Twenty-five Memories of Viggo MacDuff Read online

  Twenty-five Memories of Viggo MacDuff

  Kate Gordon

  Published by Odyssey Books in 2017

  Copyright © Kate Gordon 2017

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  www.odysseybooks.com.au

  * * *

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  ISBN: 978-1-925652-29-1 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-925652-30-7 (ebook)

  * * *

  Cover photo and design by Michelle Lovi

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  About the Author

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  One

  I wipe the chocolate from my chin with the back of my hand.

  That’s it. The last. Number twenty-five.

  I look down at the glitter on my fingers. They stroke the tattered remains of what was once a reindeer and Santa. Now it’s ripped and torn, and bears little resemblance to the happy whole it was before.

  A bit like my heart.

  I groan, my forehead dropping to my shimmering palms. Did I just think that?

  Beezus is curled at my feet. He’s gazing up at me disparagingly, as if he read my mind.

  “Yes,” I groan. “I did just compare my heart to a used-up advent calendar. Kill me now.”

  Beezus smiles, his little ferret fangs pushing against his bottom lip.

  “I know,” I say, picking him up and plonking him on my lap. I scratch him behind the ears and he purrs. “I’m being a loser. But you don’t get it, Bee. You’ve never been in love. You’ve never had your heart ripped to shreds. You’ve never—”

  Beezus gives a little start as my phone begins to ring. I wince. I’m going to have to change my ringtone.

  Nobody this heartbroken should be allowed to listen to “The Luckiest”. Even the first few bars. Even knowing that Ben Folds is no longer married to the lady he wrote that song for.

  I look down at the flashing screen. It’s Emily.

  I tap the red hang up icon. I feel horrible and guilty. But I can’t handle talking to anybody right now, except Beezus.

  “I’m sorry it’s not been a better Christmas. It’s my fault. I ruined everything. I just couldn’t—”

  Rap Rap Rap!

  It’s my turn to jump. The loud noise came from my bedroom window. “Who’s that?” I whisper to Beezus. Emily is in Noosa for the holidays. And my entire family went without me to Debbie’s house in Launceston. Which means it has to be …

  “Be vewwy quiet, Bee,” I whisper, “and he might just go a—”

  “Connie Chase, I know you’re up there. I can see your Vans!”

  “Damn,” I grumble. “Betrayed by skate shoes. Could today get any worse?”

  “Connie? Come on. It’s me. Your supposed best friend.”

  I peek over the windowsill. “Not in the mood for a lecture, Jeremiah,” I call down. “So you can just go back to listening to your new Opeth CD, or whatever metalhead thing it was that you were doing. Merry Christmas.”

  “I’m coming up.”

  “I’ll sick Beezus on you if you do!” I hold Beezus up to the window. Obediently he snarls. The only creature who understands me. B always has my back.

  I hear the front door slam.

  “You know what this means,” I whisper to Beezus. “Attack mode.”

  Unfortunately, Bee’s attack mode consists of running to my bedroom door as it opens, sniffing Jed’s motorcycle boots and letting out a trill of pure pleasure.

  Jed swings Beezus into his arms. Beezus nuzzles his goatee.

  Betrayed again.

  “At least somebody’s happy to see me,” Jed says. He holds a purring Beezus high in the air. “You are the master of awesome.”

  Jed moves over to my bed and plonks down, a jubilant traitor of a polecat settling on his knee. He passes me a square, wrapped in newspaper.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr Sardick,” he says.

  I maintain my silence for as long as I can. But it’s too much. I can’t resist a Doctor Who reference. “Christmas special, 2010. Easy one.” I put Jed’s gift on the bed beside me. I don’t bother unwrapping it. I know what it will be. A burnt copy of whatever kooky metal act Jed is currently fixated on. His indoctrination attempts have a long history. They’re also completely wasted on this nineties’ pop obsessive. But you have to admire the boy’s persistence.

  I indicate with my head. “Yours is on the desk. Get it yourself if you want. But you’ll have to ditch Judas Ferretiot to do it.”

  Beezus narrows his eyes. I narrow mine back.

  “I’m touched.” Jed grins. “But you know, I didn’t come here for presents.”

  “It’s Christmas Day.”

  “There’s no Christmas Day in the Heartbreak Hotel.”

  “You. Are. A. Jerk.”

  “This is true. But I’m a jerk who’s got a big old shoulder, just perfect for crying on. And I’m a jerk who wants to listen. Come on, Con. What happened? What was it that ended the Great Love Affair of Our Time? Viggo’s not talking, so I have literally not a clue.”

  I grab Jed’s sleeve. “Viggo’s been talking to you about me? He said we had a great love affair? So does that mean he still—”

  “Don’t even go there,” Jed interrupts. “Trust me, there’s not going to be any Christmas Miracle Reunion for ‘Congo’.”

