Forget Me Not (3 page)

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘We’ll be on our way, then. But ring me when you’ve got to London and we’ll pop over.’ Dad nodded. ‘Say bye-bye to Grandpa then, darling.’

Milly tipped up her face to be kissed.

‘Bye-bye, my little sweetheart.’

I hugged him. ‘’Bye, Dad.’
Damn
. I’d done it again.

‘
Dad
-ee!’ Milly cried.

By the time I’d strapped her into her car seat, and we were turning out of the drive, Milly was chanting ‘Dad-dy! Dad-dy!’ with the passion and vigour of a Chelsea supporter.

‘It’s OK, darling,’ I sang. ‘We
will
be seeing Daddy, but not for a little while, because he’s busy at the moment.’

‘Daddy. Bizzy,’ she echoed. ‘Bizzy. Daddy!’

‘Oh! Look at that horsy,’ I said.

‘’Orsy! Dad-
dy
!’

‘And those lovely moo cows. Look.’

‘Moo cows. Dadd
eeeee
…’

As we idled at a red light, I glanced in the mirror and Xan’s eyes stared back at me – the colour of sea holly. I often wished that Milly didn’t resemble him so much. And now, as her lids closed with the hum of the engine and the warmth of the car, I recalled meeting Xan for the first time. Not for a moment could I have imagined the shattering effect that he would have on my life.

As I released the clutch and the car eased forward, I remembered how cautious I’d always been until then. I was like Mark in that way – sensible and forward-looking. Unlike Cassie.

‘You need to have a life plan,’ Mark would say. He was two years older and we were close in those days, so I listened to him. ‘I’m going to be a doctor.’

By fourteen, I had my own plan mapped out: I’d work hard, go to a decent university, get a good job and buy a flat. In my late twenties I’d find myself that nice hardy perennial, get married and have three children, going back to work when the youngest was at school. My salary would not be essential, but would pay for a seaside cottage somewhere, or a house in France, which said hardy perennial and I would ultimately retire to, enjoying frequent visits from our devoted children and grandchildren, before dying peacefully, in our sleep, at ninety-nine.

For years I’d followed my plan to the letter. I read History at York, then got a job at a City hedge fund, where I joined the Equity Research department, gathering intelligence on investment ideas – analysing ‘fundamentals across multiple sectors’ as they called it. The work wasn’t always thrilling, but it was very well paid. I bought a small house in Brook Green, paid the mortgage and pension; then, with the rest, I enjoyed myself. I went skiing, diving and trekking; I joined a gym. I went to the opera, where I sat in the stalls. I spent time in my garden, and with family and friends. I was on track to reach my personal goals.

When I turned thirty, I started on the treadmill of engagement parties, hen nights and weddings. Feeling I ought to make more of an effort to meet someone, I joined a tennis club, gave parties and went on dates. With these I kept in mind my mother’s old-fashioned precepts: ‘Wait before returning their calls,’ she’d often say. ‘Make them think you’re too busy to see them. Never,
ever
throw yourself at them, Anna. Try and retain a little “feminine mystique”.’ I’d groan at all this, but she’d retort that there was a little dance of courtship that needed to be danced and that it was her duty to give me ‘womanly’ advice.

‘All mothers should,’ she once said with a vehemence that took me aback. ‘My mother never told me anything,’ she’d added bitterly. ‘She was too embarrassed. But I wish she had done, because it meant I was hopelessly unworldly.’

Which probably explains why she married Dad when she was twenty.

‘It was a whirlwind romance,’ she’d say coyly whenever the subject came up.

I’d discreetly roll my eyes, because I’ve always known the truth.

‘A tornado,’ Dad would add with a wry smile. They’d gone up the aisle two months after meeting at the Lyons Corner House on The Strand.

‘It was raining,’ Mum would say, ‘so the café was full. Suddenly this divine-looking man came up to me and asked if he could share my table – and that was that!’

But it used to amuse me that my mother, whose own romantic life had been so happily uneventful, should seem so anxious to educate me about affairs of the heart.

The men I dated were all attractive, clever and charming, and would have been ‘husband material’, were it not that they all seemed to have major drawbacks of one sort or another. Duncan, for example, was a successful stockbroker – intelligent and likeable – but his enthusiasm for lap-dancing clubs was a problem for me; then there was Gavin who was still getting over his divorce. After that I dated Henry, an advertising copywriter, who avoided traffic jams by driving on the pavement. The second time he was cautioned I called it a day. Then I met Tony, a publisher, at a wedding in Wiltshire. Tony was clever and fun. But when after six months he said that he didn’t want anything long-term I ended it. I couldn’t afford to waste my time.

