Forget Me Not (6 page)

‘How terrible,’ Xan murmured after a moment. He laid his hand on mine. ‘You must feel … I don’t know … derelict.’

I looked at him. ‘Derelict … ? That’s
exactly
the word.’ And in that moment I knew
that
was why I’d behaved so recklessly two nights before. It was so much more than physical lust. It was because for three months I’d been curled into myself – half dead with grief – and I’d wanted to feel …
alive
.

‘How old was she?’

His features were blurring. ‘Fifty-five.’

‘So young …’ Xan was shaking his head. ‘She could have expected another twenty years at least.’

‘None of us can expect it,’ I said quietly. ‘We can only hope for it. I know that now in a way that was only abstract to me before.’

We sat in silence for a moment or two.

‘What about the rest of your family?’ Xan asked, so I told him a bit about Cassie and Mark. ‘And your private life? Boyfriends?’

I shrugged. ‘I haven’t been out with anyone for quite a while.’

‘But you’re very attractive – in a glacial sort of way – so you must get offers.’

‘Thank you. Sometimes I do. But not from anyone I’ve been that interested in.’ I fiddled with my napkin. ‘And what about you?’

‘I
was
seeing someone, but we broke up in May.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Rather lovely,’ he said regretfully. I felt a dart of jealousy. ‘Cara was very intelligent. Very attractive. Very successful …’

‘She sounds heavenly,’ I said joylessly. ‘So what went wrong?’

‘She just expected too much from the relationship too soon. We’d only been together three months, but she was already pushing to move in with me – but it just didn’t feel right.’ He shook his head. ‘She was constantly demanding to know where things were going. In the end I couldn’t stand it.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m not like that. I’ll admit that I was, before my mother died, but that’s changed everything and my biological clock is now firmly on “snooze”. My course is going to take nine months, then I’ve got to get my business up and running, so my priorities now are professional ones.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘In fact, I’d better go – I have to be at the Physic Garden by nine tomorrow morning. Thanks for dinner.’

Xan got to his feet. ‘Can I walk you home?’

I smiled. ‘Sure.’

‘I’d love to see you again, Anna,’ Xan said as we stood by my gate. The wisteria which smothered the house was in second flower and the scent was lovely. He stroked my cheek. ‘Would that be OK?’

I felt a sudden burst of delight – like the explosion of a seed pod. ‘It would be … fine.’

‘But … no …’

‘Strings?’ I suggested wryly.

He shook his head. ‘Pressure. Just no …
pressure
. OK?’ He kissed me, set off down the narrow street, then turned and waved.

‘No pressure?’ I repeated quietly. ‘Of
course
.’

TWO

As I eased the car into the usual space outside my house, I thought of the lovely autumn I’d spent with Xan. It was a time of liquid sunshine and lengthening shadows, somehow suited to the intense sadness I felt about my mother, but also the near euphoria at being with him.

‘It’s thanks to you,’ I’d said to Sue over the phone. ‘If you hadn’t persuaded me to come with you that night, I’d never have met him. You were my fairy godmother!’

‘I’m delighted to have been,’ she replied. ‘He’s good- looking, he’s clever and it’ll be great for you to have some romance in your life after so much sadness. But it’s early days,’ she cautioned. ‘So don’t fall for him too hard, will you?’

‘Of course I won’t.’

But I already had.

Xan and I got into a pattern, early on, of meeting at least twice during the week, to see a film or play, or we’d just hang out together, either at my place, or at his flat in Stanley Square. It was full of exotica from his nomadic childhood: a suit of antique armour from Japan; colourful textiles from Guatemala and Sumatra; a piece of delicate fan coral that he’d picked in Belize.

‘I feel bad about it,’ he said, ‘but that was thirty years ago and no one gave much thought to conservation then.’

There were a lot of travel books and an antique globe that his parents had given him for his eighteenth birthday. They’d retired years before and lived in Spain.

‘They lived abroad for so long they couldn’t settle here,’ Xan said as we strolled through the communal gardens at the back of his flat a week or so after we’d met. The leaves were beginning to turn bronze in the mid-September sunshine. ‘My sister Emma’s the same. She teaches English in Prague. And what about your siblings? Tell me more about them.’

