Remember Me?
Page 95
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“So.” He touches my hand briefly. “Look after yourself.” “You...” I swallow. “You too.” With slightly stumbling legs I get into the cab and pull the door to. But I can't yet bring myself to close it properly. I can't yet hear that horrible final clunk.
“Jon.” I look up to where he's still standing. “Were we... really good together?” “We were good.” His voice is so low and dry it's barely audible; his face full of mingled love and sadness as he nods. “We were really, really good.”
And now tears are spilling down my cheeks; my stomach is wrenched with pain. I'm almost weakening. I could fling open the door; say I've changed my mind... But I can't. I can't just run straight from one guy I don't remember into the arms of another. “I have to go,” I whisper, turning my head away so I can't see him anymore; rubbing furiously at my eyes. “I have to go. I have to go.” I pull the heavy door shut. And slowly the taxi pulls away.
Chapter 21
The world has finally gone mad. This is the proof. As I walk into Langridges and unwind my bright pink scarf, I have to rub my eyes. It's only October 16, and already tinsel is up everywhere. There's a Christmas tree covered in baubles, and a choir is standing on the mezzanine, belting out “Hark the Herald.”
Soon they'll be starting the run-?up to Christmas on January 1. Or they'll start having an extra “midseason” Christmas. Or it'll just be Christmas the whole time, even in the summer holidays. “Special-?offer festive Calvin Klein pack?” drones a bored-?looking girl in white, and I dodge her before I can get sprayed. Although, on second thought, Debs quite likes that perfume. Maybe I'll get it for her. “Yes, please,” I say, and the girl nearly falls over in surprise. “Festive gift wrap?” She scurries around behind the counter before I can change my mind.
“Gift wrap, please,” I say. “But not festive.” 380 As she ties up the parcel, I survey myself in the mirror behind her. My hair's still long and glossy, though not quite as bright a shade as before. I'm wearing jeans and a green cardigan and my feet are comfortable in suede sneakers. My face is bare of makeup; my left hand is bare of a ring. I like what I see. I like my life. Maybe I don't have the dream existence anymore. Maybe I'm not a millionairess living in penthouse glory, overlooking London. But Balham's pretty cool. What's even cooler is, my office is on the floor above my flat, so I have the world's shortest commute. Which is maybe why I don't fit into the skinniest of my jeans anymore. That, and the three slices of toast I have for breakfast every morning. Three months on, the business has all worked out so well, sometimes I have to pinch myself. The Porsche contract is all happening and has already had interest from the media. We've done another deal supplying carpet to a restaurant chainand just today, Fi sold my favorite Deller designan orange circle printto a trendy spa. That's why I'm here, shopping. I reckon everyone in the team deserves a present. I pay for the perfume, take my bag, and walk on into the store. As I pass a rack of teetering high heels I'm reminded of Rosalie, and can't help smiling. As soon as she heard Eric and I were splitting up, Rosalie announced that she wasn't going to take sides and I was her closest friend and she was going to be my rock, my absolute rock. She's come to visit once. She was an hour late because she claimed her GPS didn't go south of the river, and then got traumatized by what she said was a street disturbance by 381 Yardie gangs. (Two kids messing with each other. They were eight.) Still, she's done better than Mum, who's managed to cancel each planned visit with some dog ailment or other. We still haven't talked since I went to see her that day, not properly. But Amy's kept me posted. Apparently, the day after I visited, without a word to anyone, Mum gathered up a whole load of her frilly clothes and sent them to Oxfam. Then she went to the hairdresser. Apparently she has a bob now, which really suits her, and she's bought some quite modern-?looking trousers. She also got a man in to sort the dry rotand paid him to take away Dad's paving slabs.
I know it doesn't sound very much. But in Mum's world, that's huge strides. And on the completely positive and fantastic front, Amy is doing spectacularly at school! Somehow she's wangled a place in Business Studies A-?level, alongside all the sixthformers, and her teacher is bowled over by her progress.
She's coming to intern with us in the Christmas holidays and I'm actually looking forward to it. As for Eric... I sigh whenever I think of him. He still thinks we're on a temporary separation, even though I've contacted his lawyer about a divorce. About a week after I moved out, he sent me a typed-?out document entitled Lexi and Eric: Separation Manual. He suggested we have what he called a “milestone meeting” every month. But I haven't made a single one. I just... can't see Eric right now.
