I feel a jolt of shock. That’s not what I was expecting.
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” Jon continues rapidly. “I realize this has been an impossible time for you. I haven’t helped. And…you’re right. You’re right.” He pauses. “I’m not your lover. I’m a guy you just met.”
He sounds so matter-of-fact, there’s a sudden lump in my throat.
“Jon, I didn’t mean…”
“I know.” He lifts a hand, his voice gentler. “It’s okay. I know what you meant. This has been hard enough for you.” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching for mine. “And what I want to say is…don’t beat yourself up, Lexi. You’re doing your best. That’s all you can do.”
“Yeah.” My voice is clotted with unshed tears. “Well…I’m trying.”
Oh God, I’m going to cry. Jon seems to realize this, and moves away as though to give me space.
“How’d it go at work with the deal?”
“Good.” I nod.
“Great. I’m really pleased for you.”
He’s nodding like this is the windup, like he’s about to turn and leave. And he doesn’t even know yet.
“I’m leaving Eric.” I blurt it out like a release. “I’m leaving right now. I’ve got my suitcases packed, the taxi’s coming…”
I don’t mean to look for Jon’s reaction, but I can’t help it. And I see it. The hope rushing into his face like sunshine. Then out again.
“I’m…glad,” he says at last, carefully measured. “You probably need some time to think everything over. This is all still pretty new for you.”
“Uh-huh. Jon…” My voice is all thick. I don’t even know what I want to say.
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, somehow managing a wry smile. “We just missed our time.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No.”
Through the glass behind Jon, I suddenly see a black taxi turning into the entrance. Jon follows my gaze, and I see a sudden bleakness in the cast of his cheekbone. But as he turns back, he’s smiling again. “I’ll help you down.”
When the bags are all packed into the taxi and I’ve given the driver Fi’s address, I stand opposite Jon, my chest tight, not knowing how to say good-bye.
“So.”
“So.” He touches my hand briefly. “Look after yourself.”
“You…” I swallow. “You too.”
With slightly stumbling legs I get into the cab and pull the door to. But I can’t yet bring myself to close it properly. I can’t yet hear that horrible final clunk.
“Jon.” I look up to where he’s still standing. “Were we…really good together?”
“We were good.” His voice is so low and dry it’s barely audible; his face full of mingled love and sadness as he nods. “We were really, really good.”
And now tears are spilling down my cheeks; my stomach is wrenched with pain. I’m almost weakening. I could fling open the door; say I’ve changed my mind…
But I can’t. I can’t just run straight from one guy I don’t remember into the arms of another.
“I have to go,” I whisper, turning my head away so I can’t see him anymore; rubbing furiously at my eyes. “I have to go. I have to go.”
I pull the heavy door shut. And slowly the taxi pulls away.
Chapter 21
The world has finally gone mad. This is the proof.
As I walk into Langridges and unwind my bright pink scarf, I have to rub my eyes. It’s only October 16, and already tinsel is up everywhere. There’s a Christmas tree covered in baubles, and a choir is standing on the mezzanine, belting out “Hark the Herald.”
Soon they’ll be starting the run-up to Christmas on January 1. Or they’ll start having an extra “mid-season” Christmas. Or it’ll just be Christmas the whole time, even in the summer holidays.
“Special-offer festive Calvin Klein pack?” drones a bored-looking girl in white, and I dodge her before I can get sprayed. Although, on second thought, Debs quite likes that perfume. Maybe I’ll get it for her.
“Yes, please,” I say, and the girl nearly falls over in surprise.
“Festive gift wrap?” She scurries around behind the counter before I can change my mind.
“Gift wrap, please,” I say. “But not festive.”
As she ties up the parcel, I survey myself in the mirror behind her. My hair’s still long and glossy, though not quite as bright a shade as before. I’m wearing jeans and a green cardigan and my feet are comfortable in suede sneakers. My face is bare of makeup; my left hand is bare of a ring.
I like what I see. I like my life.
Maybe I don’t have the dream existence anymore. Maybe I’m not a millionairess living in penthouse glory, overlooking London.
