Forget Me Not (32 page)

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Why
not?
’ I repeated. I stared at him. Why not? ‘Because of Milly of course.’

‘Or is it because of you? You seemed very comfortable with him, Anna.’

‘Don’t be paranoid.’ I sighed. ‘I have to be friendly to Xan, Patrick, we’re co-parents.’

Patrick leaned against the worktop. ‘The man’s only been here ten days, but it’s already wrecking our relationship.’

‘It isn’t really,’ I protested. ‘We still see a lot of each other. I come over to you, don’t I?’

‘Yes – but you make me feel that I can’t come here.’

‘Well, it
is
tricky. I don’t want to confuse Milly. I need her to get to know Xan.’

‘But surely you also need her to get to know
me
.’

‘Yes, of course. But although I’m grateful for the tact you’ve shown, I don’t think surprise visits are a good idea.’

I began to walk out of the room, but Patrick grabbed my wrist, pulling me back. ‘You’re my girlfriend, Anna.’ His eyes were shining with emotion. ‘Why shouldn’t I drop round to see my own girlfriend in her own house without having to worry that I’ll find her ex making himself at home there?’

‘Please let go of me, Patrick,’ I said quietly.

He looked at my arm with an air of surprise, almost, then released his grip. ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. ‘But I’m just so upset. I hate him being around. What man wouldn’t?’ My heart softened at Patrick’s evident anguish. ‘And what does his other half think? I don’t suppose she likes it any more than I do.’

I stared at Patrick. ‘Well, the thing is …’

‘
Dad-eee
,’ I heard from upstairs. I felt a surge of relief.

‘Damn,’ I said. ‘Now we’ve woken her up.’

THIRTEEN

Over the next week Xan upped the ante, coming round not just on alternate days but every day now, staying well into the evening. It made life even more awkward for me, but I couldn’t bring myself to limit his time with Milly.

‘She adores him,’ I said to Jenny. We’d met for lunch at Chez Christophe in Hammersmith Grove. ‘And he’s nuts about her. I’ve been taken aback at how much he loves just being with her.’

Jenny snapped a breadstick in half. ‘He probably loves being with you too, Anna.’

‘He likes being with us –
en famille
.’ I found myself wondering whether Jenny ever regretted not being ‘en famille’ with Grace’s father. ‘Added to which there’s now a huge element of competition with Patrick.’

‘Of course there is,’ Jenny said. ‘From what you say, Xan’s behaving in a classic territorial way, even though he doesn’t really have the right to.’ She poured us both some fizzy water. ‘In fact, it’s fairly outrageous, given his track record.’

‘I guess it is. His arrival’s caused havoc,’ I added miserably.

‘Can I be a bit tough, Anna?’ Jenny said. ‘It’s up to you to prevent havoc by being fair to Xan, but at the same time protective of Patrick’s feelings.’

I dipped a piece of bread in the olive oil. ‘That’s easier said than done.’

‘But it sounds as though you’re allowing Xan too much time with Milly.’

I flinched. ‘How can a father be with his own child too much? Children
need
their fathers.’ Jenny was staring at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I added, ‘That wasn’t intended as a criticism of you.’

‘I didn’t take it that way,’ she replied evenly. ‘Of course children need their fathers – in most situations. But if you value your relationship with Patrick, you have to be firmer with Xan about how much time he spends with you.’

I shifted on my chair. ‘I know. Now, whenever I see Patrick all we do is argue about Xan – it’s miserable.’

Jenny shrugged. ‘What do you expect? He’d just established a relationship with you, when Xan comes back, and starts monopolising you and Milly as though it’s his right. It’s hard for Patrick. Especially with his history.’

I picked up my menu. ‘I know … I do think about that.’

‘Be careful, Anna,’ Jenny warned. ‘You don’t want to lose Patrick.’

‘No,’ I agreed quietly. ‘I don’t.’

‘And you seemed happy with him before Xan came back?’

‘I think I
was
happy. But now I’m … confused.’

‘Because you’re enjoying being with Xan again? Is that it?’

‘Well … Yes. I suppose I am.’

It was true. I did like being with Xan. I loved going out with him and Milly – swimming at the health club, playing in the park, going to the Natural History Museum or the zoo. It felt absolutely right to be doing these things with the father of my child, but it also made me feel shabby and disloyal. And I was in the kitchen the following Sunday night, thinking about this conflict as I made chicken for Milly’s supper, when the phone rang. To my surprise it was Mrs Morea, whom I’d met at the Edwards’ house-warming, asking me to survey her garden.

