Remember Me This Way (18 page)

I look past him into the kitchen. Nell is standing in the doorway, staring down the passage at me, and behind her, at the table, is a man.

My heart stops.

‘Did you forget something?’

Nell walks towards me, blocking my view, dusting her hands on her dress. Behind her, the man gets to his feet. I wonder if he’s going to move out of sight, but he comes as far as the kitchen door. I lean against the wall for support. The light is behind him, and I can’t see his face. I hold my breath until I hear his voice.

The words fall like ashes. ‘Hello. Sorry to have missed you earlier. I was working upstairs, not feeling too hot, and . . .’

Nell, looking both resentful and abashed, says, ‘You remember Pete?’

‘Yes,’ I reply. My legs seem to be disintegrating. How stupid I’ve been. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Nell is making excuses. She is talking about how Pete had been feeling a bit woozy, how he would have loved to have popped his head round the door to say hello, but he was full of germs and had nodded off. ‘Bit woozy’. ‘Popped’. ‘Nodded’. Nursery terms to cover her discomfort.

‘Back up to the old grindstone, actually,’ Pete says, stepping quickly behind her to the foot of the stairs. He is much shorter than Zach; his hair isn’t chestnut brown, but dirty blond, his face is round, plump-cheeked. It doesn’t have Zach’s hollows, or tight lines around the mouth. ‘So sorry for your loss, Lizzie.’

He can’t wait to get away now he’s been rumbled. I can just imagine the conversation they had before I came.

‘Do I
really
have to talk to her? Can’t I just stay out of sight?’

‘Oh, all right. But you owe me.’

God. I don’t blame either of them. I wouldn’t want to have to make polite conversation with the widow of an old friend. No, not even friend – ‘I didn’t know him very well really.’ The truth of it hits me. Zach wasn’t their great mate. He was just someone they used to know and probably didn’t even much like. He’s not here. He never has been.

Pete disappears up the stairs, taking them two at a time. ‘It’s fine,’ I call weakly after him. ‘Don’t worry.’

I turn back to Nell. ‘I’m glad you came back,’ she says. ‘I felt awful after you left. It’s obvious you didn’t know about Charlotte and I clearly put my foot in it.’

‘It took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She pulls herself together, looking over her shoulder. ‘Anyway, did you forget something?’

‘Um. Yes. No. But . . .’ I flail momentarily and then I realise. Charlotte. I should talk to her. She might know something, or at the very least, understand. ‘Yes, actually. I couldn’t have Charlotte’s phone number, could I? If you’ve got it. Odd request I know, but it would be helpful.’

Nell screws up her face. ‘Sorry. But no,’ she says. ‘No.’

I begin to back away. ‘Of course not. Tactless. I don’t know what I was thinking. Insensitive of me. The last thing she would want to do is talk to me.’

Nell is just staring. ‘It’s not that,’ she says.

I’m suddenly cold. Her tone has made me shiver. ‘Oh you just haven’t
got
the number. It was a long time ago. Why would you?’

Nell is shaking her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I can’t.’ She lowers her voice and glances over her shoulder. Her words when they come, spoken so softly, are like falling snow, small glances of ice. ‘I can’t give you Charlotte’s number,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘because she’s dead.’

Zach

July 2010

A small wedding. Luckily it’s all Lizzie wanted. Wandsworth Town Hall on a Wednesday morning. Her and me and a small collection of her close friends and relations. Sorry, Alfie – you can’t be a pageboy (only tricky moment). None of my chums could make it, sadly. (Probably as a result of not being invited.) Lizzie understood. ‘You’re all I need anyway,’ I told her, and she smiled at me in that way that makes my insides clench.

After the ceremony, we partook of champagne and sandwiches at the County Arms, and then, as soon as we could get rid of everyone, we went to bed – Lizzie naked at last in my arms. A delicious consummation, all the more so for being legal. Surprised me, that. The happiest day of my life, I told her. It wasn’t a complete lie. In fact, now I think of it, it wasn’t a lie at all.

The old woman is at the Beeches now, packed off with her boxes of hideous possessions. I’ve begun on the house, but only slowly. I’ve pulled up the horrible carpet and stripped the wallpaper. The walls I’ve painted a cool blue-grey called Borrowed Light – the colour of Nell and Pete’s walls in Edinburgh. It’s a work in progress. I’ve still got to decorate the bathroom and the kitchen. Lizzie says we have to wait for her next pay cheque, but I persuaded her to buy a new mattress for the bed, pretended the old one was too soft. It was a germ thing really, but I didn’t tell her that.