  “Congo,” I whisper, my chin trembling. “That was us. Us.”

  We were together for a year—from December twenty-third to December twenty-third. From my birthday party last year to my …

  I bury my face in my hands again. I can’t think about it. I won’t think about it.

  “Are you thinking about it?” asks Jed. He’s unwrapping his present. “Cool.” I lift my head. He holds up the new, limited edition Twelfth Doctor action figure. “You know the way to a man’s heart, Connie-girl.
So, were you thinking about it?”

  “Yes, Jeremy. I was.” I wipe at my eyes. “It was my number twenty-five.”

  “Your … what now?”

  “My twenty-five memories,” I say quietly. “I told myself I was allowed twenty-five memories of Viggo—one for each Christmas chocolate in my calendar—before I wiped him from my head completely.”

  There’s a pause. Jed raises one silver-studded eyebrow.

  “Don’t judge me,” I mutter.

  “Never would, Connie-girl. So, did it work?”

  “What?”

  “Is he out of your noggin?”

  I shake my head, slowly. I point at my temple. “He’s still there. Big time.”

  Jed’s face softens. “Bloody Vig.”

  I shake my head. “Not his fault. I did it. I did everything. Viggo is perfect.”

  “Exactly the problem.” Jed shakes his head. Then he takes my hand. “Maybe … Connie, maybe the downfall of your calendar idea is that you didn’t say the memories aloud. You internalised them. You need to let them out. Talk it through. Get the feelings out into the open.”

  It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. This is the boy whose idea of a perfect Saturday night is a thrash concert and he’s talking to me about feelings?

  “Okay, who kidnapped Jed?” I ask. “What makes you think you’re suddenly an expert on how to heal a broken heart?”

  Jed shrugs. “You know what? I may not be an expert, but I have a few thoughts on you and Viggo, and I—”

  I hold up a hand. “I don’t want to hear them. Your thoughts. I don’t want to hear how I messed up and how much I suck and how I bulldozed everything. I already know it all, Jeremiah. I am the loser-est. You don’t have to tell me.”

  Jed gives me a funny look. “Okay, maybe I shouldn’t talk at all. Maybe you need to talk instead. Maybe you should blurt it all out to the universe. The universe, in this case, being me. Consider me your Dr Freud.”

  “I don’t want to be psychoanalysed, Jed.”

  “All right. Consider me your journal. Your diary. Your impartial, mute sounding board. Tell me the memories, Connie-girl.”

  “All twenty-five?”

  Jed nods. “I have time.”

  “But it’s Christmas. Don’t you have, like, family plans?”

  Jed grimaces. “Yes. I did. That’s why I’m here.”

  I laugh, despite myself. I can only imagine what Jed’s family would have arranged for Christmas evening. Jed’s folks put the families in Stepford to shame.

  It’s no wonder Jed’s sister ran off to Nimbin.

  And poor, longhaired, metal-head Jed. His parents have golden hearts, but I imagine him at nighttime, under his Iron Maiden doona, dreaming of Nimbin, too.

  Jed is the anti-Stepford.

  Which is why it surprised me so much when Jed introduced me to Viggo. His “Other Best Friend".

  Jed slung his arm around Viggo’s shoulder. “This right here is Viggo Kendon MacDuff. Back from the wilderness. I hope you two get along.”

  I took in Viggo’s button-down shirt, his pressed chinos and shiny black shoes.

  I looked back at my scruffy, vampire-like friend.

  And “whoa” was the first word I said to Viggo MacDuff.

  “Mum was just putting on the Michael Bublé Christmas CD when I climbed out my window.” Jed winces. “Please tell me stories, Connie-girl. Please give me something to do that doesn’t involve eggnog and charades.”

  “But I ate my advent calendar …” I gesture at the mess of chocolate-smeared cardboard on the floor. Beezus is licking it. I hope chocolate isn’t bad for ferrets like it is for dogs. “I can’t do the memories without the calendar!”

  “Connie-girl, the lack of an advent calendar never stopped anyone reliving memories of their past loves.”

  “That is completely the worst epigram I have ever heard.”

  “I never said I was deep. I’m profoundly shallow.”

  “You’re not allowed to quote nineties’ indie pop lyrics.”

  “I’ll do it until you tell me the memories. I got my head checked by a jumbo jet. I’m a creep. I’m a weirdo. I’m a bitch. I’m a lover. I’m a child. I’m a mother …”

  “Okay! Okay, just stop I’ll tell you the damn memories.”

  “Every single one?”

  I hug Beezus tightly and nod. “Every single memory of Viggo MacDuff.”

