Forget Me Not

‘Brook Green, please,’ Xan said, opening the door for me. ‘Then Notting Hill.’

I stepped in. ‘You’ll drop me off first?’

‘Of course.’

‘You are a gent,’ I said as we pulled away.

‘I try to be,’ Xan replied. He looked out of the window. Raindrops beaded the glass, refracting the neon lights from the shops. ‘But I’m sometimes tempted to be very ungentlemanly.’

‘Really?’ I watched two raindrops snake down the window then merge into each other with a tiny shudder. ‘And are you tempted now by any chance?’

There was silence, except for the churning of the engine and the swish of wet tyres.

‘Yes,’ Xan said softly. ‘I am.’

At that I slipped my arm through his, edging a little closer, feeling the warmth of his thigh against mine. We sped down Bayswater Road, through Notting Hill and along Holland Park Avenue where the sentinel plane trees were already shedding their huge leaves.

‘Not much further,’ I murmured. Xan’s profile was strobing in the street lights. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’ Daringly, I lifted my hand to his face and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. ‘You can take me home any time,’ I murmured. At that Xan looked at me, locking his gaze in mine. I traced the curves of his mouth with my fingertip, then we kissed. His lips tasted of salt and champagne.

‘Anna,’ he breathed. I could smell the scent of lime on his neck. ‘Anna …’ We kissed again, more urgently, then I dropped my hand to his lap, feeling his jeans straining against his hardness. By now I felt almost faint with desire.

‘What road, mate?’ we heard the driver bellow.

‘Oh …’ I said. ‘It’s Havelock.’ My face was aflame. ‘It’s at the very end there, on the left. The corner house.’ I fumbled for my bags as we drew to a halt. Xan opened the door and we both stepped out – my heart pounding with apprehension. But instead of paying the driver, Xan just stood there awkwardly, looking at me.

‘Well … thank you,’ I murmured. ‘For the lift … and …’ Why was he hesitating? Perhaps he’d lied about being single, I thought dismally. Or maybe he was shy and didn’t want to presume. Yes – that was it, I decided. He was shy. So I uttered the words that would change my life. ‘Won’t you come in?’ I said quietly. ‘For a … I don’t know … cup of coffee or something?’

‘Coffee?’ Xan echoed with an air of surprise, as though I’d said ‘gazpacho’.

‘Yes. Coffee.’ I turned up my collar against the thickening rain. ‘Ethiopian or Guatemalan. Decaff – or extra caff. You can have an espresso – or a latte. You could have hot chocolate – I’ve got some very nice organic stuff – Fair Trade of course,’ I added with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I think there’s some Horlicks.’ I could see that the driver was impatient to go. ‘Ovaltine?’ I tried with a smile. But still Xan stood there. I’d got it wrong. He wasn’t interested. Disappointed, I turned away.

I heard the click of the cab door, then the chug of its engine as it drove off.

But as I turned the key in the lock, there was a sudden step behind me, then Xan’s voice: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any PG Tips?’

Now, as I turned off the motorway in the gathering dusk, I remembered, with a stab of regret, the elation I’d felt as I’d fumbled with the door, then jabbed at the beeping burglar alarm. I’d registered, with relief, that the house looked fresh and welcoming. There was a jug of tiger lilies on the sitting-room mantelpiece and everything was tidy. On the dining table was a shoebox containing the sympathy cards I’d had and to which I was finally replying. I covered it and went into the kitchen, slinging my jacket on to one of the ladder-back chairs.

Xan followed me in, and as I filled the kettle I saw him glance at the framed photo of my parents on the dresser. I hadn’t told him about my mother as I didn’t like saying it, because if I said it, that made it seem true.

‘So what will it be?’ I asked him as I opened the cupboard. ‘I don’t have PG Tips, but I do have Kenyan, Darjeeling, Ceylon, Assam, Green tea, Camomile tea – or if you want something really fancy, this –’ I held up a box of Jasmine and Lavender. ‘So what would you like?’ I repeated with a smile.

‘Nothing,’ he replied.

‘Surely you must want something,’ I whispered seductively.

‘Well, yes, I do, actually …’ He looked away, slightly shyly, then returned his gaze to mine. ‘I’d like you to … take something off …’

I felt goosebumps stipple my throat. ‘And what might that be?’ Xan nodded at my feet. ‘Oh. There …’ I giggled as I pulled off the wellies.

‘That’s better,’ he said quietly. He was staring at my legs. ‘You know, Anna, you have very attractive ankles.’

‘Thank you. My elbows are quite nice too.’

Xan didn’t reply. He just stood there, looking at me, as if assessing me. So I took a step towards him and we kissed. Then, without saying a word, I gently loosened his tie and led him up the white-carpeted stairs to my bedroom. I unbuttoned his shirt – his chest was broad and smooth – then slid my hand down. I’d never taken the initiative like this in my life. I unzipped him, gently pushed him on to the bed, then lifted off my top in one upwards sweep as his hands caressed my bare hips. I was possessed by a physical longing for him that I’d felt for no man. I wanted him. I needed him.

‘Now,’ I whispered as he eased himself into me. His eyes widened, then we moved slowly, deliciously together. He eventually came with a great shuddering spasm and we lay, encased in one another, in the dark. Xan fell asleep quickly, but I lay awake, intoxicated with excitement and champagne. I gazed at the line of his jaw, lightly stubbled with shadow, and the way his lashes curled over his cheek.

This could be the start of a new relationship, I thought happily, to go with my new life …

I fell asleep too and dreamt of my mother. But it was an upsetting dream because she was walking towards me, through the garden, and I longed for her to hold me but I knew that she wasn’t going to. And then I wasn’t even sure that it was her, because her face was morphing and changing, her features becoming indistinct and unfamiliar. I awoke feeling sad and confused.

What would she have thought of this scene, I wondered, as I glimpsed the grey light of early morning slanting through the blind? She’d be disappointed.

Oh Anna – how could you? You’d only just met. Whathave I always told you? That if you like a man it’s muchbetter to wait …

I felt a sudden stab of panic. Xan’s side of the bed was empty. I sat up, staring at the indentation his head had made on the pillow, then swung my legs out of bed. He must be in the bathroom. But I knew, from the resonating silence, that he wasn’t. His clothes, which had strewn the carpet, had gone.

I glanced at the clock. It was only 6.30. I hurried downstairs in case he’d left a note for me – but there was nothing to indicate that he’d ever been in the house except for his scent on my sheets and skin.

I sank on to the sofa, the house piercing me with its emptiness. My head ached and my mouth was sour. From outside came the whine of a milk float. Why did Xan have to go?

That wasn’t what I’d imagined at all, I thought now, as I drove through south London in the gathering dusk. I glanced at Milly in the mirror. She was fast asleep, thumb in mouth, her forefinger curled over her nose.

Before I’d drifted off to sleep that night I’d fondly imagined that Xan and I would spend the morning in bed, and that we’d then have a leisurely soak in my big Victorian bath. After that we’d go to my local deli, where we’d chat over organic bacon and eggs as though we’d known each other for ever, then we’d go for a walk in Holland Park. We’d date for three blissful months, at the end of which he’d whisk me off to Florence and propose. We’d have a summer wedding in the Belvedere the weekend after I’d finished my course.

Why couldn’t he at least have woken me to say goodbye? I’d thought angrily. Why couldn’t he at the very least – the very gentlemanly least – have left a note, saying that he didn’t want to disturb me and that he’d ring me later and PS, was I doing anything that night?

But Xan had done none of those things. He’d just fled – as though he’d made some dreadful error of judgement. As I’d sat there, my throat aching with a suppressed 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.