Forget Me Not (17 page)

She’s dead serious..

‘But now everything has changed,’ Cleo says. ‘She’s gone. And everything has begun all over again.’

Her words are chilling.

I cannot bring myself to respond. Whatever I say will make no difference, anyway. Cleo has made up her mind and she’s not open to reason.

I stand up. I cannot wait to leave. This flat is a tomb full of old and unhappy memories.

As I walk out of the living area, I find myself looking into a small room, a study, which I didn’t notice when I came in. I stop when I see the photographs on the wall. There are nine of them, all in black and white, all framed in simple black wooden frames. They hang in rows of three.

Cleo stands silently beside me. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ she says.

And in some ways, they are. But they are also sinister.

I step into the room to get a closer look, examining each of the portraits in turn. The photographs have been taken over several years and they are a record of my daughter’s life. A testament to her, a twisted love story. On the top row there are two close-ups of Vivien’s face, taken when she was a teenager. In the first, she is wearing a pair of sunglasses I remember well, pointed cat’s-eyes with a gold frame. She is laughing, pleased, it seems, to be the subject of the picture. In the second photograph, Vivien is at a ballet recital, she wears a black leotard and a thin film of a skirt that brushes the tops of her thighs. Her hair is slicked back into a bun and she looks back over her shoulder at the camera, intense and unsmiling.

‘Did you take all of these?’ I say.

Cleo nods. ‘I’ve become something of a keen amateur photographer. I’ve invested in some amazing equipment, and I’ve been on quite a few courses. Sometimes I think about trying to make a career out of it. I love portraits. I work only in black and white.’

Cleo is talented. The photographs are quite stunning, artful and full of feeling, and they cut right to the heart of my daughter’s sensuality, her vulnerability. But, with the exception of the first two early portraits, I don’t think Vivien knew she was being photographed.

‘Most of these were taken after Vivien and Ben were married,’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘But you said you had no contact with her?’

‘You don’t need to have contact with someone to take their photograph.’

I cannot read her expression. She’s solemn as she answers my questions, but also rather detached. I would expect her to be embarrassed at the fact that I’ve been witness to her preoccupation with my daughter.

‘So Vivien didn’t know you were taking these photographs?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

The next photograph is of the house on Blackthorn Road. It was taken at night. The shutters in the basement are tilted open and Vivien is standing with her back to the window. Next, she emerges from a restaurant, in a cream evening dress and a dark cape; she is laughing, looking at the person beside her, though they are cropped from the picture. She is holding hands with someone, with Ben I imagine, but only his hand appears at the side of the frame.

‘I understood why Ben chose Vivien,’ Cleo says. ‘Because I loved her too. You can tell, can’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can. I had no idea.’

In the final row, Vivien bends forward to kiss Lexi’s cheek. They are standing in front of the school gates and Lexi looks to be about four years old.

In the penultimate shot, Vivien is in a vest, Lycra leggings and trainers and she is running in what I imagine is Regent’s Park. The shot captures her in motion, while the background is a blur.

I’m not sure what scares me more as I look at Cleo’s shrine to my daughter: the extent of her obsession with Vivien or how emaciated Vivien looks in these photographs.

I don’t understand how I didn’t see what was in front of me all these years. I didn’t see she was ill.

‘Cleo,’ I say, ‘if you’d known I was coming over, would you have closed this door?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I don’t really feel I have anything to hide.’

‘You’re not embarrassed?’

‘No, I’m not embarrassed. How is it embarrassing to celebrate beauty?’

‘Cleo, this isn’t celebration. This is stalking.’

She doesn’t seem to take offence. In fact, she doesn’t seem to take this seriously at all. Or perhaps she’s relieved, to share this with me.

‘There came a point,’ she says, ‘where a computer screen wasn’t enough for me. I needed to see Vivien again. To really see her. In the flesh. I tried for so long
not
to go to their house, but in the end, I did.’

‘So it was Vivien you wanted to see?’ I say. ‘Not Ben?’

‘Both of them, really,’ she says. ‘All three of them. But it was always Vivien who fascinated me.’

‘When did you start watching her?’