  Two

  Memory 1

  “I don’t really know how to do it,” I admitted. “Tell the memories. I mean, a lot of it you know already.”

  “Pretend I don’t. You’ll remember it differently, anyway.”

  “Well, okay. This is what I remember …”

  His hands were in the pockets of his ridiculously wrinkle-free chinos. He smelled of wholegrain bread and expensive aftershave. He was humming a song I vaguely recognised. From an ad on TV maybe.

  “Dude, you’re such a girl,” Jed said, elbowing Viggo in the ribs. “What’s Connie going to think of my taste in friends when I introduce you and all you can do is hum fricking Mozart?”

  Viggo shrugged. “Catherine was listening to it as I left the house.” He focused his bright green eyes on me. I felt dizzy. “Catherine is my sister,” he explained. “She has excellent taste in all things—fashion, art … but music especially. That piece, I think you’ll find, is widely regarded to be Mozart’s magnum opus.”

  “‘That piece, I think you’ll find’ …” Jed mimicked. He rolled his eyes at me. “You hate my other best friend already, don’t you? You’re going to ditch us both and go and hang out with the überclones.”

  I cringed. “Are you kidding me, Jeremiah? The überclones—”

  As if saying their name had summoned them, Kacey Kuusela, Karen Wilson and Abigail Ward sauntered past us up the hallway, their skater skirts swishing as their hips swung from side to side. They stopped a few steps away from us, turned in perfect synchronisation, looked Viggo up and down, smiled and gave him three nauseating, fluttery-fingered waves.

  I groaned inwardly. While Kacey and her fembot army had never been directly mean to me, they’d never been friendly, either. Why would they? I was a geek with no fashion sense. The fact that Kacey happened to be Em’s cousin—and that Em insisted she was lovely, once you got to know her—made no difference. I still didn’t exist in their world.

  Luckily, I one hundred percent didn’t care.

  Kacey Kuusela stepped forward. She held out a Shellac-ed hand to Viggo. “Kacey Kuusela,” she purred. “And you are …”

  “Nice to meet you, Kacey,” Viggo said. “I’m Viggo MacDuff.” I glanced at his face. His smile was polite, but I could sense an undercurrent of amusement.

  He shook Kacey’s hand officiously and then dropped it. Kacey looked down at her fingers in surprise. She was used to boys holding on that moment too long. This was a new experience.

  “So, um, you’re new?” she fumbled. I couldn’t help grinning. I’d never seen Kacey Kuusela ruffled before. It was a tiny bit fun.

  Viggo gave a small, slow nod in reply.

  “Right, well, if you need anything …”

  Kacey flashed another smile—the sort of smile that knocked boys dead. The sort of smile that broke them to smithereens.

  The sort of smile that seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Viggo MacDuff.

  Kacey’s killer grin faltered ever so slightly when she received only a polite nod in return. “Catch you soon, I hope,” she said.

  She returned to the others. In unison, they turned on their heels and recommenced the strut towards their glittering futures.

  “Well, that was an … experience.” Viggo laughed.

  “You don’t think Kacey Kuusela is, like, bae AF, then?” Jed imitated Kacey’s hair flip with his long black curls.

  “I knew a million girls like her in Sydney,” Viggo said, shrugging. “All surface. Nothing at all between the ears. And they think they’re the bee’s knees besides. Arrogant. I don’t have time for girls
like that.”

  “So you’re from Sydney?” I asked Viggo, flinching as I realised I was asking the same sort of redundant question Kacey had just spluttered at him. “I mean,” I added quickly, “Jeremiah said you came from ‘the wilderness’.”

  Viggo laughed. “An in-joke,” he said. “I left Tasmania when I was ten. Before that we lived down in the Huon Valley, on a small acreage, passed down through the family for generations. It was a hobby farm more than anything, but we did have a goat named Francois-Rene! It may have been far from civilisation but the aspect was quite lovely and my father made many useful renovations to the property, such as a tennis court and a heated pool. Then my mother was headhunted by a big firm in Sydney. Father told Jed we were going to ‘the real jungle’ and our boy believed him. The first time he came to stay I think he got something of a shock.”

  “I wanted tigers.” Jed pouted.

  “What are you complaining about?” Viggo flicked him on the arm. “I showed you the animals. I took you to Westfield.”

  Jed pressed a hand to his chest. “I bought my first Metallica CD at Sanity,” he sighed. “It changed my life. No zebras, though. Not even a meerkat.”

  Viggo laughed. His eyes sparkled. I was dizzy.

  Disoriented.

  Done for.

  Oh dear. This was not good. I couldn’t have a crush on Jed’s best friend. How awkward would that be? And, plus, just look at him.