Work is going better than it has for months. I’ve found a small studio space in an old converted warehouse near the greyhound track in Wimbledon. My room, tucked away on the ground floor, is the size of a shoebox and has no natural light. The rent is cheap, but the landlord reduced it further on condition that I assist the caretaker with the odd repair about the place. Most of the windows in the building need replacing, but he says I can take my time.

I like the darkness. I’ve rigged up an extra bulb in the ceiling, and I can direct both on to the canvas when I’m painting. I’m in the middle of a series. It’s called ‘Broken Days’. Is that shit? Now I write it down, I think that’s shit.

The studio is full of busybodies, people wanting to poke their noses in – a punky young Slovakian girl who knits at the end of the corridor; a guy about my age who Photoshops hideous horses running through surf; a couple of screen-printers; a sculptress. Lunchtime they congregate in the little kitchen over their Pot Noodles. They all wanted a bit of me when I arrived, but there’s a lock on the door and I keep it shut and bolted, even when I’m in. I set my iPod to white noise. Most of the time, no one knows I’m there.

Lizzie can’t cook. I’m teaching her how to do it my way, step by step, protein by protein. The state of her fridge made me feel physically sick – all the veg muddled up in the drawers, soiled carrots, out-of-date food. I found a jar of Branston Pickle that must have celebrated the Coronation. She is untidy too, sluttish in that regard. I’m trying hard to teach her.

None of it seems to matter as much as I thought. Sometimes when I’m with her, I close my eyes and feel an approximation of happiness. It’s so near I can almost touch it. I feel less restless than I have for years. You could almost call me relaxed. I’ve cut right down on the medication, only half a pill here and there, when my knees begin to shake.

I never thought I’d end up with someone like Lizzie, but here I am. Is this what being normal feels like? It’ll do me, if so. She doesn’t bore me: that’s the thing. I feel safe with her, and appreciated, a better person for it. She’ll never let me down. Ever. ‘Me and you (against the world),’ I said the other day. I was quoting from that Joe Jackson song. But she held my chin and gazed into my eyes. ‘Me and you against the world,’ she said.

Summer in the city. Swifts screaming high in a blue sky. Bees stabbing at the open faces of roses. You really can’t complain. I’m in a deckchair on the grass, glass of your finest Glengoyne malt at my side. (Damn dog better not knock it over.) Lizzie makes an effort in the garden. I like that. It reminds me of my mother. She was always pottering, too. She’s ‘planting out’ the flowers we bought yesterday at the local nursery. I was expecting tedium, but I was touched by her industry, the way she picked up each plant and studied it before making her selection. She chose candy-pink geraniums to fill the pots, and blooming white bedding plants for the gaps in the borders. I kissed her, among the wallflowers, told her she was the only white bedding plant I needed. We came home and had sex. ‘You can’t get enough of me, can you?’ I told her. She wasn’t even offended. ‘No, I can’t,’ she said and lay her soft naked body down on top of mine.

She’s plumper than she was, her breasts and hips are fuller, a small roll around her stomach. Married life has brought out the best in her, too. The tension has eased around her mouth, now she’s no longer dealing on a daily basis with her mother. I’ve taught her to say no to her sister, too, not to drop everything the moment the new baby wants bathing or Peggy needs a lie-down. Lizzie’s new haircut suits her, if I say so myself. More of a bob, too short for her to chew the ends. ‘You could take it up professionally,’ she said. ‘If ever you wanted a prop— I mean new job.’ (I decided not to rise to that.) She’s terrible with make-up, even after all the money we shelled out at Bobbi Brown. She’s made an effort today – she’s wearing that red lipstick I chose. It makes me want to suck it off her.

I yelled across to remind her to wear gloves. She’ll be ruining her fingernails. She sat back on her haunches. ‘I told you it was a waste of time paying for me to have a manicure,’ she said. ‘Not that I didn’t appreciate it. You’re very kind. A very kind man.’ She came over to try and kiss me, but I pulled away. I told her I didn’t like dirty hands, and she laughed again and said I’d have to wait until she’d finished as there was no point washing them now.

Christ
. She’s impossible to affront. I know she sees the best in people, but I didn’t expect her to see the best in me. Lizzie does me good. See, I’ve said it. It turns out I only needed to find the right person for everything to be all right.

Oh, I could almost go to sleep, lazing here.

London is doing me the world of good.

Lizzie is doing me the world of good.

