Remember Me This Way

by Sabine Durrant

  South-London-on-sea, some people call it. It’s funny, that, how limited the imaginations of the wealthy few, how they all end up in the same handful of places on holiday. Lots of parents at my school have houses here or relatives in the area. Down here, in the summer with Zach, I was guaranteed to bump into someone I recognised. It made me uncomfortable, horribly self-conscious. I’d see them thinking, What’s that funny little librarian doing here? I wonder, with an abrupt sinking feeling in my chest, if I will see anyone I recognise now.

  I attach Howard to the lead and cross the last field to the path that runs down to the car park.

  A river trickles from the hill, under the bridge and on to the beach, spreading and turning silver across the sand. On the rocky inland side, plastic bags tangle in the weeds, a supermarket trolley is upended. Three boys, bikes spreadeagled, are using it as target practice. Locals? I cross the bridge to the short row of shops. Outside the Spar hover two mothers with a gaggle of small children. Holidaymakers – you can tell from the warmth of their ski jackets: goose-down padding, fur-lined hoods. (The local lads with the bikes are in T-shirts.) They are peering at a peeling notice on the door – an appeal for help in the search for a missing person. ‘God, can you imagine?’ the taller woman is saying almost under her breath. ‘Losing someone like that. Never knowing what’s happened to them. You’d search for them, wouldn’t you, everywhere you went?’

  ‘Unimaginable,’ the other woman says. She puts both hands on the shoulders of a small boy who has been trying to fit himself under the flap of the advert for Wall’s ice cream. ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ she adds over his head.

  I’d planned to buy a few essentials, but the women are blocking the entrance. I turn round, pretending to admire the view. A café-bar, the Blue Lagoon, tops the surf shop next door. On a whim, I climb the steps, Howard right behind me.

  It’s too early in the year for the balcony to be in use. The white plastic chairs are stacked to one side and the stripy umbrellas tightly furled. I push open the door to a hubbub. Families mainly, in smaller and larger groupings, spilling between the tables. It is a big, open-plan place, azure walls and bleached wood, model seagulls on sticks – a self-consciously ‘seaside’ form of decor Zach found nauseating. There’s a cloying smell of beer and slightly stale oil. Children are drinking hot chocolate. Somewhere a baby is crying.

  I sit at the bar, my back to the room, and order a coffee. I should eat but I have no appetite. The young waitress brings a bowl of water for Howard and kneels down to make a fuss of him. She is from Lithuania, she tells me when she straightens up; her parents live on a farm and have lots of dogs. She tilts her head while she is talking and there is a certain look on her pale, pinched face, a look you see on kids at school sometimes, an openness, a vulnerability, that makes me want to hug her. But we don’t talk for long because the owner emerges from the kitchen door. The waitress grabs a handful of menus and scurries off.

  I rack my brain for the owner’s name. Kumon? Something odd. When Zach came down to paint, the two of them would hang out, drink whisky, play poker.

  He’s seen me. He runs his hands through his greying surfer locks and then reflexively down the front of his pale blue sweatshirt. We both want to hide, but it’s too late. His eyes have that glaze, the masking of momentary panic, I have seen a lot over the last year. I smile, because although people expect me to be sad, they seem to find it easier if I’m not.

  ‘Babe.’ He leans sideways across the bar, stroking his goatee with one hand. I don’t think he remembers my name either. ‘How’s it all going? How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, fine.’

  He stares at me, making small, regular nods of his head.

  ‘Kulon!’ Activity at the door – new arrivals, voices raised, a big entrance. I look over my shoulder and turn back quickly. It’s Alan Murphy MP. His wife, Victoria, is the old teenage friend of Zach’s who introduced him to the area. They live in Winchester, I think, but still have a holiday house down here. It’s been in her family for years. He’s a Conservative rising star; she’s a think-tank economist with a public profile of her own: local celebrities, not least in their own eyes. Zach loathed Murphy and he and Victoria had drifted apart, though we did once bump into them walking around Trebetherick Point. Zach was forced to introduce me, but I don’t think Murphy will remember.