‘I’d love to,’ I said, reaching for my diary. ‘You’re in Belsize Park, aren’t you?’ I added as I heard Milly laughing with Xan in the sitting room. They were playing ‘monsters’.

‘Grrrr!’ Milly squeaked.

‘
Grrrrrrrrr!!
’ Xan roared.

‘Belsize Park’s right,’ Mrs Morea replied. ‘We’re on Eton Avenue.’ I scribbled down the address. ‘Could you come on Tuesday morning – say, at nine, as I have to leave by ten to have my hair done?’

I was so happy she’d called that I agreed, although nine was inconveniently early. I’d have to ask Dad to take Milly to the holiday playgroup in Hammersmith where she’d recently started. And I was just coating the chicken pieces in flour when the phone rang again; before I could rinse my hands Xan had answered it.

‘Hello,’ I heard him say. ‘Yes. She
is
in … Who may I say is calling? … Ah. Hold on please – I’ll see if she’s available. It’s Paddy.’ He smirked as he handed me the receiver. ‘And I think he’s
in
one,’ he added in a theatrical whisper.

‘Patrick,’ I said, scowling at Xan. ‘Hi!’

‘What’s he doing picking up your phone?’

‘Well, my hands were covered in flour …’

‘I don’t expect to ring you and have your bloody ex answer!’

‘He was only trying to be helpful.’ I sighed.

‘Oh yeah!’

Xan was grinning at me, delighted with his little triumph. ‘Is dinner ready yet, darling?’ he yelled.

‘What was that?’ Patrick demanded.

‘Xan … was just asking if Milly’s supper’s ready. Look, this isn’t a good moment,’ I added. ‘I’ll ring you later – and let’s see each other tomorrow, OK?’ I put down the phone and turned to Xan. Jenny was right. His behaviour
was
outrageous. ‘Please don’t do that again. I’m happy for you to come here, but you have to behave.’

‘Oh …’ Xan shrugged. ‘I just like winding him up. The guy’s so uptight you could drill for oil with him.’

‘You’re
making
him uptight – and you are not to answer my phone!’

Xan put up his hands in surrender. ‘All right. No need to get in a bate.’ He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of lager. ‘Your Cornish holiday’s going to be a blast,’ he added sarcastically. ‘But you know, Anna …’ He flipped off the top.

‘What?’

‘Well … you could always cancel jolly old Cornwall and come to Spain.’

I looked at him. ‘Spain?’

‘Yes.’ Xan reached for my hand. ‘Milly could meet my parents at last. Then we could see Seville together and spend time at the coast.’ He stroked my fingers. ‘What do you think?’

I thought of all the times that I had longed for such an invitation.

Xan lifted my hand to his lips. ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. I didn’t reply. ‘Please. I want you and Milly to come to Spain with me.’

I blinked a couple of times, as though I was surfacing from some pleasant, but slightly disturbing dream.

‘I’m sorry, Xan, but that’s simply not on. You’re deliberately ignoring the fact that I’m with Patrick now; and even if I weren’t, why would I want to go
anywhere
with you when you’ll be leaving the country again in five weeks?’

‘That’s quite true,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been thinking that maybe, this time, you and Milly could come too.’

On Tuesday morning I heard Luisa leave the house early to go to her language school as usual: her six-month course was about to end. To say I was disappointed with her achievements there would be an understatement.

I had a quick breakfast, then Dad arrived to look after Milly and take her to her playgroup.

‘Dad!’ I gasped when I opened the door. ‘What happened?’ His left eye was the colour of a damson and the lid was badly swollen. All I could see was a sliver of blue iris. ‘What happened?’ I repeated.

He came in, shaking his head. ‘I had … an accident. Last night.’

‘No you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You’ve been
hit
.’

‘Well … yes,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘I’ve been rather … an idiot really.’ He sighed, looking suddenly vulnerable and elderly in a way he’d never looked before. ‘In fact, Anna, I’ve been a silly old fool …’

‘How? What have you done?’

‘I’ll tell you some time – but you’ll be late if you don’t leave now. I’ll tell Milly I fell over. Where is she?’

‘Watching Andy Pandy. Milly! Grandpa’s here!’

