I Remember You (36 page)

‘But you said you’d book your flight right away,’ Peter said. ‘I don’t get it. They’ll be kinda expensive if you wait, Tess. Don’t you want to come?’

‘It’s not that—’ Tess cradled the phone under her ear, and took another bite of the ginger thins. At the moment Tess was going through a box every couple of days. She swallowed hastily, the biscuit scratching her throat. ‘Arrh.’ She coughed.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Tess said. ‘Sorry.’ She rubbed her eyes; she was tired. She felt tired, and fat, and lonely; these conversations with Peter, which had once been such a source of joy to her, now sat uneasily with her. The time difference was severe, which made it hard to find a time to talk. And there was so much to ask him, she felt she could never really know where he was. Just as he didn’t know where she was.

‘I’m sorry. It’s just I feel like you’re slipping away from me, sometimes,’ he said, after a pause.

‘Don’t say that,’ Tess told him. ‘It’s just—I feel like a fraud. I don’t feel like I’m—’

She glanced up at the picture of Jane Austen, which hung in silent splendour by the door, and caught sight of herself in the mirror, which made her stop in her tracks, biscuit dangling
from her fingers, halfway to her mouth. Dress it up however you like, it was the plain truth that Peter would not love her were he to see her now. Her hair needed washing, and was kept in place with a kirby grip and a scruffy ponytail. She was wearing an old, scraggy pair of jeans and an outsized and unloveable but very warm navy cardigan that she had found in the cupboard underneath the stairs when she moved in. Her pale face was free of any make-up, her eyes had dark circles underneath them. Her nails were bitten and uneven.

She wanted to explain, to tell him she wasn’t the girl he had known over the summer. She couldn’t remember that girl, the one who danced through cobbled piazzas in the moonlight and lay on sunny floorboards while someone kissed her hair, stroked her breasts, her soft, sunkissed skin. Who on earth was that girl, and where had she gone? She stared at her reflection, horror creeping across her face.

‘You’re still the same to me,’ Peter said, a note of impatience detectable in his tone, even through the echo on the line all the way from California. ‘Still the same beautiful girl…’ He trailed off. ‘I kinda really miss you,’ he said.

Tess could feel herself melting. ‘Really?’ she said, pleasure creeping into her voice.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

‘You’re in San Francisco!’ she said. ‘You’re having a whale of a time. I don’t believe you.’

‘That’s not true,’ he said, laughing. ‘I call you in the morning, I work all goddamn day, I walk back to the apartment, and I email you.’

‘So you’re not enjoying it at all?’ she said sceptically. ‘You didn’t like the day in the vineyard last week? Or the weekend in Big Sur? How strange, because I don’t believe you.’

‘Well…’ She could hear a smile in his voice. ‘I just wish you were here with me, that’s all.’

She sighed. ‘Oh, Peter, Peter. You honestly wouldn’t say that if you could see me now.’

‘I honestly would,’ Peter said. They were silent for a moment. ‘So you’ll book the ticket?’

‘I’ll book the ticket—or you know, you could always come here.’

As she said it she knew it wouldn’t happen—Peter striding down the high street in his chinos and expensive sunglasses, his handsome face biscuit-tanned, to be confronted by Mrs Store, or Mick Hopkins, or someone. He would think it all a joke—he thought where she lived was a joke.

‘To the British toy town? Where Winnie the Pooh lives? Sure, after Christmas maybe,’ he said, trying to sound enthusiastic, and she didn’t push it, but a sinking feeling washed over her.

‘Where’s Liz?’ He changed the subject.

‘She’s away on a hen weekend,’ said Tess.

‘A what?’ She could hear him whispering under his breath. ‘Just a beer. Thanks a lot.’

‘A bachelorette party,’ Tess said, summoning up her
Sex and the City
lexicography. ‘They’re in a cottage in the countryside.’

‘Doesn’t she live in a cottage in the countryside?’

‘Well, yeah,’ Tess said. ‘If I was her I’d be pissed off about it.’

‘How’s it going?’

Liz had moved in nearly a month ago now, and so far it was going extremely well. She was incredibly good-natured, kept herself to herself, didn’t want to be best friends and do everything together and—Tess hated to say it, but was forced to privately admit it—was more the kind of girl with whom you’d expect to share a cottage like this. She was what Diana would call a Good Sort. She was quite hearty. She owned wellington boots, she listened to Radio 4, she sang loudly in the shower, she volunteered at the local primary school, she belonged to Amnesty International and spent a lot of time trying to open up a chapter in Langford. She never lounged on the sofa. She didn’t drink wine out of the bottle, or order
foie gras through the post, or have incredibly loud sex. She only appeared outside her bedroom in pyjamas and a towelling robe, and would have reared back in horror had Tess loaned or given her anything as frivolous as a Chinese silk dressing gown.