“Jon.” I look up to where he's still standing. “Were we... really good together?” “We were good.” His voice is so low and dry it's barely audible; his face full of mingled love and sadness as he nods. “We were really, really good.”
And now tears are spilling down my cheeks; my stomach is wrenched with pain. I'm almost weakening. I could fling open the door; say I've changed my mind... But I can't. I can't just run straight from one guy I don't remember into the arms of another. “I have to go,” I whisper, turning my head away so I can't see him anymore; rubbing furiously at my eyes. “I have to go. I have to go.” I pull the heavy door shut. And slowly the taxi pulls away.
Chapter 21
The world has finally gone mad. This is the proof. As I walk into Langridges and unwind my bright pink scarf, I have to rub my eyes. It's only October 16, and already tinsel is up everywhere. There's a Christmas tree covered in baubles, and a choir is standing on the mezzanine, belting out “Hark the Herald.”
Soon they'll be starting the run-?up to Christmas on January 1. Or they'll start having an extra “midseason” Christmas. Or it'll just be Christmas the whole time, even in the summer holidays. “Special-?offer festive Calvin Klein pack?” drones a bored-?looking girl in white, and I dodge her before I can get sprayed. Although, on second thought, Debs quite likes that perfume. Maybe I'll get it for her. “Yes, please,” I say, and the girl nearly falls over in surprise. “Festive gift wrap?” She scurries around behind the counter before I can change my mind.
“Gift wrap, please,” I say. “But not festive.” 380 As she ties up the parcel, I survey myself in the mirror behind her. My hair's still long and glossy, though not quite as bright a shade as before. I'm wearing jeans and a green cardigan and my feet are comfortable in suede sneakers. My face is bare of makeup; my left hand is bare of a ring. I like what I see. I like my life. Maybe I don't have the dream existence anymore. Maybe I'm not a millionairess living in penthouse glory, overlooking London. But Balham's pretty cool. What's even cooler is, my office is on the floor above my flat, so I have the world's shortest commute. Which is maybe why I don't fit into the skinniest of my jeans anymore. That, and the three slices of toast I have for breakfast every morning. Three months on, the business has all worked out so well, sometimes I have to pinch myself. The Porsche contract is all happening and has already had interest from the media. We've done another deal supplying carpet to a restaurant chainand just today, Fi sold my favorite Deller designan orange circle printto a trendy spa. That's why I'm here, shopping. I reckon everyone in the team deserves a present. I pay for the perfume, take my bag, and walk on into the store. As I pass a rack of teetering high heels I'm reminded of Rosalie, and can't help smiling. As soon as she heard Eric and I were splitting up, Rosalie announced that she wasn't going to take sides and I was her closest friend and she was going to be my rock, my absolute rock. She's come to visit once. She was an hour late because she claimed her GPS didn't go south of the river, and then got traumatized by what she said was a street disturbance by 381 Yardie gangs. (Two kids messing with each other. They were eight.) Still, she's done better than Mum, who's managed to cancel each planned visit with some dog ailment or other. We still haven't talked since I went to see her that day, not properly. But Amy's kept me posted. Apparently, the day after I visited, without a word to anyone, Mum gathered up a whole load of her frilly clothes and sent them to Oxfam. Then she went to the hairdresser. Apparently she has a bob now, which really suits her, and she's bought some quite modern-?looking trousers. She also got a man in to sort the dry rotand paid him to take away Dad's paving slabs.
I know it doesn't sound very much. But in Mum's world, that's huge strides. And on the completely positive and fantastic front, Amy is doing spectacularly at school! Somehow she's wangled a place in Business Studies A-?level, alongside all the sixthformers, and her teacher is bowled over by her progress.
She's coming to intern with us in the Christmas holidays and I'm actually looking forward to it. As for Eric... I sigh whenever I think of him. He still thinks we're on a temporary separation, even though I've contacted his lawyer about a divorce. About a week after I moved out, he sent me a typed-?out document entitled Lexi and Eric: Separation Manual. He suggested we have what he called a “milestone meeting” every month. But I haven't made a single one. I just... can't see Eric right now.
