The Art of Forgetting (23 page)

“Did Wendy get on with Vic?” she asks. She is not really expecting a response but Mum’s head jerks up as if she has received an electric shock.

“Vic?” she says.

“Yes, Vic. You remember him, don’t you?”

Mum is on her feet. She shakes off Laura’s hand. “I’m not ready,” she says, and stands there, looking around her. She turns on the spot as if searching for something familiar. There is panic in her eyes as she fails to find it. “Where are all my clothes?” she cries. “I can’t see him looking like this! I want my purple dress, he likes me in that. Vic! I have to look nice for Vic.”

It is after midday by the time Laura manages to leave. She has failed to persuade her mother that Vic is not about to arrive any minute. She has also failed to prevent her resulting excitement and anxiety getting so completely out of hand that she had to call for help, but she knows when to accept defeat these days. It is upsetting but not in the same way it was at the start.

Perhaps that is why she is able to go and find Emil in the pub down the road. She is sitting at the same table they had chosen all those weeks ago when it all started. Laura looks at Emil as he stands at the bar. He has lost a lot of weight but he seems different in other ways too. It is nothing she can put her finger on but it is there. She wonders if she would have gone with him that day if she had known what would transpire and she fails to answer her own question. She has looked forward to this day so much, but now it is here it seems to have lost some of its shine.

That does not stop her taking his hand as he tells her about the funeral and how he has been dealing – or not dealing - with his loss. About how he is beginning to come to terms with it.

“If she were here now she’d be telling me not to be so stupid,” he says. “She believed life was for the living and she wouldn’t have wanted to see me like this – quite the opposite. She used to tell me to bump her off when she got to be a nuisance. So I’ve been trying to focus on that. What she would have wanted. She’d hate to see me stuck in the house for day after day, barely getting out of bed.”

Laura says all the right things. Of course she believes them, but there is a mechanical feel to the conversation, as if anyone could be saying these words. Anyone could sit here beside a recently bereaved man and come out with a string of platitudes about how you have to get on with your life and how the deceased would feel about it all. There is nothing personal about this and they skate around the real issue. It’s not so much an elephant in the room as a pair of ghosts. Ghosts who fell upon each other and lost themselves in the urgency of it. It was only a matter of weeks ago but it feels like a lifetime. Laura thinks it feels like different people too.

But that doesn’t stop her getting into her car and following him to his house. It doesn’t stop her following him up to his room nor does it stop her having sex with him. She wants to. She wants it to be like it was before, a roaring, raging, passionate thing that will wash over her and transport her somewhere else. She wants to lose herself again for a while, to stop thinking about her mother and what is happening to her, about what they will have for dinner tonight or whether Patrick has enough shirts. She wants to stop worrying about Paul and Hilda and whether she should tell Kelly. But it doesn’t happen.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t tell him that it all feels strange now, that she has become aware of the loose skin around his middle and the hairs in his nostrils. But she has to tell him something, so she tells him about her mother’s story and what happened at Cavendish House today.

“I hadn’t planned it,” she says, “but I sort of dropped his name in, to see what would happen.”

“And what did?”

“It was like throwing a switch. Honestly, she had been so passive I was having trouble getting anything out of her, but when I said his name she sat up and I swear a light came on in her eyes.”

“That’s true love,” says Emil. “Lasts a lifetime.”

Laura knows what he wants her to do; what she would have done without thinking before. She would have snuggled closer to him and kissed him. She would have said something soppy and they either would have made love again or they wouldn’t, but she never would have ignored his words as she does now.

“Yes, it was really obvious he’s still there in her head. The problem was that she’d forgotten he’d died and she got all excited. She insisted on ‘getting ready’ as she put it and it all got out of hand, I’m afraid. She wasn’t happy with anything after that, and she couldn’t be persuaded that Vic wasn’t coming. I had to leave in the end. That’s what I seem to do, these days. I go and wind her up, then off I go and leave them to sort it out.”

