Forget Me Not (5 page)

I glanced at the clock. It was only 6.30. I hurried downstairs in case he’d left a note for me – but there was nothing to indicate that he’d ever been in the house except for his scent on my sheets and skin.

I sank on to the sofa, the house piercing me with its emptiness. My head ached and my mouth was sour. From outside came the whine of a milk float. Why did Xan have to go?

That wasn’t what I’d imagined at all, I thought now, as I drove through south London in the gathering dusk. I glanced at Milly in the mirror. She was fast asleep, thumb in mouth, her forefinger curled over her nose.

Before I’d drifted off to sleep that night I’d fondly imagined that Xan and I would spend the morning in bed, and that we’d then have a leisurely soak in my big Victorian bath. After that we’d go to my local deli, where we’d chat over organic bacon and eggs as though we’d known each other for ever, then we’d go for a walk in Holland Park. We’d date for three blissful months, at the end of which he’d whisk me off to Florence and propose. We’d have a summer wedding in the Belvedere the weekend after I’d finished my course.

Why couldn’t he at least have woken me to say goodbye? I’d thought angrily. Why couldn’t he at the very least – the very gentlemanly
least
– have left a note, saying that he didn’t want to disturb me and that he’d ring me later and PS, was I doing anything that night?

But Xan had done none of those things. He’d just fled – as though he’d made some dreadful error of judgement. As I’d sat there, my throat aching with a suppressed sob, I’d thought of how seductive I’d thought I’d been – but in reality, how eager and crass.

‘I went to bed with a man I’d known for
two hours
,’ I moaned. I buried my head in my hands. How could I have been so reckless? He could have been a murderer, or a nutcase – or a thief. Except that I knew he wasn’t any of those things – he was engaging, and clever, and nice – which was the worst thing about it.

‘I liked him,’ I groaned. ‘I really
liked
him.’ But he’d obviously seen it as a one-night stand. He’d got what he’d wanted and vanished in the time-honoured way. My mother’s old-fashioned advice had been right.

By now it was still only seven. I ran a bath and soaked myself in it, fat tears of disappointment mingling on my cheeks with the film of condensation from the steam.

I didn’t leave the house all morning in case he phoned, but he didn’t, and by lunchtime I was delivering deranged monologues to Xan in which I pointed out that my behaviour the previous night was quite uncharacteristic, and that contrary to what he might have thought I was not in the habit of leaping into bed with men I’d only just met, thank you!

By late afternoon I was radioactive with indignation …

Xan was a rude bastard, I told myself furiously as I ripped the sheets off the bed. He thought he could just sleep with me and disappear, did he, as though I were …
cheap?
I yanked a pillow out of its case. Or maybe he’d been lying when he said he didn’t have a girlfriend. How could a man that attractive
not
have one? That was why he’d hesitated, I now saw – out of guilt. And that was why he’d left so early, so that she wouldn’t know he’d been out all night.

She was probably someone from work. I conjured her – a leggy brunette, with big brown eyes and a fabulous figure. Or maybe she was someone he’d met in Hong Kong. Now I imagined a slender Chinese girl with golden skin and a sheet of hair so shiny you could see your face in it. I felt a stab of jealousy – an emotion to which I knew I was not entitled, having known him for less than twenty-four hours.

He wasn’t worth a second thought, I decided, as I stuffed the duvet cover into the washing machine. I turned the dial to ‘90’ to scorch him off my linen. He’d said that he wasn’t always gentlemanly, I remembered as I slammed the door. Well, at least he was telling the truth about that.

Dring!

I straightened up at the sound of the doorbell.

Drinnnggg!!

Heart banging, I peered down the hall. A tall figure loomed through the panels of coloured glass. I checked my reflection in the circular mirror at the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and lifted the latch.

Misery washed over me – then hope.

‘Miss Temple?’ A man was standing there, holding a bouquet.

‘Yes?’

‘These are for you.’

‘Oh. Thank you,’ I said weakly as he handed them to me. ‘
Thank
you.’ I thought I might weep with relief. Then I hated myself for being so silly about the whole thing: I was thirty-two, after all, not sixteen.

