Forget Me Not

by Luana Lewis

  ‘This really isn’t a good time,’ Cleo says. ‘Lexi’s had another one of her nightmares and Ben’s upstairs trying to calm her down.’

  ‘Open the gate. I need to see her.’

  Cleo does not move. I could swear I recognize the scent of her perfume. The sweet scent of gardenias.

  ‘Cleo, would you please open the gate. Now.’

  She looks back towards the open front door, then she takes a step backwards.

  ‘Cleo, is Ben all right? Has he been drinking?’

  I wonder if Ben knows I’m standing outside the house. I wonder if he’s asked Cleo to keep me out. I wonder what exactly the police had to say to him this afternoon.

  I’m anxious at being shut out, at being kept apart from Lexi. I dump the tray of chicken down on the pavement and grab hold of the cold metal bars.

  Cleo has turned her back on me; she’s halfway up the stairs. I reach out and hit the buzzer. I slam it over and over again.

  She stops, whipping her head round. ‘Stop it!’ she says. ‘Lexi’s had such a difficult night. Rose, please.’

  My palms burn where I clutch at the icy bars. I shake them though they do not budge. Cleo comes back down, she stands very close.

  ‘Rose,’ she says, ‘it’s better if you call first, before visiting.’ Her smile is patronizing and it infuriates me. I am powerless.

  ‘Go home, Rose.’ She says the words calmly. Gently, even. Then she turns her back on me once again and I watch as she climbs the shallow stairs, steps through the door and shuts it behind her.

  White hot with anger, I bend down and pick up the tinfoil tray. The lid has come off and oil leaks all over the concrete. The smell makes me sick.

  As I look around for a dustbin, a movement catches my eye from inside the house. Down to the right, in the basement kitchen, the shutters are tilted slightly open. Inside, the figure of a man is walking across the room. I recognize Ben, his shape and the determined set of his shoulders.

  I return to my flat, deflated and defeated. I am frozen out of Vivien’s house and out of Lexi’s life. I cannot watch over my granddaughter as I know I must. I am frantic but I don’t know what to do.

  The pain strikes behind my right eye, it’s as though an anvil smashes at my temple. In the kitchen I grab a couple of codeine tablets. I wash them down with water.

  The pain in the right side of my skull won’t let go of me and I begin to feel nauseous. I start down the passage, bracing my hand against the stippled walls for support, but I don’t make it further than the bathroom. I press myself into the hard-tiled corner, I fold into the small space on the floor between the sink and the toilet while I wait for the painkillers to work. I’m clutching at my head with both hands, with claws for fingers.

  I drag myself forwards, hold on to the white enamel rim of the toilet bowl and retch. The bitter yellow bile keeps coming, in waves of nausea. I only hope some of the codeine stayed inside me.

  My mobile vibrates as it lies on the side of the bath. I don’t reach for it.

  I’m walking down the staircase at number sixty-three Blackthorn Road. Vivien is standing at the bottom, looking up at me. Her hair is clean and glossy, she’s just come back from the salon. She looks beautiful, in a fitted shirt and skinny jeans. She’s well rested.

  I’ve been up all night. I did all of Lexi’s night feeds. Early this morning I collected up the empty bottles from Lexi’s room and took them down to the kitchen to sterilize them.

  And then, instead of going back to bed, I packed my suitcase.

  I’ve reached the bottom step and I set my suitcase down on the tiles.

  ‘It’s time for me to go,’ I say.

  For a moment, Vivien is still, confused. Then she steps forward and she embraces me. Her hair smells so fresh, so lovely. I stand stiff as a board and then I push her away.

  ‘It really is time,’ I say. ‘Lexi is bigger now, she’s off the oxygen and I have to go back to work. They won’t hold my post for me any longer.’

  ‘You don’t need to work,’ Vivien says. ‘You never need to work again.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  She trembles. ‘So let me get this clear,’ she says. ‘We have all the money in the world, more than we know what to do with, and you’re choosing to stay in that disgusting flat of yours and go back to work with other people’s sick children instead of helping me to take care of your own grandchild?’