Emil tells her not to worry. He tells her to focus on all the good times she still has with her mother, but this seems trite too. She thinks about it as she is dressing. It’s as if their conversations have been taken over by some kind of let’s-say-the-right-thing software, like the children’s school reports. There’s a bank of sentences they are both dipping into, putting together in order to communicate, but the result has no individuality and no soul. They say goodbye at the top of the stairs. Laura pretends to be in a rush and Emil is not yet dressed, so it is a hurried affair with no arrangements for the next time.

“I’ll be in touch,” Emil calls as she reaches the front door, but her sentence bank is empty and all she can do is wave.

By the time the day of the wedding arrives, Laura has tied herself up in knots. Even Patrick has noticed how tense she is, and asked if she is OK. Naturally she has reassured him that everything is fine and she is only worrying about meeting this branch of the family after such a long time, but everything is not fine. It is not fine at all. Firstly, she does not know what to do about Emil. He has not been back in touch and, as each day has passed, she is less clear about whether she wants him to. Sometimes she thinks it would be better if it all fizzled out, but then she remembers their talks, their intimacy, the complete connection that has been there at times. Then she doubts she would be able to cope without him and if she would be able to hide her feelings if it ended.

But that is not all. She has not spoken to Kelly about Paul, about Linda and the termination. She has managed to avoid another session with her mother’s story and thus an exploration for the clues that she now knows are there, but she will have no excuse once the wedding is over. How long can she keep this to herself? What will Kelly say when she finds out she has been hiding it all this time?

And then there is Wendy. She arrived as planned and has been ensconced in Mum’s house for three days, but how painful that has proved to be. Nobody had warned Laura that Wendy appears to be a younger version of Mum. The physical likeness is striking, but there are so many of the same mannerisms too. The way she twiddles her hair when she is listening to a conversation. The way her face lights up when she smiles. It is actually painful to see her sitting in Mum’s lounge on Mum’s sofa. Laura also had to deal with a traumatic visit to Cavendish House during which her mother failed to remember Wendy at all and Wendy was inconsolable for half an hour.

No wonder then that she wakes early on the day of the wedding. She has spent half the night lurching from one doom-laden dream to another. Dreams in which they are late, or some other catastrophe occurs and is undeniably her fault. The figure of Paul looms large in these dreams and in her waking nightmares, and she finds herself dreading the time when they will meet. Will her face give her away? Will the words come tumbling out her mouth, out of control?
“Did you murder Linda?”

She knows this will not happen really. There is nobody more in control of her mouth than Laura. She hardly ever says the wrong thing. She knows that, but she is shaking by the time they set off to walk over to the venue. It is within the hotel grounds, a purpose-built building with a room calling itself a chapel although it bears no resemblance to any such thing, and a large function room for the reception. She holds Lily’s hand and attempts to chat in a natural fashion, but Lily pulls away.

“Mummy, let go! You’re squashing my hand!”

The service passes without incident. In fact Laura can recall very little of it as they follow the bride and groom out of the chapel and into the function room. The children are old enough to sit quietly and need little supervision, so she has been able to drift off into her own world. But nothing has been resolved. Now the brief introductions before the service will have to be consolidated. Now she will have to make conversation and be cheery. Now she will have to talk to Paul as if nothing is wrong, as if she has not been plagued by thoughts of his hands around a young girl’s neck or holding some kind of blunt instrument. What was that phrase her mother wrote?
His face twisted with anger.
Was that how he was when it happened?

Fortunately, the reception starts with a sit-down meal. There are places allocated at the large, round tables arranged in a horseshoe around an open space towards the front of the room. This is where there will be dancing, later when enough alcohol has been consumed and people have lost their inhibitions. Now it is empty, and Laura has a perfect view of the people sitting at the long table at the front. There is Amy, looking radiant in a slinky ivory dress with slashes of vivid pink. There is Ben, her husband, his cheeks and ears glowing to match the pink of his new wife’s dress. There are various middle-aged men and women in their best parents-of-the-bride-and-groom wedding gear, and one of these is Paul. He is still a strikingly good-looking man, with a thick mane of hair only slightly tinged with grey. He looks fit and athletic, as if life has been good to him. Laura thinks about Linda and what she might have looked like if she were here with Paul instead. Her baby would have been about forty-five by now and probably married with children. All those lives that never were.