‘You’ve still got ages, darling,’ my mother had said consolingly afterwards. We were sitting on the garden bench in Oxted, under the pear tree. It was her birthday, the tenth of May. She put her arm round me, wrapping me in the scent of the Shalimar I’d given her that morning. ‘You’re only thirty-two, Anna,’ I heard her say. My eyes strayed to the little blue clouds of forget-me-nots floating in the flowerbeds. ‘Thirty-two’s still young. And women have their children much later now – thank goodness.’

I suddenly asked her something I’d always wanted to know: ‘If you could have your time again, Mum, would you have waited longer before starting a family?’ She’d had Mark when she was just twenty-one.

‘Well …’ she’d said, blushing slightly, ‘I … don’t think having a child is ever a mistake.’ Which wasn’t what I’d meant. ‘But yes, I did start very early,’ she’d gone on, ‘so I never really worked – unlike you. But you’re lucky, Anna, because you’re of the generation that can have a fulfilling career, fun and independence, and
then
the happiness of family life. And you’re not to worry about finding that,’ she repeated, stroking my hair. ‘Because you’ve still got lots of time.’

Which was something that she herself didn’t have, it seemed, because less than a month later she’d died.

Now, as I turned on to the motorway I remembered – as I often do when I’m driving and my mind can range – that awful, awful time. I was so shocked I could barely breathe. It was as though the Pause button had been pressed on my life. What would I do without my mother? I felt as though I’d been pushed off a cliff.

And what if
I
only had twenty-three years left, I had then begun to wonder, as I lay staring into the darkness, night after night. What if I only had ten years left, or five, or
one?
Because I now understood, in a way I could never have grasped before, how our lives all hang by a thread.

I had a fortnight’s compassionate leave, which I needed, as I had to organise the funeral as Dad could barely function. Going back to work after that was a relief in some ways – though I remember it as a very strange time. My colleagues were kind and sympathetic to begin with, but as time went on, naturally, they stopped asking me how I was, as though it was expected that life should now carry on as normal. Except that nothing seemed ‘normal’ any more. And as the weeks went by I felt increasingly dissatisfied with the life I’d been leading – the fact-finding about investment opportunities that were of zero interest to me – the number-crunching and the daily commute. I now ‘analysed the fundamentals’ of my own existence and realised that the goals I’d striven to achieve seemed trivial. So I made a decision to change my life.

I’d often daydreamed about giving up the rat race and becoming a garden designer. I could never go to someone’s house without imagining how their garden would look if it were landscaped differently or planted more imaginatively. I’d already designed a couple of gardens as a favour – a Mediterranean courtyard for my PA, Sue, at her house in Kent; and a cottage garden for an elderly couple over the road. They’d been delighted with its billowing mass of hollyhocks and foxgloves, and doing it had given me a huge buzz.

So I signed up for a year’s diploma course at the London School of Gardening in Chelsea. Then I went to see my boss, Miles.

‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked as I sat in his office, heart pounding at the thought of the security – and the camaraderie – I was about to sacrifice. He rotated his gold fountain pen between his first and second fingers. ‘You’ll be giving up a lot, Anna – not least the chance of a directorship in maybe two or three years.’ I had a sudden vision of my name on the thick vellum company stationery. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to dissuade you,’ Miles went on, ‘but are you sure you want to do this?’ I glanced out of the window. A plane was making its way across the cobalt sky, leaving a bright, snowy contrail. ‘You’ve been through a lot lately,’ I heard him say. ‘Could it just be a reaction to your mother’s death?’

‘Yes,’ I replied quietly. ‘That’s exactly what it is. Which is why I
am
sure I want to do it – thanks.’

I worked out my notice; then, in early September Miles gave me a leaving party in the boardroom. Seeing the big turnout, I was glad I’d put on my most glamorous Prada suit – I’d been thrilled because I’d got it half price – and my beloved Jimmy Choos. I wouldn’t be wearing these heels for a long time, I thought, as I circulated. I wouldn’t be buying any more either – I’d have zero income for the next year. Nor would I be drinking champagne, I thought, as I sipped my third, nerve-steadying glass of fizz.