‘Soon after they moved in to Blackthorn Road. I saw an article in a magazine about the renovations, about the way Vivien and the architect had worked together to redesign the house. The first time, all I did was stand outside for a few minutes. That was all.’

‘And then?’

‘I wanted to see Vivien with her baby.’

I have no idea whether Cleo understands how disturbed I am by what she’s telling me. She is quite calm, quite casual about it all, as though this is normal behaviour.

‘I started going to Blackthorn Road really early in the mornings,’ she says. ‘Ben always left for work at the crack of dawn; it was the same when he and I lived together. So once he’d gone, I’d walk up and down the street, until Vivien came out of the house, with the little princess in her carriage.’

Cleo is so earnest, her eyes narrow and her forehead creases with concentration, with the intensity of memory. ‘I remember when Lexi started walking on her own,’ she says. ‘It was winter, and she was still so tiny and she had on the most beautiful little tailored coat. It was a bright emerald-green colour, and it looked so pretty against her ginger hair. And she had a little knitted hat on too, with a crocheted white rose on the side. That outfit was so typical of Vivien, so perfect.’

Cleo is so sad and so lonely. She’s still wrapped up in her relationship with Vivien and with Ben, with relationships that ended more than a decade before.

‘They would wear matching gloves,’ she says. ‘Vivien’s were beige leather, but Lexi’s were softer, the same colour, but woollen. And they used to hold hands. Vivien would point at things, showing Lexi everything, all the way to school. Whenever I used to read about something – like Mother’s Day – or if I’d pass a beauty salon and see a mother-and-daughter special offer, I’d think about Vivien and her daughter and I’d want to know what they might be doing together, to celebrate. I was envious.’

When Cleo speaks about Vivien and Lexi, it is with a terrible sense of loss. I don’t understand how Ben has been oblivious to the danger here. Cleo’s need is so strong, it emanates from her with an intensity that’s palpable.

‘Does Ben know about these photographs?’

‘No. I loved Vivien and I missed her,’ she says. ‘I would have liked to have had all three of them back in my life. These photographs are something – not much, but something.’

I turn back to the wall, to the last photograph, which scares me most of all.

She has captured Lexi. Close up, the shades of grey caress the contours of her small face, her sad eyes, her wild curls. She is standing just inside the open school gates, gazing at something beyond the lens. I am quite sure it is her mother she sees, because there is a longing in her expression. She is watching as Vivien walks away from her.

I want to snatch the photograph of Lexi off the wall, to take it away with me.

‘Cleo, I think you need to talk to someone about all this.’ I gesture at the wall. ‘Now that I’ve seen this, I’m not comfortable with you having contact with my granddaughter.’

‘That’s not your decision to make,’ she says.

‘I need to tell Ben.’

‘That’s up to you,’ she says. She doesn’t seem alarmed. She’s quite calm.

I curse myself for telling her my intentions. By the time I see Ben, she could easily have disposed of this display.

I don’t know what to make of her, or what exactly she is capable of. Perhaps she’s harmless, a shy social misfit who was manipulated by my daughter, and who now wants another chance at happiness. Or she might be someone entirely different, someone I don’t know at all. A stalker who’s been fixated on Vivien for all these years.

Either way, I will not allow her anywhere near Lexi.

I approach the wide-open gates of the Endsleigh School with some apprehension, because I know I’m breaking the rules by turning up here without warning. But I can’t wait, I need to talk to Ben about what I saw at the flat in Cinnamon Wharf.

He’s arrived early too; his Range Rover is parked alongside the pavement. I hope Isaac is driving him – I could do with some support. I walk up to the car and tap against the driver’s window. As it rolls down, I see that Ben is in the driver’s seat. He’s alone in the car.

‘I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘It’s important.’

He does not look pleased to see me.

‘What about?’ He frowns and his tone is strangely cutting, but I pretend I don’t notice.

‘It’s about Cleo,’ I say.

Ben rolls up the window again. He opens the door and I move back, out of the way. As he steps out onto the pavement, he looks towards the school playground, which is filling up fast, though the doors of the school are still firmly shut. Parents and children pass us by on their way in through the gates, talking, laughing, pushing buggies.

‘Ben?’

