, and it flies open.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” It’s Nancy, my stepsister. She’s four years older than me and she was living with her boyfriend. Has he thrown her out, or is she here because she knew I was coming?
I don’t answer, and instead push past her and walk in.
Along the hallway, my stepmother, Greta, is standing at the entrance to the living room with her other daughter, Petra. Two years older than me, Petra lives with her friend—who I suspect is her girlfriend, although she’d never admit that to her mother. The fact that both girls are here at eight a.m. tells me they came to see the show.
“What do you want, Trinny?” Greta’s voice is sharp.
I ignore them all and run up the stairs. At the top, I glance along the hallway to my old bedroom, and bile rises inside me. I was so unhappy here. I’m not going to think about it now, though. Turning, I walk into the room that Greta used to share with my father.
“Mum!” Nancy yells. “She’s gone into your room.”
Footsteps pound on the stairs, but I ignore them, go over to the wardrobe, and yank open the door. On the top shelf, the blue box sits where it has since my dad died. I lift it down, take off the lid, and tip the contents out onto the bed.
