Remember Me?

“Oh yeah?” Jon doesn’t sound remotely fazed. “What’d he say?”

“He said he fell in love with my beautiful mouth and my long legs and the way I swing my briefcase.” I can’t help coloring with self-consciousness. I’ve always remembered Eric saying that, in fact I memorized it on the spot.

“That’s a crock of shit.” Jon doesn’t even turn.

“It’s not a crock of shit!” I retort indignantly. “It’s romantic!”

“Oh, really? So would he love you if you didn’t swing your briefcase?”

I’m momentarily stumped. “I…don’t know. That’s not the point.”

“How can it not be the point? It’s exactly the point. Would he love you if your legs weren’t long?”

“I don’t know!” I say crossly. “Shut up! It was a lovely, beautiful moment.”

“It was bullshit.”

“Okay.” I jut out my chin. “So what do you love about me?”

“I don’t know. The essence of you. I can’t turn it into a list,” he says, almost scathingly.

There’s a long pause. I’m staring straight ahead, my arms still folded tightly. Jon’s focused on the road, as though he’s already forgotten the conversation. We’re getting nearer London now, and the traffic is thickening up around us.

“Okay,” he says finally, as we draw to a halt in a queue of cars. “I like the way you squeak in your sleep.”

“I squeak in my sleep?” I say disbelievingly.

“Like a chipmunk.”

“I thought I was supposed to be a cobra,” I retort. “Make up your mind.”

“Cobra by day.” He nods. “Chipmunk by night.”

I’m trying to keep my mouth straight and firm, but a smile is edging out.

As we crawl along the dual carriageway, my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out.

“It’s Eric,” I say after reading it. “He’s arrived safely in Manchester. He’s scoping out some possible new sites for a few days.”

“Uh-huh. I know.” Jon swings around a roundabout.

We’re into the outskirts of the city now. The air seems grayer and a spot of rain suddenly hits me on the cheek. I shiver, and Jon puts the roof of the Mercedes back up. His face is set as he negotiates the lanes of the dual carriageway.

“You know, Eric could have paid off your dad’s debt in his sleep,” he suddenly says, his voice matter-of-fact. “But he left you to it. Never even mentioned it.”

I feel at a loss. I don’t know how to reply to that; I don’t know what to think.

“It’s his money,” I say at last. “Why should he? And anyway, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“I know. I offered. You wouldn’t take anything. You’re pretty stubborn.” He reaches a big junction, draws up behind a bus, and turns to look at me. “I don’t know what you’re pla

“Now?”

“The rest of today.” He shrugs. “If Eric’s away.”

Deep within me, something starts stirring. A gentle pulsing, which I don’t want to admit to. Even to myself.

“Well.” I try to sound businesslike. “I wasn’t pla

“Nothing.” Jon leaves a pause too, and frowns ahead at the road before he adds casually, “It’s just there’s some stuff of yours at my flat. You might want to pick it up.”

“Okay.” I shrug noncommittally.

“Okay.” He swings the car around and we travel the rest of the way in silence.

Jon lives in the most beautiful flat I’ve ever seen.

Okay, it’s in a daggy street in Hammersmith. And you have to ignore the graffiti on the wall opposite. But the house is big and pale brick, with massive old arched windows, and it turns out that the flat runs into the next-door building too, so it’s a million times wider than it seems from the outside.

“This is…amazing.”

I’m standing, looking around his workspace, almost speechless. The ceiling is high and the walls are white and there’s a tall, sloped desk covered in paper, next to a workstation bearing a massive Apple Mac. In the corner is a drawing easel, and opposite is an entire wall covered in books, with an old-fashioned library ladder on wheels.

“This whole row of houses was built as artists’ studios.” Jon’s eyes are gleaming as he walks around, picking up about ten old coffee cups and disappearing with them into a tiny kitchen.

The sun has come out again and is glinting through the arched windows onto the reclaimed floorboards. Discarded pieces of paper are on the floor, covered in lines, drawings, sketches. Plonked in the middle of all the work is a bottle of tequila next to a packet of almonds.

I look up to see Jon standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me soundlessly. He ruffles his hair as though to break some mood, and says, “Your stuff’s through here.”

I walk where he’s pointing, through an archway into a cozy sitting room. It’s furnished with big blue cotton sofas and a massive leather bean bag and an old TV balanced on a chair. Behind the sofa are battered wooden shelves, haphazardly filled with books and magazines and plants and…

“That’s my mug.” I stare at a hand-painted red pottery mug that Fi once gave me for my birthday, sitting on the shelves like it belongs there.

“Yeah.” Jon nods. “That’s what I mean. You left stuff here.” He picks it up and hands it to me.

“And…my sweater!” There’s an old ribbed polo neck draped over one of the sofas. I’ve had it forever, since I was about sixteen. How come-

I look around in disbelief as more things spring into my vision, like a Magic Eye. That furry fake-wolf throw that I always used to wrap around myself. Old college photos in their beaded frames. My pink retro toaster?

“You used to come here and eat toast.” Jon follows my astonished gaze. “You used to cram it in like you were starving.”

I’m suddenly seeing the other side of me; the side I thought had disappeared forever. For the first time since I woke up in hospital I feel like I’m at home. There’s even a string of fairy lights draped around the plant in the corner; the same fairy lights I had in my little flat in Balham.

All this time, all my stuff was here. Suddenly I have a memory of Eric’s words, that first time I asked him about Jon. You’d trust Jon with your life.

Maybe that’s what I did. Trusted him with my life.

“Do you remember anything?” Jon sounds casual, but I can sense the hope underneath.

“No.” I shake my head. “Just the stuff that came from my life before…” I break off as I notice a beaded frame I don’t recognize. I move closer to see the picture-and feel a tiny jolt. It’s a photo of me. And Jon. We’re sitting on a tree trunk and his arms are around me and I’m wearing old jeans and sneakers. My hair is streaming down my back; my head is tossed back. I’m laughing as though I’m the happiest girl there ever was.

It was real. It was really real.

My head is prickling as I stare at our faces, bleached by the sunshine. All this time, he had proof.

“You could have shown me this,” I say almost accusingly. “This photo. You could have brought it along the first time we met.”

“Would you have believed me?” He sits on the arm of the sofa. “Would you have wanted to believe me?”

I’m halted. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I would have explained it away, rationalized it, clung to my perfect husband, my dream life.

Trying to lighten the atmosphere, I walk over to a table cluttered with old novels belonging to me and a bowl of seeds.

“Sunflower seeds.” I grab a handful. “I love sunflower seeds.”

“I know you do.” Jon has the oddest, most unfathomable expression on his face.

“What?” I look at him in surprise, seeds halfway to my mouth. “What’s wrong? Are these okay?”

“They’re fine. There was something…” He breaks off and smiles, as though to himself. “No. It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

“What?” I frown, bewildered. “Something from our relationship? You have to tell me. Go on.”