And no, she never messed up the kitchen making mojitos, and she never forced Tess to do karaoke, or made her laugh so much that wine came out of her nose, but it was fine. It was different, that was all.

‘It’s going really well,’ Tess said truthfully. ‘But I’ve got no one to go out with.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ he said. ‘What does a nice girl like you do on a Friday night in the English countryside?’

Tess glanced at the sofa, at the near-empty biscuit packet, the TV listings guide, the new copy of the John Lewis catalogue that had arrived that morning and which she had been looking forward to flicking through. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Nothing much.’

‘No drinks for you at an ole luvverly British pub?’ said Pete lightly. His English accent was awful.

‘Afraid not,’ said Tess, wondering what he would make of the Feathers, and quailing at the thought.

‘No programmes about the Queen?’ There was rustling in the background, she could tell he was distracted.

‘No,’ said Tess. ‘No drinks at a British pub. No programmes about the Queen, or chimney sweeps wearing fingerless gloves and talking like Guy Ritchie. No women wearing bonnets and saying, “Good day, sir,” and no people openly weeping in the street about Princess Diana, either.’

‘None at all?’ said Peter.

‘None at all.’

‘That sounds awful.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Tess. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘What about Adam?’

Tess was reaching for another biscuit. ‘What?’

‘Adam—you heard from him yet?’

‘No,’ Tess said. ‘Not a word.’

‘Man, that’s weird.’

‘It is,’ said Tess. ‘I hope he’s OK. I hope he’s sorting himself out.’

She didn’t really know what she meant when she said that. She didn’t know where he was, what he was going through, how he was. She just knew that the person who had wrecked her flat and driven Francesca nearly to the brink, and then out of town, was not the Adam she remembered. She screwed up her eyes, trying to remember another Adam, the one she thought she knew, who’d helped her find the cottage, who’d matched her and a bunch of Swedes drink for drink in a strange pub in London, who’d dipped her in front of Will and Ticky and called her ‘sweetums’. It had been nearly three months now since he’d taken off, and she honestly didn’t know when she’d see him again. Perhaps he would never come back.

When she had said goodbye a few minutes later, Tess put the phone down and, gritting her teeth, turned and stared into the mirror, gazing unflinchingly at what she saw.

She realized, suddenly and with blinding clarity, that with Peter and her it was Rome at Christmas or nothing. She tried to imagine leaving here, and it was much easier than she’d thought; in the mirror, her reflection winced.

‘Right,’ she said, glancing up at Jane Austen. It was only eight thirty, it was Friday, and she really couldn’t face another weekend of mouldering away in her cottage again. She wrapped a pink woollen scarf around her neck and tying her coat at the waist she picked up her bag, sliding a couple of sheets of paper into it, and shut the door behind her, stepping out onto the street.

It was late November, and the bitter smell of bonfires and the faint trace of fireworks still hung in the damp air. The watery mist that had descended on the town in October was
still there, muffling everything; Tess’s shoes echoed on the cobbled ground as she turned onto the deserted high street, walking swiftly, feeling the bite of the cold as she went. She turned into the courtyard of the Feathers, and pushed the door to the pub open, taking a deep breath as she did so.

‘Hi there, Mick,’ she said casually, as though it was usual for her to go for a drink by herself. She pulled up a stool at the bar, just as she’d done all those months ago, the night she first met Francesca, when spring was in the air and she’d just got back.

‘Evening, Tess,’ said a deep voice.

‘Oh, sorry, Suggs,’ Tess said, wrong-footed. She blushed. ‘Sorry.’

‘No worries. What can I get you?’ Suggs rubbed his hands together.

‘Um—pint of Butcombe’s,’ said Tess, and she got out her book. ‘Thanks a lot.’

She opened her book—she was rereading
I, Claudius
—and took a sip of her drink, pretending it was normal she was here, that there was nothing unusual about it. She peeked a look around her, and saw that, apart from a table of people having a birthday dinner, it was quiet tonight. A couple of men drinking by themselves at a table, a couple having food in a booth by the window, and a youngish man up at the bar along from her, reading the paper.