One thing is certain, no expense has been spared for this occasion. There is a delicious three-course meal that Laura would have loved under any other circumstance, and a new bottle of wine appears on the table each time one is emptied. As it is, she eats her starter but only toys with her salmon.

She sees Patrick looking across at her from his place between Ricky and Wendy. “You alright, love?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I ate my starter too quickly. Saving some room for my dessert!” She smiles and he smiles back, reassured. He does care about me really, she thinks. But then she always knew that, didn’t she? Hasn’t she been pretending that he has become cold and unfeeling when actually he is the same as always and it is her who has changed? Hasn’t she looked for a convenient excuse for her behaviour, a justification for putting everything at risk? Her eyes begin to smart and she puts her napkin on her plate. Pushes her chair back.

“Sorry, need the ladies,” she says, feeling her face redden.

She is calm by the time somebody taps a fork on a wine glass to signal the start of the speeches. That was my crisis, she thinks. It happened and now it’s over. I’ll be fine now. She sits back to listen to Paul’s speech, laughs along with everyone else at the terrible jokes and amusing anecdotes, says ‘aaah,’ when appropriate and claps heartily at the end. It is not difficult. Nothing like as difficult as she thought it would be. This is a man who is clearly a proud and devoted father. The way he looks at Amy, the way she looks back – these are not the actions of the man she has imagined. He speaks warmly of his family and of the future he sees for them. Laura is conflicted again. Could a man like this really be responsible for Linda’s disappearance?

Laura finishes her second glass of champagne and finds she is feeling a lot more relaxed. She even begins to have fun as the formal part of the occasion ends and people drift from table to table, seeking out family and friends they have not seen for a while. The children have joined a group of others who are batting balloons around and skidding on their knees across the polished floor but nobody seems to mind, so she fills her glass and goes to sit with Robin and Beth. They talk about Mum. They are happy that the deterioration appears to have slowed a little and that Cavendish House is proving to be so good.

“Now you can relax a bit,” says Beth.

Laura laughs and agrees. “Yes, Mum’s the least of my worries,” she says, and then she has to fend off their response. No, they mustn’t take any notice, she was only joking. Only silly things like Ricky’s teacher going off sick and endless supply teachers. Only the fact that she still hasn’t got a job. Everything else is fine.

There are other tables to visit and she also checks back at their own after a while. Patrick does not find this kind of occasion easy and she needs to make sure he is not sitting alone. However, he has been joined by Robin now and they are having an earnest conversation about football and probably half a dozen other sports, so Laura tops up her glass and moves off again. She notices that she is feeling a little unsteady and resolves that this will be her last drink, at least for a while.

It seems like no time at all before the hotel staff appear and start to move some of the tables to one side. Trestle tables are placed along one wall, and then, as if by magic, a buffet appears. At the same time Laura sees a young man in a sparkly jacket setting up some equipment in a corner. More wine appears on the tables and shutters are rolled up to reveal a bar. She is glad she’s had a break from drinking. Now she will be able to enjoy the evening without worrying about having too much. She will even have a dance if she can persuade Patrick to join her.

That’s why it is all so strange. Laura can’t understand what happened. She is sitting on a chair just inside the door to the venue and the cold night air is making her shiver. There is an ice bucket by her feet with some slimy-looking liquid at the bottom. Her head is pounding and when she straightens, everything lurches to the left and begins to rotate. Her skin prickles. She feels the hot rush of liquid rising in her throat and groans.

It is half an hour before she begins to feel a little better and the vomiting appears to have stopped. Patrick has taken the children up to bed but Kelly and Beth are with her, holding her hair away from her face and passing her tissues. Beth goes off to see if someone can make a black coffee at this stage in the proceedings and Kelly squats down beside her.