  ‘She’s well, Viv. She’s a perfect little girl. You don’t need me.’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, you can. You’re her mother.’

  ‘I’m not her mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you say that ever again.’

  I tell myself she’s afraid, that’s all, that’s why she says these things.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she says. Tears spill over and trickle down her cheeks.

  I look right past her and not into her eyes. I lift my suitcase and I walk across the chequerboard floor, in a straight line, towards the front door.

  I feel myself growing calmer as the codeine kicks in, dampening my pain. I reach over and pick up my phone. I have a text message from Wendy, confirming my shift tomorrow. And a voicemail, from Isaac. He wants to come over. He needs to talk to me.

  At the sound of his voice I feel comforted. I do not want to be alone tonight. I need someone to talk to about what’s happened, and I need his advice. I need an ally.

  Chapter 13

  Isaac shrugs off his mackintosh and I hang it up on the coat rack next to the front door. It must be raining again because his coat is soaking wet. Underneath it, he’s wearing a white shirt over a pair of black jeans. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

  He follows me through to the living room, where there are two cold bottles of beer on the coffee table. They are Peroni, the same brand we drank at the Italian place; the label caught my eye at Waitrose the day afterwards.

  Isaac tilts my glass as he pours. I am next to him on the sofa, my knees folded underneath me. My hair is still damp from the shower and the headache has lifted. The codeine makes my body light and weightless, and, next to Isaac, with a glass of Peroni in my hand, I feel I am hiding from the black guilt that dogs me day and night.

  ‘I was over at Blackthorn Road earlier,’ I say. ‘Cleo answered the door and she refused to let me inside. I’ve always thought she was timid as a mouse, but it appears I was wrong.’

  Isaac raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t yet give a view.

  ‘Isaac, does she stay there overnight?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m usually at the house by six, and there’s no sign of her. But I can’t be sure. I clean up a bit,’ he says, ‘to help Ben out, and most mornings there are two glasses out in the living room.’

  ‘Cleo said some very odd things,’ I say. ‘She talked about searching for photographs of Vivien and Ben on the internet.’

  We’re face to face, up close. I dread to think how haggard I look. I know Vivien’s death is etched into the lines on my face.

  ‘I’m frightened for Lexi. Do you understand, Isaac? I’m responsible for her now. I’m the closest she’s going to get to a mother. I’m furious that Cleo thinks she has the right to keep me from my granddaughter.’

  Isaac reaches out. He puts his hand over mine as it rests on the sofa between us. I look down, and it is a strange sensation, as though these two weather-beaten hands belong to other people.

  ‘I need to talk to Ben,’ I say. ‘I’m going to ask him about that damn argument. I want to know why he walked out on Vivien. And then I’m going to ask him exactly what’s going on between him and Cleo. I’m going to tell him I don’t trust her.’

  Isaac clears his throat. ‘That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,’ he says. ‘I thought you should know what Ben and the police discussed this afternoon.’

  His hand clasps mine.

  ‘Did you know that Ben owns a property in Bermondsey?’ he says. ‘A flat in a block called Cinnamon W
harf.’

  ‘I know the flat. But I wasn’t aware he still owned it. He and Vivien lived there together, before they were married.’

  ‘And did you know that the current resident of the property is one Cleo Baker?’

  I pull away from him as I swing my legs onto the floor. ‘I had no idea Cleo still lived there.’

  ‘But you did know that the three of them lived in Cinnamon Wharf together? Ben, Vivien and Cleo?’ Isaac sounds incredulous. I prickle.

  ‘Yes. For a brief time they were all there together. A few weeks, maybe. But this was years and years ago. I suppose it sounds bizarre.’

  ‘I have to say it does.’

  ‘Cleo and Ben were a couple before he and Vivien got together. I think Vivien asked if she could move in with them for a while, after a bad break-up. And I guess she and Ben were attracted to each other. Cleo was pushed out.’

  ‘So would it surprise you to know,’ Isaac says, ‘that Cleo Baker continues to live in this flat without paying any rent?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That would surprise me.’ I take a swig of my beer. Isaac does the same.