I carried the bouquet down to the kitchen and laid it on the worktop. It was a hand-tied bunch of bronze chrysanthemums, yellow roses and cream gerbera. I snipped the gold ribbon and it slipped to the floor. There was an envelope pinned to the tissue but I put it aside. I wanted to defer the pleasure of reading Xan’s card.

I found a white jug and put the flowers in it, adding a two-pence piece as my mother had taught me, because the copper makes them keep longer and I wanted these ones to last for ever. Then I picked up the envelope. It felt thicker than normal, I realised, as I slid my thumb under the flap, but that was because there wasn’t just a card inside it, but a letter. I unfolded it with trembling hands.

Dear Anna
, I read. His handwriting was untidy.
I’m sorry
I had to leave so early, but I was on an early shift this morning
which I’ve only just finished
…

‘Hurrah!’ I shouted. Then I remembered what he’d said – that he had a ‘busy day’ ahead. I slapped my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand. I’d been so uptight – and hung-over – that I’d forgotten. I might have behaved like a femme fatale but I was far from being one, I realised. I simply couldn’t keep my cool.

I would have called you, but I don’t have your number
and you seem to be ex-directory
. I gave my brow another hard slap.
Anyway, it was wonderful meeting you
–

‘
Yes!
’

–
and I’d love to see you again
.

‘YES!’

But I think we need to talk first
.

‘Oh …’ I felt a sudden sagging sensation.

Are you free tomorrow night? Xx
.

I should have followed my mother’s advice and told Xan that I had a prior engagement – but it was too late for such manipulation. The horse had bolted, plus I was sick with anxiety about what he would say. So we met at the Havelock Tavern, a gastro-pub not far from me. I’d found a quiet table while he got us some drinks. A deliberately demure Virgin Mary for me and a bottle of Stella for him.

He lifted his glass and gave me a wistful smile. ‘It’s … good to see you again, Anna. You look lovely.’

‘Do I? Oh. You too,’ I added nervously, disconcerted by the fact that I found him even more attractive sober than I had done drunk. My knees were trembling so I slid my left hand over them. ‘Anyway …’ I took a deep breath. ‘You said we needed to talk.’

Xan’s expression darkened. ‘I think we should.’

My heart sank. ‘That’s fine … but I’d like to say something first.’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘What?’

‘Well’ – I sipped my tomato juice – ‘that … what happened on Friday night wasn’t … typical of me. I wouldn’t like you to think that.’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t … think anything in particular.’

I stared at the tiny island of ice in my drink. ‘I wouldn’t like you to assume that I’m in the habit of jumping into bed with men I’ve known for five minutes, just because I did that with you.’

‘But …’

‘So I just wanted to say that that’s not how I am. Far from it. In fact, I’m normally quite shy with men.’

‘Really?’ His surprise annoyed me. ‘Erm … you weren’t very shy on Friday, Anna.’

I felt myself blush. ‘Well, as I’m trying to explain, that was a complete aberration. I’m not quite sure why,’ I added, still wondering what on earth it was that had gripped me. ‘Usually I go out with a guy for at least a month before anything can happen on
that
front …’

He sipped his lager thoughtfully. ‘I see …’

‘Or a minimum of ten dates. Whichever is the greater.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Right. And does that have to mean dinner, or can the dates include lunch and breakfast?’

‘Could you be serious about this, please?’

‘And what about afternoon tea?’

‘Look, Xan, if you could just listen for a minute, I’m trying to explain that I acted totally out of character – I really wasn’t myself for some reason – and so I feel …’

He’d laid his hand on my arm. ‘Relax.’ I noticed how beautiful his hands were: large and sinewy, with strong, straight fingers. ‘There’s no need to be so intense. This is the twenty-first century – and we’re adults, aren’t we?’

‘Of course – but I’d had far too much to drink – because of my leaving party – then I had loads more champagne after that – and I think that’s the reason why I leapt into bed with you actually. In fact, I’m sure it is.’

‘Oh.’ He’d withdrawn his hand. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘All I meant is I don’t normally have casual sex.’

‘What
do
you have then – formal sex? You wear a ball gown and tiara, and the guy wears a DJ?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

Xan put down his glass. ‘I’m not. I just don’t understand why you feel you have to justify what happened. You don’t, Anna. We were very attracted to each other.’

