Forget Me Not (12 page)

At the sound of the doorbell, Lexi drops her pen and stands up, her face full of hope. I feel certain she has forgotten, and in that moment she thinks her mother has come for her. Then, the fleeting hope is replaced by a certain blankness, as though she is retreating from this world where she has to face the fact that her mother is never coming back.

When I open the door, Isaac is standing on my doorstep holding a bouquet of ivory roses. After a moment’s hesitation, I reach out and accept the flowers. I close my eyes as I bring the silky petals to my face and breathe in deep. The delicate smell makes me feel horribly sad.

I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds, and I remind myself that babies die on my ward all the time; I am by no means the only parent to suffer. Then I look at Isaac. As he smiles at me, I feel the skin on my face become hot, flushed.

‘Will you come in for a while?’ I say.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘Ben is expecting us home.’

‘Lexi’s eaten some pasta,’ I say. ‘I doubt she’ll want much dinner.’

‘I’ll let him know.’

He waits in the doorway of my small kitchen, arms crossed in front of him in the way he does, while I search for something to put the flowers in. I find an old green glass vase under the sink and fill it with water. Carefully, I cut away the paper and the elastic band and I arrange the roses. When I’ve finished I turn around, holding the flowers in front me.

‘What was the police interview about?’ I say. I keep my voice low.

From the living room I hear the clatter of felt-tip pens falling to the wooden floor.

‘Let’s talk later,’ Isaac says.

He turns to look behind him, at the glass door, through which we can see Lexi’s silhouette as she kneels at the coffee table.

Isaac stands aside to let me pass, then follows me down the passage. Lexi barely glances up as we come into the room. Her head is bent over her page and she’s frowning in concentration, biting her upper lip, as she puts the finishing touches on the flowers in her garden. She has outlined each of the pink petals in electric blue.

‘What a lovely picture,’ I say.

She nods, ever serious.

I place the flowers in the centre of the dining-room table, where they look quite lovely.

‘Lexi,’ I say, ‘it’s time to go home.’

She is careful to place the lid back on to her felt-tip pen before she stands up. Once again, I find it unsettling, how obedient she is. Vivien was so defiant, always ready with an argument. That, I do remember.

‘Would you like to take your drawing home with you?’ I say.

‘You can keep it,’ Lexi says. She leaves it lying on the low table.

She doesn’t fuss as I help her on with her grey coat and her school shoes in the entrance hall. I place our orange-peel snake carefully inside a plastic bag and hand it to her.

‘Will you put him on the radiator in your bedroom when you get home?’ I ask.

‘Why?’

‘Because then your room will smell of oranges and you will remember how much I love you.’

‘Okay.’ Lexi gives me a small and shy smile, though it’s so fleeting I think I might have imagined it.

There is a look of pity on Isaac’s face. He puts an arm around her shoulders and guides her out of the open front door and into the stale-smelling corridor.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ I say. I keep my voice casual as I bend down to kiss Lexi’s cool cheek. I hug her, my closed eyes against her tangled curls. She smells of chocolate. My eyes burn but I don’t cry. Lexi has enough to deal with.

I wave and smile as the lift doors open but she doesn’t look back. It’s hard to say whether or not she minds leaving me. I suppose the truth is she doesn’t.

At around nine o’clock that night, when I know Ben will have put Lexi to bed, I arrive at Blackthorn Road. I’m carrying a tray of roast chicken, bought from a deli on the high street, one Vivien often used for catering. There is an elderly Greek lady behind the counter, who is always dressed head-to-toe in black, and today I could empathize with her dour expression.

The driveway is well lit. The matching Range Rovers, with their BKAYE and VKAYE plates, are parked side by side. The lights are on in the basement, and on the ground floor, but the first and second floors of the house are in darkness. I hope Lexi has found peace in her sleep tonight. And I hope Ben isn’t too far into his bottle of whisky.

I press the buzzer with my elbow as I balance the tray in my arms. I think about what I’m going to say to Ben. I could say I wanted to drop off some food, to make sure they’re eating properly. I could say I want to find out how Lexi is, how she responded after her visit to my flat.

And then, if the atmosphere between us is still cordial, I will ask Ben about the visit from the police.

I wait. I look into the round glass eye of the camera. Under the tinfoil covering, the chicken is succulent and spicy and swims in oil. The smell grows stronger by the minute.

When the front door opens, a woman appears at the top of the steps, a dark silhouette against the bright lights of the entrance hall. My heart stops dead, then lurches against my ribs. I feel a surge of joy that defies rational thought.
My daughter is alive.

And then, as she moves, I see it isn’t Vivien at all. Her gait is not as graceful as she walks down the few steps towards me. Vivien never lost her ballerina’s posture, she walked with her neck long and her chin lifted; this woman’s shoulders are a little rounded and her footsteps heavier than those of my daughter.

My heart still thrashes in my chest. The surge of hope was so powerful.

It’s Cleo, of course. She could have released the catch on the gate from where she stood at the front door, but instead she walks down towards me at an irritatingly slow pace, until we are standing face to face on opposite sides of the locked gate.

She seems surprised to see me. ‘Rose,’ she says, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘The release catch for the gate is just inside the front door.’ I balance the tray of chicken in one arm and gesture up towards the house and the open door behind her.

‘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.

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 Wharf.’

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