  ‘Kulon!’ The MP shouts louder this time. ‘How the hell are you, you old devil, you!’

  Kulon – of course, not Kumon. He raises his left arm high in a salute. He has already half swivelled, his expression shifting. ‘Elena. Move some tables! Push these two together!’ He turns back. ‘Poor old Zachamundo.’

  ‘I know.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Shit, man, I miss him.’

  ‘I know,’ I say again.

  ‘Mind you, the bastard still owes me money from that last game, just before . . .’

  ‘He owed you money? Oh God, I must pay you.’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. Peanuts!’ He slaps his hand down on the bar. Relief floods his features. He has navigated the waters of my bereavement and, through this apparently generous gesture, come out the other side. ‘Really. Nothing.’

  The Sunday newspapers are laid out on the bar and I pretend to read. Alan Murphy MP has a group of people with him, but he’s holding court, talking loudly, trying to lasso in anyone in the room who will listen. Since he became Minister of Culture, Media and Sport, he has become a big topic of conversation in the staffroom. Sam Welham says the whole buffoon malarkey is an act, that he’s utterly ruthless. But Peggy loves him, or at least the persona he presents on Have I Got News For You – all bluster and blunder. He is said to represent a new spirit in politics, a return to character. Zach used to say he was a cock. What would he think now, listening to him work the room, brandishing his charm like a spotted handkerchief? ‘How long you down for? . . . Isn’t it heaven?’

  It’s hard to concentrate on anything else, but after a short while I notice two girls have started talking to Howard, cooing and rubbing his ears. I put the paper down. Their voices are familiar. Uggs, leggings, long blonde hair. I know them from London, from Wandle Academy: Ellie and Grace Samuels, twins in year seven.

  Ellie looks up. ‘Miss Carter!’ she exclaims.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ I say. ‘Having a nice holiday?’

  Across the room, amid Murphy’s entourage, I am aware of a plump woman in an outsize jumper and glasses rising and steering rather quickly past chairs to reach us.

  ‘Yikes,’ she says, making a face. ‘Sorry. They don’t call it South London on Sea for nothing! What a nightmare, coming all this way and then bumping into kids from school!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter at all,’ I say. ‘They’re lovely.’

  ‘I always tell the girls, if you see a teacher you should pretend you haven’t.’

  ‘No, really. It’s fine.’

  She tidies her hair behind her ears. ‘We’re staying with my parents in Padstow. We’ve just come over this side to spend the day with old friends.’ She makes a small, dismissive wave in the direction of Murphy, clearly embarrassed to be thought bragging about the connection. ‘Alan was at school with my husband. But am I right that you have a weekend cottage near here?’

  ‘My late husband did. A bungalow, anyway. He used to come here to paint. I’ve come to put it on the market.’

  She has flushed slightly. ‘I did know about your husband, but I’d forgotten. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. Everyone told me not to make any changes for a year. The year is up and here I am!’

  ‘You poor thing.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re too young to be going through such a thing. It must have been such a dreadful shock. Have you got anyone with you?’

  The sincerity of her sympathy is like a small sharp stab under my ribcage. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I look down to blink them away and shake my head, but I can still feel the pressure of her hand. The Review section is open in front of
me and I watch a tear fall, as if in slow motion, and spread, darkening the paper.

  ‘So, what’s going on here then, Sue?’

  Murphy has popped up behind Mrs Samuels, his arms around her stomach, his chin resting on the top of her head. I wipe my eyes quickly with the back of my hand and try to smile.

  ‘Now remind me. Have we met?’ He is shorter in real life than on television, but also more handsome. Success has given him a physical confidence Zach said he didn’t have before.

  ‘Oh, Alan.’ Sue tries to push him off.

  He rocks her sideways in a little dance. ‘You definitely look familiar.’

  I clear my throat. ‘We’ve met once, or twice. I’m Lizzie Carter. Zach Hopkins’ wife?’

  ‘Zach Hopkins. Of course.’ He releases Sue and hurls himself on to the adjacent stool. ‘How is the old dog?’

