Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff
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wisteria which smothered the house was in second flower and the scent was lovely. He stroked my cheek. ‘Would that be OK?’
I felt a sudden burst of delight – like the explosion of a seed pod. ‘It would be … fine.’
‘But … no …’
‘Strings?’ I suggested wryly.
He shook his head. ‘Pressure. Just no … pressure. OK?’ He kissed me, set off down the narrow street, then turned and waved.
‘No pressure?’ I repeated quietly. ‘Of course.’
As I eased the car into the usual space outside my house, I thought of the lovely autumn I’d spent with Xan. It was a time of liquid sunshine and lengthening shadows, somehow suited to the intense sadness I felt about my mother, but also the near euphoria at being with him.
‘It’s thanks to you,’ I’d said to Sue over the phone. ‘If you hadn’t persuaded me to come with you that night, I’d never have met him. You were my fairy godmother!’
‘I’m delighted to have been,’ she replied. ‘He’s good- looking, he’s clever and it’ll be great for you to have some romance in your life after so much sadness. But it’s early days,’ she cautioned. ‘So don’t fall for him too hard, will you?’
‘Of course I won’t.’
But I already had.
Xan and I got into a pattern, early on, of meeting at least twice during the week, to see a film or play, or we’d just hang out together, either at my place, or at his flat in Stanley Square. It was full of exotica from his nomadic childhood: a suit of antique armour from Japan; colourful textiles from Guatemala and Sumatra; a piece of delicate fan coral that he’d picked in Belize.
‘I feel bad about it,’ he said, ‘but that was thirty years ago and no one gave much thought to conservation then.’
There were a lot of travel books and an antique globe that his parents had given him for his eighteenth birthday. They’d retired years before and lived in Spain.
‘They lived abroad for so long they couldn’t settle here,’ Xan said as we strolled through the communal gardens at the back of his flat a week or so after we’d met. The leaves were beginning to turn bronze in the mid-September sunshine. ‘My sister Emma’s the same. She teaches English in Prague. And what about your siblings? Tell me more about them.’
‘Well … Mark’s an eye surgeon – as I told you. We used to be close …’ I felt a wave of sadness. ‘But he’s distanced himself from us all over the past year or so.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because … he had this awful row with my parents – over his new girlfriend.’
‘What was the problem?’
‘They just thought she was completely … wrong. He’d only known her a month but I knew how excited he was about her, because he rang me to tell me that he’d met someone really special. So I asked him about her, and I must say it didn’t sound that great because he said she was eight years older – forty-one – divorced with two teenagers. But Mark said that he just felt this incredible affinity for her. He said he didn’t care about her age, or even the fact that she didn’t want more kids. He said he just knew that he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She’s an actress.’
‘Is she well known?’
‘I don’t think so – her name’s Carol Gowing.’ Xan shrugged. ‘I’d never heard of her,’ I went on, ‘though I’ve since spotted her on TV a couple of times – usually in small parts on things like Holby City or The Bill. Then in April I saw a photo of her in Hello!. She was at the BAFTAs with her brother, who’s an artist, and her father, Sir John Gowing, who owns Northern TV – he was up for some lifetime achievement award. The article underneath said that Carol had been successful in her twenties but that her star had faded. But she’s certainly beautiful and Mark was smitten.’
‘So he brought her home to meet your folks …’
‘No – it was still too early for that. But he took her to Glyndebourne for her birthday, and by chance my parents were there too that night and they bumped into each other as they came out for the long interval. So they had their picnics together, and apparently Mum and Dad just … loathed her on sight.’
‘Because of the age gap?’
‘I guess so. Plus Carol let slip that she didn’t want any more children, so I can understand Mum feeling disappointed, but on the other hand …’ My voice trailed away.
‘It was Mark’s life.’
I heaved a sigh. ‘Yes. My mother was wonderful in many ways but …’ I felt a stab of disloyalty. ‘She could be … interfering. In a benign way,’ I added guiltily. ‘She only ever meant well. She believed she knew what was best for her children – long after we’d all grown up. She didn’t seem to accept that we had to make our own mistakes.’ I thought of all the advice she’d given me. ‘The next day Mum went to see Mark at his flat in Fulham and apparently there was this dreadful scene, in which she told him point blank not to get involved with Carol. I don’t know the details because Mark wouldn’t discuss it; but shortly after that they split up. Perhaps Carol wasn’t that keen on him anyway – I’ll never know – but I’m sure my mother’s coldness would have put her off.’ I suddenly wondered whether, if and when I met Xan’s family, his mum would take against me. ‘Mark blamed my parents,’ I continued, ‘especially Mum. He was so angry with her – he said he’d never talk to her again – and after that he became distant with us all. The next thing we knew, he’d got a job at a hospital in San Francisco.’
‘And does he come home?’
I felt a pang of regret. ‘No. He came for Mum’s funeral, of course, but he only stayed one night. He looked so … terrible. 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