Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff

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СКАЧАТЬ His face was a mask. But he must have felt even worse than we all did, because of the rift he’d had with her.’

      There was a rustle overhead as two squirrels chased each other along a branch, then suddenly turned and faced each other, backs arched, their tails aquiver.

      ‘Have you been over to see him?’

      I shook my head. ‘I don’t think he’d want me to go. In fact, he barely communicates with us now – apart from the odd e-mail, or dutiful birthday card. I’ve tried e-mailing him, telling him how sad I feel, and asking him to keep in touch, but so far I’ve had a cold response. It’s as though he’s punishing us all.’

      ‘That seems unfair.’

      ‘I talked to my dad about it but he just looked sad and said that he thought Mark was “finding himself”. Then he added, very regretfully, that he thought he and Mum had handled things “terribly badly”.’

      There was more rustling from above, as a conker fell through the leaves, landed with a light thud and bounced away, the impact splitting its spiny green shell.

      ‘And what about Cassie?’ I heard Xan say, as I stooped to pick it up. ‘Is she like you?’

      I prised the chestnut out of its soft white casing, admiring its mahogany perfection. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all. She’s the physical opposite – short, curvy and very dark – you’d think she was Spanish or Italian.’

      ‘Whereas you could be … Icelandic. Your skin’s so pale, I can see the veins at your temple; and your hair …’ He tucked a lock behind my ear. ‘It’s so blonde it’s almost white.’

      ‘Mark’s very fair too, as was Dad when he was younger. Cassie’s a bit like my mum, but bears no resemblance to the rest of us, in looks or personality.’

      ‘What does she do?’

      ‘That’s a moot point – not much; or rather she does lots of things, but none of it adds up to anything.’ We sat down on the wooden bench that encircled the base of the tree like an anklet. ‘She mostly temps – flitting from job to job. She’s twenty-six now so I try to persuade her to have some sort of career plan. But she just spouts that bit in the Bible about the lilies of the field and about how they toil not neither do they spin.’

      ‘Is she religious?’

      ‘Cassie?’ I snorted. ‘Not in the least. She’s also worked as a lingerie model – my parents never found out about it, luckily – and then as a croupier; they were horrified, but she said the money was great. She’s forever short of cash.’

      ‘Why’s that?’

      ‘Because she’s always lived beyond her means. She rents a flat in Chelsea – it’s very small but it costs a fortune. I said she should try and buy somewhere in a cheaper area but she won’t compromise on postcode; plus she has very expensive tastes – designer clothes, luxury holidays, smart restaurants – things that I, on my City salary, would have hesitated over, Cassie just goes for.’

      ‘So she’s a hedonist, then.’

      ‘Completely – and she’s got this old MG that’s continually breaking down. She’s always running to Dad to pay her garage bills.’

      ‘Does he mind?’

      ‘He doesn’t seem to. He’s always indulged her – all her life.’ I felt the familiar stab of resentment. ‘Almost as though he were trying to compensate her for something,’ I suddenly added, although I’d never had this thought before.

      Xan stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. I stared at his pale suede desert boots.

      ‘And how’s your dad been coping since your mother died?’ I heard him ask.

      I heaved a deep sigh. ‘Not well.’

      I went down to the house every weekend. Dad didn’t talk much, so we’d watch TV and do practical things – the shopping and gardening, his washing and ironing. He stopped listening to music because it made him cry. He’d left all Mum’s things just as they were. It had taken him three weeks to wash the wineglass she’d been using. It still had her pink lipstick marks.

      I couldn’t console Dad, any more than he could console me – but I did my best to distract him. I’d encourage him to ring his friends, or go to the golf club.

      ‘Not yet,’ he’d say quietly. ‘I just … can’t.’

      During the week I’d spend my free time with Xan. I’d wake in his arms, feeling excited but at the same time intensely comfortable. It was as though we’d known each other years before, but had recently met again and were keen to resume the relationship. Yet the truth was I hadn’t known him that long.

      How long? I wondered one morning in late October as I sat in one of my horticulture lectures. The tutor was asking us to devise a planting plan for dry, shady conditions. Anemone japonica, I wrote down and Helleborus argutifolius. Acanthus mollis thrives in shade, as does Pulmonaria – that does wonderfully in dark corners and the dappled leaves are still pretty when the flowers have faded. It was a month since I’d met Xan. I looked out into the garden below, admiring the Indian bean tree beneath the window. No, I realised, it was more. We’d met on Friday the tenth of September so that was – I discreetly glanced at my diary – nearly seven weeks. I flicked back through my diary again, then forward, then a little further back. And now I saw that there was a red ring round a date in late August.

      A sudden jolt ran the length of my spine …

      I’d been late before, I told myself as I walked briskly up Flood Street on to the King’s Road at lunchtime. My cycle had probably changed due to stress. Shock can do that, I reflected as I went into the chemist’s. I looked at the range of tests.

      ‘We’ve got these on 3 for 2 if you’re interested,’ the pharmacist said benignly.

      ‘Erm … no thanks,’ I replied as I paid. One would be more than enough, I thought as I half walked, half ran back to the Physic Garden, my heart pounding.

      I wasn’t pregnant, I told myself as I peed on the stick. If I were I’d know, because you’re supposed to get symptoms pretty early on, aren’t you? I tried to remember what they were. Nausea, obviously. When did that start? Wasn’t the taste of metal said to be an early sign? I slotted the stick back into the cartridge to await the result, which would take two minutes. I flushed the loo, then washed my hands. And wasn’t a bloated feeling a giveaway? I wondered as I yanked down the towel. Well, I didn’t feel bloated. Another minute to go. Engorged breasts? A perfunctory feel suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Twenty seconds now … Did I look pregnant? I peered into the mirror. No. Right then … Holding my breath, as though about to dive underwater, I picked up the test …

      It was as though I’d stepped into a crevasse.

      A blue cross in the second window means that you are pregnant.

      I stared at the blue cross in mine – so strong it seemed almost to pulsate. With trembling hands I retrieved the carton from the paper bag and reread the blurb. Then I sank on to a chair and closed my eyes. Now I suddenly remembered what I’d said to Xan the night we met: I’m about to start a СКАЧАТЬ