Forget Me Not. Isabel Wolff
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sob, I’d thought of how seductive I’d thought I’d been – but in reality, how eager and crass.
‘I went to bed with a man I’d known for two hours,’ I moaned. I buried my head in my hands. How could I have been so reckless? He could have been a murderer, or a nutcase – or a thief. Except that I knew he wasn’t any of those things – he was engaging, and clever, and nice – which was the worst thing about it.
‘I liked him,’ I groaned. ‘I really liked him.’ But he’d obviously seen it as a one-night stand. He’d got what he’d wanted and vanished in the time-honoured way. My mother’s old-fashioned advice had been right.
By now it was still only seven. I ran a bath and soaked myself in it, fat tears of disappointment mingling on my cheeks with the film of condensation from the steam.
I didn’t leave the house all morning in case he phoned, but he didn’t, and by lunchtime I was delivering deranged monologues to Xan in which I pointed out that my behaviour the previous night was quite uncharacteristic, and that contrary to what he might have thought I was not in the habit of leaping into bed with men I’d only just met, thank you!
By late afternoon I was radioactive with indignation …
Xan was a rude bastard, I told myself furiously as I ripped the sheets off the bed. He thought he could just sleep with me and disappear, did he, as though I were … cheap? I yanked a pillow out of its case. Or maybe he’d been lying when he said he didn’t have a girlfriend. How could a man that attractive not have one? That was why he’d hesitated, I now saw – out of guilt. And that was why he’d left so early, so that she wouldn’t know he’d been out all night.
She was probably someone from work. I conjured her – a leggy brunette, with big brown eyes and a fabulous figure. Or maybe she was someone he’d met in Hong Kong. Now I imagined a slender Chinese girl with golden skin and a sheet of hair so shiny you could see your face in it. I felt a stab of jealousy – an emotion to which I knew I was not entitled, having known him for less than twenty-four hours.
He wasn’t worth a second thought, I decided, as I stuffed the duvet cover into the washing machine. I turned the dial to ‘90’ to scorch him off my linen. He’d said that he wasn’t always gentlemanly, I remembered as I slammed the door. Well, at least he was telling the truth about that.
Dring!
I straightened up at the sound of the doorbell.
Drinnnggg!!
Heart banging, I peered down the hall. A tall figure loomed through the panels of coloured glass. I checked my reflection in the circular mirror at the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath and lifted the latch.
Misery washed over me – then hope.
‘Miss Temple?’ A man was standing there, holding a bouquet.
‘Yes?’
‘These are for you.’
‘Oh. Thank you,’ I said weakly as he handed them to me. ‘Thank you.’ I thought I might weep with relief. Then I hated myself for being so silly about the whole thing: I was thirty-two, after all, not sixteen.
I carried the bouquet down to the kitchen and laid it on the worktop. It was a hand-tied bunch of bronze chrysanthemums, yellow roses and cream gerbera. I snipped the gold ribbon and it slipped to the floor. There was an envelope pinned to the tissue but I put it aside. I wanted to defer the pleasure of reading Xan’s card.
I found a white jug and put the flowers in it, adding a two-pence piece as my mother had taught me, because the copper makes them keep longer and I wanted these ones to last for ever. Then I picked up the envelope. It felt thicker than normal, I realised, as I slid my thumb under the flap, but that was because there wasn’t just a card inside it, but a letter. I unfolded it with trembling hands.
Dear Anna, I read. His handwriting was untidy. I’m sorry I had to leave so early, but I was on an early shift this morning which I’ve only just finished …
‘Hurrah!’ I shouted. Then I remembered what he’d said – that he had a ‘busy day’ ahead. I slapped my forehead, hard, with the palm of my hand. I’d been so uptight – and hung-over – that I’d forgotten. I might have behaved like a femme fatale but I was far from being one, I realised. I simply couldn’t keep my cool.
I would have called you, but I don’t have your number and you seem to be ex-directory. I gave my brow another hard slap. Anyway, it was wonderful meeting you –
‘Yes!’
– and I’d love to see you again.
‘YES!’
But I think we need to talk first.
‘Oh …’ I felt a sudden sagging sensation.
Are you free tomorrow night? Xx.
I should have followed my mother’s advice and told Xan that I had a prior engagement – but it was too late for such manipulation. The horse had bolted, plus I was sick with anxiety about what he would say. So we met at the Havelock Tavern, a gastro-pub not far from me. I’d found a quiet table while he got us some drinks. A deliberately demure Virgin Mary for me and a bottle of Stella for him.
He lifted his glass and gave me a wistful smile. ‘It’s … good to see you again, Anna. You look lovely.’
‘Do I? Oh. You too,’ I added nervously, disconcerted by the fact that I found him even more attractive sober than I had done drunk. My knees were trembling so I slid my left hand over them. ‘Anyway …’ I took a deep breath. ‘You said we needed to talk.’
Xan’s expression darkened. ‘I think we should.’
My heart sank. ‘That’s fine … but I’d like to say something first.’
He looked at me quizzically. ‘What?’
‘Well’ – I sipped my tomato juice – ‘that … what happened on Friday night wasn’t … typical of me. I wouldn’t like you to think that.’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t … think anything in particular.’
I stared at the tiny island of ice in my drink. ‘I wouldn’t like you to assume that I’m in the habit of jumping into bed with men I’ve known for five minutes, just because I did that with you.’
‘But …’
‘So I just wanted to say that that’s not how I am. Far from it. In fact, I’m normally quite shy with men.’
‘Really?’ His surprise annoyed me. ‘Erm … you weren’t very shy on Friday, Anna.’
I felt myself blush. ‘Well, as I’m trying to explain, that was a complete aberration. I’m not quite sure why,’ I added, still wondering what on earth it was that had gripped me. ‘Usually I go out with a guy for at least a month before anything can happen on that front …’
He sipped his lager thoughtfully. ‘I see …’
‘Or a minimum of ten dates. Whichever is the greater.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Right. And does that have to mean dinner, or can the dates include lunch and breakfast?’
‘Could you be serious about this, please?’
‘And what about afternoon tea?’
‘Look, Xan, if you could just listen for a minute, I’m trying to explain that I acted totally out of character – I really wasn’t myself for some reason – and so I feel …’
He’d laid his hand on my arm. ‘Relax.’ I noticed how beautiful his hands were: large and sinewy, with strong, straight fingers. ‘There’s no need to be so intense. This is the twenty-first century – and we’re adults, aren’t we?’