If it weren’t for the fact that Charlotte keeps phoning, I’d be in pig’s heaven.

I suppose I shouldn’t have slept with her the night before I moved out, but hey – one for the road.

Chapter Ten

Lizzie

On the train, I stare out of the window, through Hassocks and Burgess Hill, Gatwick Airport, East Croydon, my mind churning. I can’t get warm. I keep thinking about that poor girl’s parents. A different sort of grief to mine. I can’t even touch it.

A terrible accident, Nell said, when I asked. ‘No one’s fault. Just one of those awful things.’ She’d told Zach, she said, that day we had lunch.

‘I wonder why he didn’t tell me,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand.’

She shrugged: ‘I’m not sure it affected him hugely.’

I know she’s wrong. He would have been affected. It would have gone deep. I wish I knew the full story. Half of one is more disturbing. I can’t put a finger on how I’m feeling. I feel responsible and implicated. I keep thinking how easy it is to
die
.

At Clapham Junction, I take the underpass by mistake. It’s a shorter walk if you take the bridge exit, and it’s brighter up there. But I’m not thinking straight. I feel as if things are falling off me. I stop in the middle of the dank tunnel, commuters jostling past, to check I’ve got my wallet and my phone. What else am I supposed to have? Keys. A moment of blind panic before I remember. Onnie. The dog.

I’m in a hurry then to get home.

Leaving the station at the lower exit, between the supermarket and the flower stall, I become convinced I’m being followed. Up St John’s Hill, past the kebab shop and Admiral Carpets, and left to the South Circular, edging round the big houses at Spencer Park, an electrical current at the back of my neck, a tingling. I look over my shoulder every few paces. On the second turn, a red-headed man in a shiny black puffer stops abruptly and stares through the window of a shop selling modern furniture. Not Zach. Has he set someone else on my trail? Have I found out more than I should have? I’m shaky from not having eaten. My eyes aren’t to be trusted.

I run the last stretch of Trinity Road, over at the pedestrian crossing and down into my turning. Adrenalin is pumping as I ring the bell – an eerie feeling, ringing the bell to your own house. I wait. Silence, no footsteps. I look through the front window – the sitting room is empty. I ring again and then I bang on the door. No answer. The flowerpot: I told her to leave the key there if she went out. I shift the base of it to one side. A wad of root clings to the bottom. Woodlice seethe. No key.

I stand up and peer through the letter box. I can see through into the kitchen. The back door is shut. No dog comes trotting to lick my nose. No welcoming bark. In the distance, above the steady squeal of traffic, the beeping of a vehicle in reverse, a police siren.

I try to stay calm, but my thoughts are racing. What had I been doing, giving my house key to a girl I barely knew? Why on earth did I think I could trust her? I have no judgement, that’s the problem. She might have just gone, disappeared, taken off with my keys, my dog. The car key was on the ring too. I scan the street. The Micra is still there in its spot. At least she hasn’t taken that.

I walk to the other end of the road and stand on the corner. No footsteps behind. If the man in the shiny puffer was following, he’s waiting now, hanging back to see what I’m doing. I listen. The prison is quiet today. An elderly man is reversing out of the prison-warder car park. An official in uniform, key chain hanging from his trouser pocket, is talking on a mobile phone at the gate. Overhead, the clouds are darker, shifting, thickening. Big drops of rain begin to patter.

I turn left so that I am on the road that runs at a perpendicular angle to the gardens of my street. My house is halfway down, but I strain my ears harder here in case I can hear Howard barking, sniffing in the undergrowth. I call his name. Nothing.

I keep going and cross Magdalen Road, on to Lyford Road, past the scout hut where Peggy and I went to Brownies, and the big posh houses belonging to pop stars and TV presenters. I’ve just crossed the next road when I notice the car following me, driving slowly, clinging to the kerb. I look over my shoulder. A red Ford. It jerks to a halt, and then, as I continue to walk, begins to accelerate. Two figures inside. I pick up my pace and then I start to run.

The pavement is empty. No one in sight. I run as fast as I can, out of breath almost immediately. I reach the small patch of common on this side of the main road, and dart to hide under a tree. There is a dead end, just beyond. I see the red Ka approach. When it reaches the no-entry side, it idles. A man is behind the wheel; an older woman in the passenger seat. He seems to be looking around, but he doesn’t spot me. The car pulls out into the middle of the road, and then stalls. It fires to life and then lurches, jumps, eventually completes a three-point turn, and drives off.