He looks at me, with some reluctance.

‘Look, I’m worried about Cleo and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be having her over to the house.’

He gives me a look that could turn water to ice, but I don’t stop.

‘I don’t know if you realize it, but you’re getting her hopes up. She thinks she can go back in time and pick up where you left off, and I think this situation could become very complicated if you decide you don’t need or want to be with her at some point in the future.’

Ben rubs his hands over his eyes. Then he begins fiddling with his wedding ring.

‘Ben, I’ve just been to Cleo’s flat and I’m extremely worried. I think she’s unstable. She has a wall full of photographs that were taken without Vivien’s knowledge. I don’t want her spending time with Lexi.’

‘You don’t get to decide who spends time with Lexi,’ he says. He spits out the words, like barbs. This rudeness, the cold aggression, is so unlike him.

‘Look, is something wrong?’ I say.

‘Do you have a problem with me, Rose? Do you not think I’m capable of caring for my own daughter?’

A young Filipino woman turns to look at us, worried perhaps at the way he is talking to me.

‘Ben, what on earth are you talking about?’

‘Cleo called me, to tell me you were at her flat this morning. She says you keep asking her if I’ve been drinking.’

‘What?’

‘She said you think I have a drinking problem. Have you told the police, Rose, about my supposed alcohol abuse?’

‘No, Ben—’

‘Next thing you’ll be reporting me to social services.’ Ben notices the woman, who is still staring at us, and he tries to pull himself together. His hand stills, as he stops twisting his wedding ring.

‘Ben, listen to me. My comments have been taken out of context. Ben, please.’

‘Did you or did you not ask Cleo if I’d been drinking?’

I try to remember exactly what I did say to Cleo. All I can see are those photographs.

‘I might have asked her,’ I say. ‘And yes, I do think you should be careful about how much you drink at night when you’re alone with Lexi. But I said it because I care about you. It would be better to see your GP, to get antidepressants or a short course of sleeping tablets if you’re having problems—’

His expression unnerves me as he raises his eyebrows, mocking me, the interfering mother-in-law. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he says.

‘Ben, you need to go to Cleo’s flat and have a look for yourself.’

But he’s so livid that he’s not listening to anything I’m saying. I’m so furious I didn’t take a photograph of that wall.

‘It seems to be my day for taking phone calls about you,’ he says. ‘Andrew Lissauer also gave me a call this morning.’

It takes me a moment to get over my surprise at hearing this, but my main concern is that Ben isn’t listening to what I’m trying to tell him about Cleo.

‘Ben, did you hear what I said? I have serious concerns about Cleo’s mental state.’

‘I heard you,’ he says. His voice is even colder now. ‘But according to Andrew, it’s your mental state that’s the real problem.’

I clear my throat, but the lump I struggle with has grown larger, more dense. I cannot dislodge it. ‘Why have you been talking to Andrew about me?’

‘I’ve known Andrew for years. As you know, he was Alexandra’s paediatrician. We’re on the board of the fundraising committee for the Weissman Unit.’

Ben is looking at me strangely, and he’s talking slowly, as though he thinks I’ve lost my mind. ‘Andrew called me because he’s concerned about you. I gather you won’t be going back to work, that you had some sort of outburst?’

I’m sure Andrew meant well but I could throttle him. He’s just undermined any credibility I might have had. I exhale. ‘I’m sure he didn’t put it like that,’ I say.

‘What exactly did happen at the hospital, Rose? Andrew wouldn’t tell me the details. He’s very protective of you.’

‘I’ve been distracted lately, as I’m sure you can appreciate. It was nothing serious and no one was hurt. Nothing like that.’

Am I telling the truth? Because Yusuf’s mother was hurt. I hurt her.

‘It wasn’t serious,’ I say again. My voice lacks any conviction.

‘And yet Andrew Lissauer, who adores you, doesn’t think you’re in any fit state to be around patients? And he was concerned enough to alert me to the fact that he thinks you’re in crisis.’

‘I would never do anything to hurt Lexi. Please.’

Ben looks confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t know.’ I’m struggling, and my thoughts are scrambled. I can’t get my words out in a straight sentence.