  ‘Ben is obviously a wealthy man,’ Isaac says, ‘but I’m wondering why he would subsidize an ex-girlfriend for all these years?’

  I look down. The veins on the back of my hands protrude and bruises have spread where I dig my nails into my skin.

  ‘You’re saying you think they have been having an affair?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ Isaac says, ‘you might wait a while before confronting Ben. His loyalty to Cleo might run a lot deeper than you think.’

  I reach for my beer bottle and I drink from it until it’s half-empty. Isaac sits forward on the couch and he’s right up close. My hand rests on my thigh, and he runs his fingertips over the angry half-moon bruises.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he says.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Isaac has the good sense not to ask again.

  ‘Has Ben ever told you that there was a time when I lived with them in the house on Blackthorn Road?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Lexi was an IVF baby, a twin actually, the only one of the babies to survive a disastrous pregnancy. But she was born very premature, and she was in the Weissman Unit for three months. When she was discharged, she was still on oxygen, and Ben and Vivien were really anxious around her. They needed a lot of support. So I took leave and I moved in with them for six weeks.’

  I cover my eyes with my hands, as I remember. I see myself walking out, walking across those black-and-white tiles. I should never have left them alone.

  For a few moments we sit in silence. Isaac’s hands are wrapped around his beer bottle again.

  I turn my body towards his. ‘You were the one that found her?’ I ask.

  I didn’t mean to say this, but I do. He doesn’t seem surprised by my question. I think he’s been waiting for me to ask him.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. He looks at me with compassion and sadness and I think he may be going to apologize to me again, and if he does, I am going to scream. But he doesn’t.

  ‘I tried everything,’ he says. ‘CPR. Mouth to mouth. There was nothing I could do for her.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘She looked so tiny,’ he says, ‘like a child.’

  ‘She would have hated people to see her that way. She hated being vulnerable.’

  ‘I covered her with a blanket from her bed,’ he says. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I had to cover her. I put a pillow underneath her head, as though she was asleep. I couldn’t bear to leave her on that cold floor. I stayed with her, until the ambulance came. I didn’t leave her alone.’

  I have tears in my eyes, but they don’t spill over.

  ‘I’ve seen my share of dead bodies,’ I say. ‘I bathe the babies and I dress them, and then I hand them back to their parents for one last cuddle. They are small and at peace. Not like my daughter.’

  I shudder as I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t understand how Ben can live in that house. I don’t understand how he can bear to set foot in that bathroom.’

  Isaac reaches out and takes hold of my hand with both of his. His skin is so warm.

  ‘That house is their home,’ he says. ‘Everything the child knows is in that house. Her mother is in that house.’

  The throbbing in my head has quietened down. I have a few precious hours before I wake tomorrow morning and it all comes back again. I consider that my every waking moment is consumed with thoughts of Vivien and of Lexi. Perhaps even I deserve a few moments of peace. I feel the pressure of his thumb through the cotton of my jeans, against my thigh. I lean against him.

  ‘Will you stay, tonight?’ I ask him. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  He feels so sturdy, so compelling as he holds me, and I feel so very alive and then so very guilty.

  Chapter 14

  I am woken by a series of loud bangs. Three aggressive bursts of sound. Someone is knocking on my front door.

  I turn onto my back and open my eyes. My room is dark; there is blackout lining on the curtains, so I can sleep through the day when I’m working night shifts.

  I reach out with my right hand and feel the empty space beside me. Isaac left early this morning, while I was still hazy with sleep. I lift my head to look at my clock, my vision still a little blurred from sleep. It’s mid-morning.

  I lay my head down on the pillow where he slept, where I can still smell him.

  The banging starts up again.

  I stand slowly and walk, heavy-limbed, to the front door where I grab my coat from its hook and throw it on over my nightgown. I peer through the peephole, then remove the chain from the door and open up to the familiar, acrid air of the passageway.