I jumped in my car, wondering who had hit Dad and why – one of his ‘dates’ perhaps, livid that he’d lied about his age. Rough justice if so, and for a woman she’d packed quite a punch.

I pulled down my seat belt, then turned the key in the ignition. All I got was a wheezy moan.

‘Not
again
,’ I wailed. I tried once more and now there was nothing, just a click. ‘That bloody garage – I thought they’d
fixed it
.’

I glanced at my watch. It was 8.15. I rang Mrs Morea to say I’d be twenty minutes late, then I raced up to Shepherd’s Bush tube.

Rattling along in the crammed compartment, I was grateful not to have to do this every day, as I used to do when I worked in the City. I’d forgotten how vile it was, especially in hot weather. My linen shirt felt wet and my newly washed hair was plastered to my head as I got off the train at Tottenham Court Road. I went up the short flight of stairs towards the Northern Line interchange feeling panicky and flustered. I’d never get to Eton Avenue before 9.45 and Mrs Morea had to leave at ten.

‘Move along there!’ a superintendent shouted as though we were cattle. ‘Move along the platform!’

My head ached, and I was feeling upset about Dad and completely confused about Xan – I’d hardly slept. I was standing at a crossroads – and the choice of direction seemed tantalising but also dismaying. What if we
did
go with Xan? Suddenly the woman in front of me swung her bag over her shoulder, hitting me in the face, without even noticing what she’d done, let alone apologising. Tears of pain and frustration sprang to my eyes, blinding me as I walked along, aware only of the sharp, determined footfall of a thousand feet.

Then I heard someone playing the guitar – and singing:
From a distance the world looks blue and green – and the
snow-capped mountains white
. As it drifted towards me I felt my stress levels drop and my battering heartbeat slow:
From
a distance the ocean meets the stream, and the eagle takes to
flight
.

I exhaled with relief as I trudged along the crowded tunnel, blinking slowly, clasping my briefcase to my side.

From a distance, there is harmony. And it echoes through
the land
… The woman’s voice had a husky purity that suited Nanci Griffith’s lyrics. It had the same calming effect on me as Luisa’s, I now realised.

It’s the voice of hope, it’s the voice of peace
… I was so grateful for its soothing influence that I opened my bag and pulled out my purse.
It’s the voice of every man
.

I peered at my change as I walked along. What should I give her? A pound? No – it had to be worth at least two. She was talented.

From a distance we all have enough
… I pulled out three pounds ….
and no one is in need
.

I couldn’t see the busker for the sea of people, but I’d drawn level with her now and glanced down at her guitar case, which already glimmered with coins.

There are no guns, no bombs, no diseases
… I dropped in my three and looked up.
No hungry mouths to feed
. I felt my jaw slacken.
From a distance we are instruments
… It
was
Luisa …
marching in a common band
…

She looked away, her face crimson.

Playing songs of hope; playing songs of peace; they’re the
songs of
everyman
. God is watching us
… she sang on as I lingered by her side, her voice faltering now.
God is watching
us
…

And now, as I looked into her guitar case again, I understood where Luisa’s money had come from and why she’d learned so little English.

God is watching us
… I turned and walked away.
From
a distance
.

I got back home at 11.30, scanned into my computer the photos I’d taken of the Moreas’ garden and began to work on some preliminary designs. At ten past one I heard the key in the front door, as Luisa returned from collecting Milly from her playgroup.

‘Mum! I back,’ Milly shouted.

‘Hi, darling,’ I said as I came down the stairs. ‘Did you have a nice time?’ She nodded. ‘Lunch is all ready.’ She ran to the kitchen drawer and got out her bib. I sat her down.

Then Luisa, who had gone upstairs with her guitar, reappeared and stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Anna,’ she began quietly, ‘I bery sorry.’

‘Could you come into the sitting room, Luisa?’ She nodded. ‘I’d like you to hear something.’ I pressed the Play button on my answerphone. ‘This man called while I was out this morning.’

‘
Er … a message for Anna Temple. This is John Cox fromthe Bayswater School of English
. I saw Luisa redden.
I’m sorry not to have got back to you before – but I understandyou wanted to know about the progress of a studentby the name of Luisa Vanegas? I remember she came to a few of my classes in February. But after a week or two Ino longer saw her, and because there are so many studentscoming and going the whole time, I assumed that she’dwithdrawn from the course. I’m afraid that’s all I knowabout her, but I hope it helps. Cheers
.’