But Balham’s pretty cool. What’s even cooler is, my office is on the floor above my flat, so I have the world’s shortest commute. Which is maybe why I don’t fit into the skinniest of my jeans anymore. That, and the three slices of toast I have for breakfast every morning.
Three months on, the business has all worked out so well, sometimes I have to pinch myself. The Porsche contract is all happening and has already had interest from the media. We’ve done another deal supplying carpet to a restaurant chain-and just today, Fi sold my favorite Deller design-an orange circle print-to a trendy spa.
That’s why I’m here, shopping. I reckon everyone in the team deserves a present.
I pay for the perfume, take my bag, and walk on into the store. As I pass a rack of teetering high heels I’m reminded of Rosalie, and can’t help smiling. As soon as she heard Eric and I were splitting up, Rosalie announced that she wasn’t going to take sides and I was her closest friend and she was going to be my rock, my absolute rock.
She’s come to visit once. She was an hour late because she claimed her GPS didn’t go south of the river, and then got traumatized by what she said was a street disturbance by Yardie gangs. (Two kids messing with each other. They were eight.)
Still, she’s done better than Mum, who’s managed to cancel each planned visit with some dog ailment or other. We still haven’t talked since I went to see her that day, not properly.
But Amy’s kept me posted. Apparently, the day after I visited, without a word to anyone, Mum gathered up a whole load of her frilly clothes and sent them to Oxfam. Then she went to the hairdresser. Apparently she has a bob now, which really suits her, and she’s bought some quite modern-looking trousers. She also got a man in to sort the dry rot-and paid him to take away Dad’s paving slabs.
I know it doesn’t sound very much. But in Mum’s world, that’s huge strides.
And on the completely positive and fantastic front, Amy is doing spectacularly at school! Somehow she’s wangled a place in Business Studies A-level, alongside all the sixth-formers, and her teacher is bowled over by her progress. She’s coming to intern with us in the Christmas holidays-and I’m actually looking forward to it.
As for Eric…I sigh whenever I think of him.
He still thinks we’re on a temporary separation, even though I’ve contacted his lawyer about a divorce. About a week after I moved out, he sent me a typed-out document entitled Lexi and Eric: Separation Manual. He suggested we have what he called a “milestone meeting” every month. But I haven’t made a single one. I just…can’t see Eric right now.
Nor can I bring myself to look at his section entitled Separation Sex: Infidelity, Solo, Reconciliation, Other.
Other? What on earth-
No. Don’t even think about it. The point is, there’s no point dwelling on the past. There’s no point brooding. It’s like Fi said, you have to keep looking forward. I’m getting pretty good at that. Most of the time, it’s as if the past is a whole other area, sealed off in my head, taped down at the edges.
I pause in the accessories department and buy a funky purple patent bag for Fi. Then I head upstairs and find a cool seventies-style T-shirt for Carolyn.
“Festive mulled wine?” A guy in a Santa hat offers a tray full of ti
ny glasses, and I take one. As I wander on, I realize I’ve got slightly lost in the new layout of this floor, and seem to have strayed into menswear. But it doesn’t matter; I’m in no hurry. I meander for a few moments, sipping the hot spiced wine, listening to the carols and watching the fairy lights twinkle…
Oh God, they’ve got me. I’m starting to feel Christmasy. Okay, this is bad. It’s only October. I have to leave, before I start buying jumbo packs of mince pies and Bing Crosby CDs and wondering if The Wizard of Oz will be on. I’m just looking for somewhere to put my empty glass down, when a bright voice greets me.
“Hello again!”
It’s coming from a woman with a blond bob who’s folding pastel-colored sweaters in the men’s Ralph Lauren department.
“Er…hello,” I say uncertainly. “Do I know you?”
“Oh no.” She smiles. “I just remember you from last year.”
“Last year?”
“You were in here, buying a shirt for your…chap.” She glances at my hand. “For Christmas. We had quite a long conversation as I gift-wrapped it. I’ve always remembered it.”