I stared at him. ‘Yes …’ I whispered. ‘We were.’

‘And we still
are
,’ he said tentatively. ‘Aren’t we?’

My heart was pounding like a kettle drum. ‘Well …
yes
,’ I repeated. ‘But you said we needed to talk, which sounded ominous, as though you’ve got something unpleasant to tell me.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Well … that you’re already seeing someone, for example, or that you’re engaged, or married, or cohabiting, or that you take drugs, or think you might be gay. As we don’t know each other it could be
anything
– erm … that you murdered your father and slept with your mother for all I know, or that you once had an affair with a sheep – not that I remotely think you look the type to engage in anything as sordid as inter-species congress but …’

‘
Anna
… ?’ Xan was shaking his head in bewildered amusement. ‘All I said was that I thought we should talk first – as in’ – he turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness – ‘
talk
.’

‘Oh. Oh I see. About what?’

‘Well – anything – because we didn’t exactly talk much on Friday night, did we? But I obviously didn’t express myself very well – the flower shop was closing and I was in a hurry.’ He shrugged. ‘All I was trying to say was that I’d like to’ – he shrugged again – ‘get to know you.’

‘Oh. So … why did you hesitate before coming in?’

‘Because you’d clearly had a lot to drink and I wasn’t sure that I should. As I say, I do
try
to be gentlemanly.’ He sipped his beer. ‘Happy now?’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

He lowered his glass and peered at me. ‘Are you always this complicated?’

I smiled at him. ‘No.’

So, over dinner, we talked. The relief of knowing that Xan didn’t appear to have some hideous drawback restored my confidence. I waxed lyrical about my garden design course, which was due to begin the next day.

‘It’s based at the Chelsea Physic Garden,’ I explained. ‘It’s a wonderful place – like the Secret Garden – full of rare trees and medicinal plants. I’ll be studying horticulture and planting design, hard landscaping, technical drawing, garden lighting; how to use decorative elements such as statuary and water features …’ I shivered with apprehension. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

Then Xan told me about his two-year BBC traineeship, which was just coming to an end. He picked up his knife. ‘I’m in the process of applying for jobs. It’s rather nerve-racking.’

‘Which bit of the Beeb do you want to work in?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m in the newsroom at the moment, which I like, but there are some reporting jobs coming up, which would be great as I’ve done quite a bit of on-screen work for
BBC World
. Or I might go for something at the business unit to capitalise on my financial background. There are various options, although the competition’s always stiff.’

Then he told me about his family. His father had worked for the British Council, so as a child he’d lived all over the world. ‘We were nomads,’ he explained. ‘Always packing and unpacking. Moving’s in my blood.’

‘How glamorous,’ I said wistfully, feeling suddenly dull and suburban. ‘I’m afraid staying put’s in mine. We’ve lived in the same house for thirty-five years.’

‘We being … ?’

‘My parents – well, parent now.’ I felt a stab of loss. ‘My mother died three months ago. Three months ago today,’ I suddenly realised. ‘On Saturday June the eighth.’ As I said this I felt the familiar pressing sensation on my sternum, as though someone had left a pile of bricks on my chest.

‘Was she ill?’ Xan asked gently.

I shook my head. ‘She was very fit. Her death was totally unexpected. A bolt from the blue,’ I added bitterly.

‘So … what happened?’

I stared at the single pink rose in its slender vase. ‘She sprained her ankle.’ Xan was looking at me quizzically. ‘Dad said that she’d slipped coming down the stairs before lunch. Her ankle was badly swollen so he took her to hospital, where they bandaged it. And that evening she was lying on the sofa, complaining about what a nuisance it was, when she suddenly began to feel ill. She thought it must have something to do with the painkillers she’d been given, but in fact something terrible was happening to her – she’d got a blood clot in her leg, which had travelled round her body and reached her lungs. Dad said that she was struggling to breathe …’ I felt myself inhale, as if in a futile attempt to help her. ‘He called the ambulance and it came within ten minutes, but it was already too late – she’d died in his arms. She’d sprained her ankle and a few hours later she was dead. We couldn’t believe it,’ I croaked. ‘We still can’t.’