“What the hell was that about?” she hisses.

“What?”

“You know what. That business with Paul. You were right in his face. I’ve never seen anyone look so shocked!”

Laura’s brain is still fuzzy and dull. The latter half of the evening seems to be swathed in mist but she has a vague memory of something happening. Her stomach lurches so violently that she thinks she will be sick again, but she is not. This is a different kind of sickness, the one that comes when you know you have done something horribly wrong and there is nothing you can do to change it.

“I can’t remember,” she says, her voice still alcohol-thick.

“Well you’d better hope you remember in the morning so you can apologise. If I hadn’t seen what was happening and come along, I think you might have hit him!”

Laura lies in bed waiting for the room to settle down. If she keeps her eyes open it turns only slowly, but as soon as she closes them it speeds up again. Round and round. She gets up and drinks another glass of tepid water from the en suite bathroom but that makes her feel sick, so she sits on the toilet and tries again to remember. What happened this evening? How did she get so drunk and what did she say to Paul?

It is past three in the morning before she finally drifts off to sleep but the fact that the alcohol is wearing off is little consolation. She is pretty sure she said something stupid to Paul, something that will have alerted him to her suspicions, and the consequences of that could be serious. She moves a little closer to the comforting warmth of Patrick’s back, rising and falling steadily beside her, and tries not to think about the morning and what it will hold.

She wakes to the sound of Patrick trying to keep the children quiet.

“Shh,” she hears. “Mummy isn’t feeling very well today.”

“Why?” says Ricky. Patrick tells him that it was probably something she ate.

Her heart goes out to him. He doesn’t say that Mummy drank far too much wine and made a complete exhibition of herself, but protects her instead. Turns her into a victim of bad catering rather than a stupid woman who couldn’t control herself enough to behave with some dignity. Oh, what a mess, she thinks, keeping her eyes resolutely closed. Maybe if she can stay like this right up to the moment the room has to be vacated, she will be able to slip away to the car and she will not have to face anyone. Maybe Patrick will take the children on a round of goodbyes and thank-yous and nobody will notice that she is not there.

Of course that does not happen. She has no choice but to get up eventually, but she feels terrible and is sick again. She hasn’t had a hangover like this for years, and either it is a particularly bad one or she has forgotten how horrible they feel, as she can’t imagine ever doing this to herself again. She asks Patrick to take the children down to breakfast, ignoring his advice that what she needs is a good fry-up. The thought of that is bad enough, but the idea of sitting in the restaurant with dozens of people, many of whom probably passed her sad and ridiculous figure as they left to go to their rooms, is more than she can bear.

Instead, she does the packing. She moves around the room slowly, as if she is walking in some strange viscous liquid that does not allow any sudden movements. She gathers up the children’s clothes and folds them, puts them neatly in their bag, then hangs Patrick’s suit on its hanger. She is about to start on her things when there is a tap on the door. She sits on the bed. Who can this be? But then she thinks it is probably room-service. Patrick will have ordered a coffee for her. He is being very kind, considering this is all her own fault. She opens the door.

“Hi,” says Paul. “I saw Patrick downstairs and he said it was OK to come up. I think we need to talk.”

Laura feels a rush of panic. She wants to slam the door and hide. Or if not that, to go back to her packing and pretend this is not happening. She just wants to get out of here, but what can she do? He is standing there, obviously expecting to come into the room.

“Um, er. Shall we go down and get a coffee then? I haven’t had anything yet.”

She doesn’t want to be alone in the room with him. She knows it is silly, but she is afraid. Suppose he didn’t really see Patrick but found out their room number and sneaked up? Suppose the smile is a cover for other, more dangerous emotions?

“I think it would be better in private,” he says. His face is just the right side of friendly. She must stop this. She must stop letting her imagination get the better of her. She steps aside and he comes into the room, but there is nowhere to sit apart from the beds. Clothes and suitcases occupy the two chairs and she finds herself scanning the room in case there is something he shouldn’t see. Are her pants still on the floor? Is her bra draped over a chair?