I stare back at her, trying to imagine it. Me, here. Christmas shopping. The old Lexi, probably in a beige business suit, probably in a terrible rush; probably frowning with stress.
“I’m sorry,” I say at length. “I’ve got a terrible memory. What did I say?”
“Don’t worry!” She laughs gaily. “Why should you remember? I just remembered it, because you were so…” She pauses, mid-sweater-fold. “This will seem silly, but you seemed so in love.”
“Right.” I nod. “Right.” I brush back a strand of hair, telling myself to smile and walk away. It’s a tiny coincidence, that’s all. No big deal. Come on, smile and go.
But as I’m standing there, with the fairy lights twinkling and the choir singing “The First Nowell,” and a strange blond woman telling me what I did last Christmas, all sorts of buried feelings are emerging; thrusting their way up like steam. The sealing tape is peeling up at the corner; I can’t keep the past in its place anymore.
“This might seem like an…an odd question.” I rub my damp top lip. “But did I say what his name was?”
“No.” The woman eyes me curiously. “You just said he brought you alive. You hadn’t been alive before. You were bubbling over with it, with the happiness of it.” She puts the sweater down and eyes me with genuine curiosity. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
Something is clenching at my throat. It was Jon.
Jon, who I’ve tried not to think about every single day since I walked away.
“What did I buy him?”
“It was this shirt, as I recall.” She hands me a pale green shirt, then turns away to another customer. “Can I help you?”
I hold the shirt, trying to picture Jon in it; myself choosing it for him. Trying to conjure up the happiness. Maybe it’s the wine; maybe it’s just the end of a long day. But I can’t seem to let go of this shirt. I can’t put it down.
“Could I buy it, please?” I say as soon as the woman’s free. “Don’t bother wrapping it.”
***
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. As I walk out of Langridges and hail a taxi I’ve still got the green shirt, clasped to my face like a comfort blanket. My whole head is buzzing; the world is receding, like I’m getting the flu or something.
A taxi draws up and I get in, on autopilot.
“Where to?” asks the driver, but I barely hear him. I can’t stop thinking about Jon. My head’s buzzing harder; I’m clutching the shirt…
I’m humming.
I don’t know what my head is doing. I’m humming a tune I don’t know. And all I know is it’s Jon.
This tune is Jon. It means Jon. It’s a tune I know from him.
I close my eyes desperately, chasing it, trying to flag it down… And then, like a flash of light, it’s in my head.
It’s a memory.
I have a memory. Of him. Me. The two of us together. The smell of salt in the air, his chin scratchy, a gray sweater…and the tune. That’s it. A fleeting moment, nothing else.
But I have it. I have it.
“Love, where to?” The driver has turned around and opened the partition.
I stare at him as though he’s talking a foreign language. I can’t let anything else into my mind; I have to keep hold of this memory, I have to cherish it…
“For Chrissake.” He rolls his eyes. “Where-do-you-want-to-go?”
There’s only one place I can go. I have to go.
“To…to…Hammersmith.” He turns around, puts the taxi in gear, and we roar off.
As the taxi moves through London, I sit bolt upright, tensed up, clutching the straps. I feel as though my head contains a precious liquid and if it’s jolted it’ll be spilled. I can’t think about it or I’ll wear it out. I can’t talk, or look out of the window, or let anything into my brain at all. I have to keep this memory intact. I have to tell him.
As we arrive in Jon’s road I thrust some money at the driver and get out, immediately realizing I should have called first. I whip out my mobile and dial his number. If he’s not here I’ll go to wherever he is.
“Lexi?” he answers the phone.
“I’m here,” I gasp. “I remembered.”
There’s silence. The phone goes dead and I can hear swift footsteps inside. The next minute the front door swings open at the top of the steps and there he is, in a polo neck and jeans, old Converse sneakers on his feet.
“I remembered something,” I blurt out before he can say anything. “I remembered a tune. I don’t know it, but I know I heard it with you, at the beach. We must have been there one time. Listen!” I start humming the tune, avid with hope. “Do you remember?”
