Remember Me?

Remember Me? Page 96

Nor can I bring myself to look at his section entitled Separation Sex: Infidelity, Solo, Reconciliation, Other. Other? What on earth 382 No. Don't even think about it. The point is, there's no point dwelling on the past. There's no point brooding. It's like Fi said, you have to keep looking forward. I'm getting pretty good at that. Most of the time, it's as if the past is a whole other area, sealed off in my head, taped down at the edges.

I pause in the accessories department and buy a funky purple patent bag for Fi. Then I head upstairs and find a cool seventies-?style T-?shirt for Carolyn. “Festive mulled wine?” A guy in a Santa hat offers a tray full of tiny glasses, and I take one. As I wander on, I realize I've got slightly lost in the new layout of this floor, and seem to have strayed into menswear. But it doesn't matter; I'm in no hurry. I meander for a few moments, sipping the hot spiced wine, listening to the carols and watching the fairy lights twinkle...

Oh God, they've got me. I'm starting to feel Christmasy. Okay, this is bad. It's only October. I have to leave, before I start buying jumbo packs of mince pies and Bing Crosby CDs and wondering if The Wizard of Oz will be on. I'm just looking for somewhere to put my empty glass down, when a bright voice greets me. “Hello again!” It's coming from a woman with a blond bob who's folding pastel-?colored sweaters in the men's Ralph Lauren department. “Er... hello,” I say uncertainly. “Do I know you?” “Oh no.” She smiles. “I just remember you from last year.” “Last year?” “You were in here, buying a shirt for your... chap.” She glances at my hand. “For Christmas. We had quite a long conversation as I gift-?wrapped it. I've always remembered it.“ I stare back at her, trying to imagine it. Me, here. Christmas shopping. The old Lexi, probably in a beige business suit, probably in a terrible rush; probably frowning with stress. ”I'm sorry,“ I say at length. ”I've got a terrible memory. What did I say?“ ”Don't worry!“ She laughs gaily. ”Why should you remember? I just remembered it, because you were s o . . .“ She pauses, mid-?sweater-?fold. ”This will seem silly, but you seemed so in love.“ ”Right.“ I nod. ”Right.” I brush back a strand of hair, telling myself to smile and walk away. It's a tiny coincidence, that's all. No big deal. Come on, smile and go.

But as I'm standing there, with the fairy lights twinkling and the choir singing “The First Nowell,” and a strange blond woman telling me what I did last Christmas, all sorts of buried feelings are emerging; thrusting their way up like steam. The sealing tape is peeling up at the corner; I can't keep the past in its place anymore.

“This might seem like a n . . . an odd question.” I rub my damp top lip. “But did I say what his name was?” “No.” The woman eyes me curiously. “You just said he brought you alive. You hadn't been alive before. You were bubbling over with it, with the happiness of it.” She puts the sweater down and eyes me with genuine curiosity. “Don't you remember?'”

“No.” Something is clenching at my throat. It was Jon. Jon, who I've tried not to think about every single day since I walked away. 384 “What did I buy him?” “It was this shirt, as I recall.” She hands me a pale green shirt, then turns away to another customer. “Can I help you?” I hold the shirt, trying to picture Jon in it; myself choosing it for him. Trying to conjure up the happiness. Maybe it's the wine; maybe it's just the end of a long day. But I can't seem to let go of this shirt. I can't put it down. “Could I buy it, please?” I say as soon as the woman's free. “Don't bother wrapping it.” I don't know what's wrong with me. As I walk out of Langridges and hail a taxi I've still got the green shirt, clasped to my face like a comfort blanket. My whole head is buzzing; the world is receding, like I'm getting the flu or something. A taxi draws up and I get in, on autopilot. "Where to?M asks the driver, but I barely hear him. I can't stop thinking about Jon. My head's buzzing harder; I'm clutching the shirt... I'm humming. I don't know what my head is doing. I'm humming a tune I don't know. And all I know is it's Jon. This tune is Jon. It means Jon. It's a tune I know from him. I close my eyes desperately, chasing it, trying to flag it down And then, like a flash of light, it's in my head. It's a memory. I have a memory. Of him. Me. The two of us together. The smell of salt in the air, his chin scratchy, a gray sweater... and the tune. That's it. A fleeting moment, nothing else.

But I have it. I have it. “Love, where to?” The driver has turned around and opened the partition. I stare at him as though he's talking a foreign language. I can't let anything else into my mind; I have to keep hold of this memory, I have to cherish i t . .. “For Chrissake.” He rolls his eyes. “Where-?do-?youwant- to-?go?” There's only one place I can go. I have to go. “To... t o . . . Hammersmith.” He turns around, puts the taxi in gear, and we roar off. As the taxi moves through London, I sit bolt upright, tensed up, clutching the straps. I feel as though my head contains a precious liquid and if it's jolted it'll be spilled. I can't think about it or I'll wear it out. I can't talk, or look out of the window, or let anything into my brain at all. I have to keep this memory intact. I have to tell him. As we arrive in Jon's road I thrust some money at the driver and get out, immediately realizing I should have called first. I whip out my mobile and dial his number. If he's not here I'll go to wherever he is. “Lexi?” he answers the phone. “I'm here,” I gasp. “I remembered.” There's silence. The phone goes dead and I can hear swift footsteps inside. The next minute the front door swings open at the top of the steps and there he is, in a polo neck and jeans, old Converse sneakers on his feet. “I remembered something,” I blurt out before he can say anything. “I remembered a tune. I don't know it, but I know I heard it with you, at the beach. We must have been there one time. Listen!“ I start humming the tune, avid with hope. ”Do you remember?“ ”Lexi...“ He pushes his hands through his hair. ”What are you talking about? Why are you carrying a shirt?“ He focuses on it again. ”Is that mine?“ ”I heard it with you at the beach! I know I did.“ I know I'm babbling incoherently, but I can't help it. ”I can remember the salty air and your chin was scratchy and it went like this...“ I start humming again, but I know I'm getting more inaccurate, scrabbling for the right notes. At last I give up and stop expectantly. Jon's face is screwed up, perplexed. ”I don't remember,“ he says. ”You don't remember?“ I stare at him in outraged disbelief. ”You don't remember? Come on! Think back! It was cold, but we were warm somehow, and you hadn't shaved... you had a gray sweater o n . . .“ Suddenly his face changes. ”Oh God. The time we went to Whitstable. Is that what you're remembering?“ ”I dunno!“ I say helplessly. ”Maybe.“ ”We went to Whitstable for the day.“ He's nodding. ”To the beach. It was fucking freezing, so we wrapped up and we had a radio with u s . . . hum the tune again?“ Okay, I should never have mentioned the tune. I'm such a crap singer. Mortified, I start humming it again. God knows what I'm singing now... ”Wait. Is it that song that was everywhere? 'Bad Day.'“ He starts humming and it's like a dream coming to life. ”Yes!“ I say eagerly. ”That's it! That's the tune!“ There's a long pause, and Jon rubs his face, looking bemused. ”So that's all you remember. A tune.” When he says it like that it makes me feel utterly stupid for dashing across London. And all of a sudden, cold reality is crashing into my bubble. He's not interested anymore, he's moved on. He's probably got a girlfriend by now.