  Sue raises her hands as if to try and stop the words from coming. ‘Alan—’ she begins.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know why you should know. He died. In a car accident.’

  ‘Dead? Is he? God, did I know that? Forgive me. When did that happen?’

  ‘A year ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. About the same time Jolyon went missing, then. Terrible month. God.’

  ‘Miss Carter works at Ellie and Grace’s school,’ Sue adds. ‘In the library.’

  We’ve been joined by other members of Murphy’s group – two men who stand slightly to the rear of his shoulder. Friends? Family? Security?

  ‘Patrick,’ Murphy says loudly to one of them. ‘Did you know Zach Hopkins died?’

  The man called Patrick quietly says, ‘I did.’

  I have a strong desire to get out into the fresh air. Normal social interaction is beyond me and I don’t deserve their kindness. That casual social lassoing by the upper class – I can’t be part of it. Not now. I need to get away. But whispered conversations are taking place, something is set in motion and I am suddenly powerless. Grace and Ellie have taken Howard’s lead from me, and Sue has thrown her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘Alan’s right, I’m sure Victoria would love to see you,’ Sue is saying. ‘She’ll be so sad to hear about your husband.’

  ‘Lunch!’ Murphy is bellowing. ‘The girl needs feeding up.’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,’ I say, but Sue is clutching me close. The softness of her jumper brushes my face. ‘Come on, come up to Sand Martin with us. Murphy loves a crowd. Have one drink and then you can go off and do your thing. Just a quick one. I can’t bear to think of you on your own.’

  And maybe it’s because she is so kind, or maybe it’s because, as Zach told me, I am weak and easily led, or maybe it’s because this is what it is like to be bereaved, I allow myself to be steered into a car and away.

  Zach

  September 2009

  I went to London today. I told Charlotte I needed to work up there and took my sketchbook and paints, slung over my shoulder in the ‘art satchel’ she just bought me. (I looked it up on the Ally Capellino website: £278. I don’t know why she thinks spending money on me will bring us closer.)

  I caught the train into Victoria and then out again – with a vague plan of heading west towards Cornwall. I was pretty aimless. I’m not sure what I was searching for. I hate being so rootless. Nell and Pete seem to feel at home wherever they land. It was one of the things that drew me to Charlotte, that sense she has of being grounded. She wouldn’t leave Brighton, her hometown, if you paid her. Whereas I could live anywhere. That’s the problem of growing up in a dead-end place. Cornwall could be the answer – my sanctuary – but not alone. I’d need a soulmate, and I’m sorry to say, after all the time and effort I have invested, I now know that’s not Charlotte.

  Richmond was my first thought. I like that it is west: you could get on the road to Cornwall easily from there. I felt a flicker of excitement when I cut across the Green to the river. It was like a scene from Disney – water twinkling under the bridge, heritage street lamps, rowing boats for hire. I could imagine myself settling down here, falling in love, leading a conventional sort of life. But then an aeroplane passed so low you could almost taste the in-flight meal. All those big posh houses and the people in them – every three minutes they have to stop talking and wait for the noise to pass over. Who knew?

  I took the train back into London after that, alighting briefly at each stop. Barnes: too villagey, plus the flight path is just as disruptive to normal conversation, or thought. Putney, better, but what is Putney when it’s at home (if anyone calls it home, which I doubt)? Basically the A3 with a load of closed-down shops. Wandsworth Town, a one-way system, and Clapham Junction, at first glance, just a dump.

  Standing outside a depressing Marks & Spencer in a dreary high street smelling of McDonald’s chips, I was downcast and hungry, so I walked around a bit to find something I could countenance eating. Deli counters were obviously out, as were pre-packaged sandwiches, and I walked a little way until I found a road with smaller cafés and shops, bit of a market, an Italian restaurant that sold clean food.