“Lexi…” He pushes his hands through his hair. “What are you talking about? Why are you carrying a shirt?” He focuses on it again. “Is that mine?”
“I heard it with you at the beach! I know I did.” I know I’m babbling incoherently, but I can’t help it. “I can remember the salty air and your chin was scratchy and it went like this…” I start humming again, but I know I’m getting more inaccurate, scrabbling for the right notes. At last I give up and stop expectantly. Jon’s face is screwed up, perplexed.
“I don’t remember,” he says.
“You don’t remember?” I stare at him in outraged disbelief. “You don’t remember? Come on! Think back! It was cold, but we were warm somehow, and you hadn’t shaved…you had a gray sweater on…”
Suddenly his face changes. “Oh God. The time we went to Whitstable. Is that what you’re remembering?”
“I dunno!” I say helplessly. “Maybe.”
“We went to Whitstable for the day.” He’s nodding. “To the beach. It was fucking freezing, so we wrapped up and we had a radio with us…hum the tune again?”
Okay, I should never have mentioned the tune. I’m such a crap singer. Mortified, I start humming it again. God knows what I’m singing now…
“Wait. Is it that song that was everywhere? ‘Bad Day.’” He starts humming and it’s like a dream coming to life.
“Yes!” I say eagerly. “That’s it! That’s the tune!”
There’s a long pause, and Jon rubs his face, looking bemused. “So that’s all you remember. A tune.”
When he says it like that it makes me feel utterly stupid for dashing across London. And all of a sudden, cold reality is crashing into my bubble. He’s not interested anymore, he’s moved on. He’s probably got a girlfriend by now.
“Yes.” I clear my throat, trying unsuccessfully to seem nonchalant. “That’s all. I just thought I’d let you know that I’d remembered something. Just out of interest. So…um…anyway. Nice to see you. Bye.”
I pick up my shopping bags with clumsy hands. My cheeks are flaming miserably as I turn to leave. This is so embarrassing. I need to get out of here, as quick as I can. I don’t know what I was thinking-
“Is it enough
?”
Jon’s voice takes me by surprise. I swivel, to see he’s come halfway down the steps, his face taut with hope. And at the sight of him, all my pretense falls away. The last three months seem to fall away. It’s just us again.
“I…I don’t know,” I manage at last. “Is it?”
“It’s your call. You said you needed a memory. A thread linking us to…us.” He takes another step down toward me. “Now you have one.”
“If I do, it’s the thinnest thread in the world. One tune.” I make a sound that was supposed to be a laugh. “It’s like…a cobweb. Gossamer-thin.”
“Well then, hold on to it.” His dark eyes never leaving mine, he’s coming down the rest of the steps, breaking into a run. “Hold on, Lexi. Don’t let it snap.” He reaches me and wraps me tightly in his arms.
“I won’t,” I whisper and grab him. I don’t ever want to let him go again. Out of my arms. Out of my head.
When at last I resurface, three children are staring at me from the next-door steps.
“Ooh,” says one. “Sex-eee.”
I can’t help laughing, even though my eyes are shiny with tears.
“Yeah,” I agree, nodding at Jon. “Sexy.”
“Sexy.” He nods back at me, his hands spanning my waist; his thumbs gently caressing my hip bones like they belong there.
“Hey, Jon.” I clap my hand over my mouth as though in sudden inspiration. “Guess what? I suddenly remember something else.”
“What?” His face lights up. “What do you remember?”
“I remember going into your house…taking the phones off the hooks…and having the best sex of my life for twenty-four hours solid,” I say seriously. “I even remember the exact date.”
“Really?” Jon smiles, but looks a bit puzzled. “When?”
“October 16, 2007. At about…” I consult my watch. “Four fifty-seven p.m.”
“Aaah.” Jon’s face clicks in understanding. “Of course. Yes, I remember that too. It was a pretty awesome time, wasn’t it?” He runs a finger down my back and I feel a delicious shiver of anticipation. “Only I think it was forty-eight hours solid. Not twenty-four.”
Remember Me? Page 33