Suddenly Miles chinked his glass, then ran his hand through his blond curls – he looked like an overgrown cherub. ‘Can I have everyone’s attention?’ he said, as the hubbub subsided. ‘Because I’d just like to embarrass Anna for a moment.’ A sudden warmth suffused my face. Miles flipped out his yellow silk tie. ‘Anna – this is a very sad day for all of us here at Arden Fund Management – for the simple reason that you’ve been a dream colleague.’

‘And a dream boss!’ I heard Sue say. I smiled at her. ‘I’m regretting egging you on to do this gardening lark now!’

‘You’ve been a real team player,’ Miles went on. ‘Your meticulous research has helped us do our jobs with so much more confidence. You’ve dug away painstakingly on our behalf. And now you’re set to do spadework of a different kind.’ I smiled. ‘Anna, we’re going to miss you more than we can say. But we wish you every success and happiness in your new career – in which we hope that these small tokens of our huge appreciation will come in useful.’

I stepped forward and he presented me with a large, surprisingly heavy gift bag, from which I pulled out a silver-plated watering can – engraved with my name and the date – and a pair of exceptionally clumpy green wellies. I laughed, then made a short thank you speech, just managing not to cry, as the reality of it all finally hit me. Then, clutching my presents and having tipsily – and tearfully now – hugged everyone goodbye, I went to have supper with Sue.

It felt strange going through Arden’s revolving doors for the last time, giving the guys on security one final wave. Sue and I went round the corner to Chez Gerard for our valedictory dinner. As we ordered, I looked at Sue who was only seven years younger than my mum; in some ways she was like the aunt I’d never had.

‘You know, Anna…’ Sue lowered her menu. ‘I’ve worked for you for five years and not had a single bad day.’

‘You’ve been much more than a PA, Sue.’ I felt my throat constrict. ‘You’ve been a true friend.’

She put her hand on my arm. ‘And that’s not going to stop.’ Then she opened her bag and took out a gift-wrapped package. ‘I’ve got something for you too.’ Inside was a beautiful book about Alpine flowers, which I’ve always loved, with stunning photographs of dainty gentians, Edelweiss and
Dianthus
growing in the Carpathians, the Pyrenees and the Alps.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured. ‘It’s lovely.’ I turned to the title page and read Sue’s inscription:
To Anna, may you bloom
and grow
… ‘I hope I do,’ I said anxiously.

‘Oh, you will,’ Sue said.

Later, as our coffee arrived she mentioned that she’d arranged to meet her friend Cathy for a late drink. ‘Why don’t you come along?’ she suddenly suggested.

I sipped my espresso. ‘Oh … I don’t … know.’

‘You’ve met Cathy before – at my forty-fifth birthday drinks, remember?’

‘Yes, I do – she was nice.’

‘We’re meeting at this new club near Oxford Circus, then we’ll get the train back to Dartford together. Say yes, Anna.’

‘Well …’

Sue glanced at her watch. ‘It’s not even ten. And you’re not doing anything else tonight, are you?’ I shook my head. ‘So?’

‘So … OK, then. Thanks. Why not?’

‘I mean today’s your last day in the City after
twelve
years,’ she added as we emerged on to the street.

‘Twelve years,’ I echoed. ‘That’s more than a third of my life.’ I felt unsteady from all the champagne.

‘You don’t want it to just … fizzle out, do you?’

‘No. I want it to end in a memorable way.’

‘With a bang – not a whimper!’

‘Yes!’

But as we stepped on to the escalator at Bank tube station, my right heel got stuck in the metal slats. It was wedged. As we neared the bottom, I began to panic. Then, as I wrenched it free, it sheared off.

‘Oh,
shit
,’ I moaned as I hobbled off. Sue’s hand was clapped to her mouth in horrified amusement. ‘There’s a metaphor in this,’ I said grimly as I retrieved the amputated stiletto. ‘I’m leaving the security of the City, so I’m going to be down at heel.’

‘That’s nonsense – you’re going to be a big success. But there’s only one thing for it …’

‘Yes, Superglue,’ I interjected. ‘Got any?’

‘On with the green wellies!’

‘Oh
no
!’

‘Oh yes.’ Sue giggled. ‘What else are you going to do? Go barefoot?’

‘Oh God.’ I laughed as I pulled them on, attracting amused looks from passers-by. I stared at my legs. ‘Very fetching. Well, I’m suited and booted all right. At least they fit,’ I added as I clumped along the corridor. ‘But they make my feet look massive.’