  I ordered a steak. Spinach on the side in a separate bowl. When I emerged, blood warmed by a rather nice glass of Bardolino, I looked at the street with different eyes. A couple in their thirties were canoodling against a wall on the corner; he was pressing a leg between her thighs; her hands gripped the seat of his jeans. It piqued my curiosity. A wedding band glinted on her ring finger. Perhaps it was illicit, this clinch, but I allowed myself to imagine they were married. After that I went into the first estate agent I came across. A jumped-up little tosser in a pinstriped suit told me this part of London was called ‘Between the Commons’.

  ‘What’s your budget, sir?’ he said. ‘We find it’s very much a seller’s market round here.’

  It always is a seller’s market.

  Charlotte left three messages while I was sifting through house details. I listened to the need in her voice as I ambled back to the station. She was coming home early. What time would I be back? She’d bought chicken breasts and that fresh pasta I like. Should she cook it, or would I rather go out? She’d cleaned the flat, and bought me a present – that spotty Paul Smith shirt I’d seen in the window. ‘Hurry home,’ she said. ‘Let’s see if it fits.’

  All this concern: she can feel me slipping away. I’m already half gone. I try to imagine kissing her against a wall up a side street and I can’t. Our romance is dead. She’s lost her chance. She should have realised earlier. She could have had me. Now it’s too late. Few things are as unattractive as desperation. Anyway, how many Paul Smith shirts does she think I need?

  Nell and Pete came for supper. I didn’t eat much. Roast pork – I told her in advance that was fine, but she bought it from Waitrose and it had a funny taste. She hid the packaging before I could inspect it but I suspect it had a marinade or a stuffing. It had that pig smell. I didn’t like it.

  After they left, I ran myself a bath. I haven’t been feeling as in control as I like and I’d taken a pill from Jim’s stash to recalibrate. But then I heard her crying outside the bathroom, pretend-quietly so I would notice. When I opened the door, she’d darted to the sofa. By her feet were small curls of black mud that Pete had brought in on the bottom of his shoes. Nell’s wine glass had left a ring like a slug trail on the coffee table. I tried to divert my attention, though it was making my skin crawl, and asked her what was wrong. She said something about how I hadn’t eaten the food on purpose, how I had done it to hurt her. She said I was ‘toying with her emotions’, a phrase she’ll have got from one of her friends. She didn’t understand, she said, how I could go from being normal in front of Nell and Pete to ‘being like this’.

  ‘Being like what?’

  ‘Weird. Cold. You haven’t said a word to me since they left. You haven’t even helped me wash up. They’re your friends. I only invited them to please you. You used to be so loving, so kind. I thought you were the sweetest man I’d ever met.’

  Why didn�
��t she just say what was really bothering her? People’s inability to be straight with each other drives me insane. All this pretence. We would have to have a discussion about whether I am still loving and kind, when she was actually pissed off because Nell mentioned Gulls and I haven’t taken her there yet. She is one of those girls who measures romance in terms of mini-breaks. Watching her on the sofa, her eyes red, her bottom lip swollen, her fingers twisting the belt of the clingy silk top she had bought to attract me, I felt a surge of resentment. Why was she trying to make me feel bad? It’s not my fault. Sometimes I don’t know why I behave the way I do. It’s as if my brain has the ability to subdivide, to split and separate memory from the present. If I could just give in, slow down . . . I don’t know. It’s just how I am.

  ‘I thought you were cross with me,’ I told her. ‘I was just getting out of your way. I thought you couldn’t bear the sight of me. You’ve been behaving so oddly recently.’ I gazed into her eyes. ‘I’m hopeless. I haven’t sold a painting in weeks. I bring nothing to the household. You’ve had your nose in papers the last few nights . . . I don’t know why you put up with me. I thought you wanted rid.’

  It was almost too easy to soothe the situation. She hadn’t realised I was in such a bad way, she said. I shouldn’t worry about money; she earned enough for both of us. She loved me more than anyone she had ever met. Some day soon, perhaps I’d find ‘a purpose in life’ that would bring me self-worth.

  I felt a flash of anger. Something a little too patronising in her tone. I let her kiss me a bit more and then I put on a little-boy voice: ‘I might have my bath, now it’s run.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, in a small voice of her own. ‘And I’m sorry to have upset you.’