  DS Cole is standing in front of me, and this time she is not alone. A tall, thin man lurks behind her. My eyes are back in focus, and I see he’s older than she is, somewhere in his early forties. His high forehead, sharp blue eyes and Roman nose combine to give him an intense, predatory appearance.

  ‘DS Cole,’ I say. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘I apologize,’ she says. ‘I did try to call you earlier but I think your phone’s turned off.’

  ‘I was just about to leave for work.’

  DS Cole takes in my hastily slung-on coat and my bare feet and looks unconvinced.

  The man behind her introduces himself as DI Hawkins. He keeps his hands in his pockets as he talks to me, which I think somehow disrespectful. His eyes flicker as he peers over my shoulder and down the passage. I stand there stubbornly, one arm on the door handle, the other on the door frame, and I don’t invite them in.

  ‘We won’t disturb you for long,’ DS Cole says. ‘But we’ve had some toxicology tests back and we wanted to talk to you about these.’

  She shifts her canvas bag, adjusting the strap so it sits more comfortably across her body. She’s in a tailored grey suit today and her hair is a fresh, pale blonde. The dark roots I noticed at the hospital are gone.

  DI Hawkins takes his hands out of his pockets and folds his arms. I remain planted in the doorway, frozen still. I can hear the Pomeranians across the hall snuffling at the gap between the door and the floor.

  ‘The results show unexpected levels of amphetamines in your daughter’s body,’ DS Cole says.

  ‘Amphetamines?’

  ‘We believe Vivien had taken diet pills before she died,’ she says.

  DI Hawkins is looking at me, expecting me to say something. I picture him kneeling down and turning over rocks. All kinds of ugly insects swarm out from underneath. I dislike him.

  ‘Did you know Vivien was using these pills?’ DS Cole says.

  ‘No. I didn’t. Vivien was always conscious of her weight, but she was careful about her diet. I had no idea she was taking pills to control her appetite.’

  I cough. The lump in my throat is back again.

  DI Hawkins speaks for the first time, and his voice is harsh and too loud. �
��We’ve looked at Vivien’s GP notes, and there’s no record of any such prescription. In fact, her GP had no idea she was taking these pills.’

  ‘I see.’ I sound cold, detached.

  ‘Do you find any of this a cause for concern?’ DI Hawkins says. He sounds impatient, irritated with me. It seems the dislike is mutual.

  ‘Of course I’m concerned. I’m shocked. I’m trying to digest all of this. Are you saying these pills are linked to her death?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he says.

  There is something about his tone I don’t like. Something accusatory. DS Cole fidgets. She adjusts her bag again and runs her fingers through her peroxided hair. I want to believe she doesn’t like the way DI Hawkins talks to me, that she’s on my side.

  I don’t know why they have come to see me at my home, or what they’re looking for. I feel as though I’m taking a test I haven’t prepared for. DI Hawkins is staring at me with those shrewd eyes of his.

  ‘You’re a medical professional,’ he says.

  ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘A senior nurse.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you work in a large hospital?’

  ‘Yes. On a neonatal unit.’

  ‘So as a senior staff member of a large hospital, you’d have access to all kinds of controlled substances?’

  I laugh. A nervous laugh. An incredulous one. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say.

  ‘Did you ever provide your daughter with diet pills?’ DI Hawkins says.

  DS Cole definitely looks uncomfortable. She smiles at me, in an attempt at reassurance, but the look on her face only increases my sense of impending doom.

  ‘Of course I didn’t provide my daughter with drugs.’ A high-pitched yapping starts across the hall. I feel sure Mrs Shenkar is going to open her front door and peer out, to check what’s going on. Then the barking stops, abruptly. I imagine her in her muumuu, bending down and scooping up the two fluffy dogs and whisking them off for their breakfast.

  The two officers don’t budge from my doorway.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘We’re trying to understand Vivien’s state of mind when she died,’ DS Cole says. ‘She didn’t leave a note. No one who had contact with her has reported any changes in mood. She didn’t talk about being suicidal or having plans to harm herself. But now we know she took substances before she died. So it’s important that we understand where she got this medication from.’