‘Well … Mark’s an eye surgeon – as I told you. We used to be close …’ I felt a wave of sadness. ‘But he’s distanced himself from us all over the past year or so.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because … he had this awful row with my parents – over his new girlfriend.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘They just thought she was completely … wrong. He’d only known her a month but I knew how excited he was about her, because he rang me to tell me that he’d met someone really special. So I asked him about her, and I must say it didn’t sound that great because he said she was eight years older – forty-one – divorced with two teenagers. But Mark said that he just felt this incredible affinity for her. He said he didn’t care about her age, or even the fact that she didn’t want more kids. He said he just knew that he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life.’

‘What did she do?’

‘She’s an actress.’

‘Is she well known?’

‘I don’t think so – her name’s Carol Gowing.’ Xan shrugged. ‘I’d never heard of her,’ I went on, ‘though I’ve since spotted her on TV a couple of times – usually in small parts on things like
Holby City or The Bill
. Then in April I saw a photo of her in
Hello!
. She was at the BAFTAs with her brother, who’s an artist, and her father, Sir John Gowing, who owns Northern TV – he was up for some lifetime achievement award. The article underneath said that Carol had been successful in her twenties but that her star had faded. But she’s certainly beautiful and Mark was smitten.’

‘So he brought her home to meet your folks …’

‘No – it was still too early for that. But he took her to Glyndebourne for her birthday, and by chance my parents were there too that night and they bumped into each other as they came out for the long interval. So they had their picnics together, and apparently Mum and Dad just … loathed her on sight.’

‘Because of the age gap?’

‘I guess so. Plus Carol let slip that she didn’t want any more children, so I can understand Mum feeling disappointed, but on the other hand …’ My voice trailed away.

‘It was Mark’s life.’

I heaved a sigh. ‘Yes. My mother was wonderful in many ways but …’ I felt a stab of disloyalty. ‘She could be … interfering. In a benign way,’ I added guiltily. ‘She only ever meant well. She believed she knew what was best for her children – long after we’d all grown up. She didn’t seem to accept that we had to make our own mistakes.’ I thought of all the advice she’d given me. ‘The next day Mum went to see Mark at his flat in Fulham and apparently there was this dreadful scene, in which she told him point blank not to get involved with Carol. I don’t know the details because Mark wouldn’t discuss it; but shortly after that they split up. Perhaps Carol wasn’t that keen on him anyway – I’ll never know – but I’m sure my mother’s coldness would have put her off.’ I suddenly wondered whether, if and when I met Xan’s family,
his
mum would take against me. ‘Mark blamed my parents,’ I continued, ‘especially Mum. He was so angry with her – he said he’d never talk to her again – and after that he became distant with us all. The next thing we knew, he’d got a job at a hospital in San Francisco.’

‘And does he come home?’

I felt a pang of regret. ‘No. He came for Mum’s funeral, of course, but he only stayed one night. He looked so …
terrible
. His face was a mask. But he must have felt even worse than we all did, because of the rift he’d had with her.’

There was a rustle overhead as two squirrels chased each other along a branch, then suddenly turned and faced each other, backs arched, their tails aquiver.

‘Have you been over to see him?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think he’d want me to go. In fact, he barely communicates with us now – apart from the odd e-mail, or dutiful birthday card. I’ve tried e-mailing him, telling him how sad I feel, and asking him to keep in touch, but so far I’ve had a cold response. It’s as though he’s punishing us all.’

‘That seems unfair.’

‘I talked to my dad about it but he just looked sad and said that he thought Mark was “finding himself”. Then he added, very regretfully, that he thought he and Mum had handled things “terribly badly”.’

There was more rustling from above, as a conker fell through the leaves, landed with a light thud and bounced away, the impact splitting its spiny green shell.

‘And what about Cassie?’ I heard Xan say, as I stooped to pick it up. ‘Is she like you?’

I prised the chestnut out of its soft white casing, admiring its mahogany perfection. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all. She’s the physical opposite – short, curvy and very dark – you’d think she was Spanish or Italian.’

‘Whereas you could be … Icelandic. Your skin’s so pale, I can see the veins at your temple; and your hair …’ He tucked a lock behind my ear. ‘It’s so blonde it’s almost white.’