‘How’ve you been?’ said Suggs, putting her pint in front of her. ‘How’s Liz getting along?’

‘She’s great,’ said Tess. ‘She’s away this weekend, though. So I’m all on my own.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Suggs, leering suggestively over the bar. ‘Come up and see me sometime, Tessa.’

‘Right,’ said Tess. ‘Definitely.’

‘I totally would, you know,’ Suggs said, giggling. ‘Just so you know.’

‘How is Emma, by the way?’ Tess asked pertly, smiling.

From the other side of the bar, nubile young Kirsty the barmaid looked sharply at Tess. Suggs said awkwardly, ‘Er, she’s fine, fine.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Ah, fine.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Actually, we split up.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he said, sneaking a look at Kirsty. ‘There were Reasons, you know.’

‘Right,’ said Tess, nodding.

‘And she found mould in my socks. A whole pile of them, by the door. I’ve been letting the washing get a bit out of control, since Adam went away.’

‘Stop!’ Tess cried. ‘Jeez, that’s horrible.’

‘I know,’ said Suggs. ‘No wonder he left me.’

‘You heard from him lately?’ Tess asked, taking a sip of her drink.

‘No,’ said Suggs. ‘Not really. He rang me a couple of weeks ago, but that was it.’

‘He rang you? Where was he?’

‘Well, he didn’t say,’ Suggs said, lowering his voice. ‘I presume he’s still in Morocco, have you heard anything else?’

Morocco? Tess didn’t want to say,
I didn’t know he was in Morocco, actually
. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything,’ she said. ‘How long was he planning to spend there, do you know?’

‘Walking the Atlas mountains, how long does that take?’ Suggs held up his index finger. ‘Just a minute, my love.’ He turned to serve someone the other side of the bar, and Tess glanced, unseeing, down at her book.

‘Hello, Tess,’ said a voice behind her. She looked round to see Diana Sayers leaning on the bar next to her.

‘What a nice surprise,’ Tess said, pleased. She patted Diana on the arm. ‘I haven’t seen you for a long long time.’

Diana smiled briefly back at her. ‘That’s quite true. How’ve you been?’

Tess shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘Are you eating?’

Diana jerked her thumb behind her. ‘Richard and I came out for a meal,’ she said, and Tess realized they were the couple seated by the window. She looked over at Diana’s husband Richard, who was rarely seen out and about. ‘He’s just back from a trip, so we thought we’d treat ourselves.’

It was odd, seeing Diana: she represented the early summer and that heady yet awful week in Rome so clearly for Tess, and since Mrs Mortmain had died and the new term had begun, Tess hadn’t seen her. She had thought of her several times, of her gruff kindness, her calm demeanour during the storm, the way she had supported Adam, the son of her best friend. Tess looked over to the window again. ‘It’s strange,’ she said frankly. ‘Last time I saw you, I was where you were—I opened the window, at the wake—’ Diana was looking blank, so she said hurriedly, as though it was embarrassing, ‘After the funeral, Leonora Mortmain’s funeral. I saw you all, in the sitting room of Leda House, drinking sherry.’

‘My God,’ Diana said, catching Suggs’s eye. ‘Has it been that long. That was a grim gathering, I can tell you.’ She brushed something imaginary off her sleek grey fringe.

‘I can imagine,’ Tess said, watching her.

‘Have you heard from Adam? Is he still in Morocco?’

‘Well, I don’t know—’ Tess began, and was glad when Suggs appeared.

‘Yes, my dear,’ he said.

‘Two more glasses of the Pinot Grigio, please. Small this time.’ Diana turned to Tess. ‘There’s something in that wine. Don’t know what it is, but it’s quite
strong
. Do you want anything, Tess, dear?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘You meeting someone?’

‘No,’ said Tess. ‘Just popped in for a drink.’

‘How nice,’ said Diana.

‘Well,’ said Tess. ‘Seemed like the sensible thing to do.
I can’t stay in another night eating so many biscuits my stomach swells up like a drum.’

‘Anyway,’ said Diana, wisely ignoring this conversational offering, ‘I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. I’m sure he’s fine, I’d just like to know. You know?’ Her brow wrinkled, and she pushed her lip out. ‘Silly boy. He never did know what was best for him.’ She patted Tess on the arm. ‘He should have snapped you up all those years ago when he had the chance, instead of messing you around and driving you off to London.’ Tess’s eyes widened. ‘Right, I have had too much to drink. I should mind my own bloody business.’