‘Mark’s very fair too, as was Dad when he was younger. Cassie’s a bit like my mum, but bears no resemblance to the rest of us, in looks or personality.’

‘What does she do?’

‘That’s a moot point – not much; or rather she does lots of things, but none of it adds up to anything.’ We sat down on the wooden bench that encircled the base of the tree like an anklet. ‘She mostly temps – flitting from job to job. She’s twenty-six now so I try to persuade her to have some sort of career plan. But she just spouts that bit in the Bible about the lilies of the field and about how they toil not neither do they spin.’

‘Is she religious?’

‘Cassie?’ I snorted. ‘Not in the least. She’s also worked as a lingerie model – my parents never found out about it, luckily – and then as a croupier; they were horrified, but she said the money was great. She’s forever short of cash.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because she’s always lived beyond her means. She rents a flat in Chelsea – it’s very small but it costs a fortune. I said she should try and buy somewhere in a cheaper area but she won’t compromise on postcode; plus she has very expensive tastes – designer clothes, luxury holidays, smart restaurants – things that I, on my City salary, would have hesitated over, Cassie just goes for.’

‘So she’s a hedonist, then.’

‘Completely – and she’s got this old MG that’s continually breaking down. She’s always running to Dad to pay her garage bills.’

‘Does he mind?’

‘He doesn’t seem to. He’s always indulged her – all her life.’ I felt the familiar stab of resentment. ‘Almost as though he were trying to compensate her for something,’ I suddenly added, although I’d never had this thought before.

Xan stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. I stared at his pale suede desert boots.

‘And how’s your dad been coping since your mother died?’ I heard him ask.

I heaved a deep sigh. ‘Not well.’

I went down to the house every weekend. Dad didn’t talk much, so we’d watch TV and do practical things – the shopping and gardening, his washing and ironing. He stopped listening to music because it made him cry. He’d left all Mum’s things just as they were. It had taken him three weeks to wash the wineglass she’d been using. It still had her pink lipstick marks.

I couldn’t console Dad, any more than he could console me – but I did my best to distract him. I’d encourage him to ring his friends, or go to the golf club.

‘Not yet,’ he’d say quietly. ‘I just … can’t.’

During the week I’d spend my free time with Xan. I’d wake in his arms, feeling excited but at the same time intensely comfortable. It was as though we’d known each other years before, but had recently met again and were keen to resume the relationship. Yet the truth was I hadn’t known him that long.

How
long? I wondered one morning in late October as I sat in one of my horticulture lectures. The tutor was asking us to devise a planting plan for dry, shady conditions.
Anemone
japonica
, I wrote down and
Helleborus argutifolius. Acanthus
mollis
thrives in shade, as does
Pulmonaria
– that does wonderfully in dark corners and the dappled leaves are still pretty when the flowers have faded. It was a month since I’d met Xan. I looked out into the garden below, admiring the Indian bean tree beneath the window. No, I realised, it was more. We’d met on Friday the tenth of September so that was – I discreetly glanced at my diary – nearly seven weeks. I flicked back through my diary again, then forward, then a little further back. And now I saw that there was a red ring round a date in late August.

A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine …

I’d been late before, I told myself as I walked briskly up Flood Street on to the King’s Road at lunchtime. My cycle had probably changed due to stress. Shock can do that, I reflected as I went into the chemist’s. I looked at the range of tests.

‘We’ve got these on 3 for 2 if you’re interested,’ the pharmacist said benignly.

‘Erm … no thanks,’ I replied as I paid. One would be more than enough, I thought as I half walked, half ran back to the Physic Garden, my heart pounding.

I wasn’t pregnant, I told myself as I peed on the stick. If I were I’d know, because you’re supposed to get symptoms pretty early on, aren’t you? I tried to remember what they were. Nausea, obviously. When did that start? Wasn’t the taste of metal said to be an early sign? I slotted the stick back into the cartridge to await the result, which would take two minutes. I flushed the loo, then washed my hands. And wasn’t a bloated feeling a giveaway? I wondered as I yanked down the towel. Well, I didn’t feel bloated. Another minute to go. Engorged breasts? A perfunctory feel suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Twenty seconds now … Did I
look
pregnant? I peered into the mirror. No. Right then … Holding my breath, as though about to dive underwater, I picked up the test …