Nicci French - The Memory Game

Now there was no loud music, no sulks, no calls from a phone box at one a.m., ‘Mum, I’ve missed my lift home, can you come and get me?’ They’d all gone, and I could do whatever I chose: my time was my own, which was what I had always missed. But I didn’t know how to deal with time, so I filled it up. I spent long hours in the office, often staying until eight o’clock in the evening. And then, as often as not, I went out. It’s true that I was receiving lots of invitations from people who thought I might be in need of cheering up, or people who needed an extra female for their table. I went to films, sometimes illicitly in the middle of the day.

When I got home, I would drink a glass of wine, smoke a couple of cigarettes, and go to bed with a thriller. The long Victorian novels which I’d promised myself would have to wait. At weekends, I watched film matinéees, and went for walks on the Heath. Were autumns always so damp?

One Sunday, I’d gone to Dad’s house to cook lunch for him, and after we’d eaten I’d asked if I could look through the old photographs. I’d wanted to find pictures of Natalie, I didn’t have a single one. Without realising it, Claud and I had erased her from our life. Now I wanted her back again. I leafed through old albums, looking for her image. Often she was only a blur at the edge of a picture; or a just-recognisable face in the group photos that we’d posed for each summer: eleven faces staring at the staring lens. There was Alan and Martha, young and glamorous and exuberant; Mum, always to one side and looking away – how she’d always hated having her photograph taken. After she died, Dad had searched for her perfect likeness among all the years of memorialising her – but always her head was turned towards something else. There were lots of Paul and me – tiny, with round tummies and bare legs, solemn at six or seven, awkward at thirteen – caught by the camera’s eye and pasted down in Dad’s book, with his looped script underneath. I found one of Natalie and myself at eight, standing hand in hand in front of the Stead, and staring at the camera. We looked quite similar then, though I was smiling anxiously and Natalie was glaring from under beetle brows. Natalie had rarely smiled, never to please. I’d taken away that photo, and another which must have been taken only a week or so before she died. She was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and cut-off denims, and she was reading a book on the lawn at her house. Her lanky bare legs were tucked under her; a single lock of black hair fell over her pale face; she was absolutely absorbed. Had our last words been friendly, I wondered, or had we quarrelled? I couldn’t remember.

What could I remember? I remember going with her to a party at Forston, near Kirklow, when we were about fourteen. I’d told her about a boy I’d been looking forward to seeing. What was he called? He had dark hair, parted in the middle. After a bit, Natalie had disappeared. Later, wandering about, I’d almost stumbled on Natalie and the boy with blond hair entwined on the floor. They were together for the whole party. It had seemed like for ever. Alan had picked us up at eleven o’clock in his Rover. I had sat in the back seat, crushed, and Natalie had slid over to me. Without a word she’d put her arms round me and held me close. I could smell his patchouli in her hair. Was I forgiving her or was she forgiving me?

One evening, the month after the discovery of the body, I’d been at a private view of an artist’s paintings and I met William, a solicitor who had once been married to a woman with whom I had long since lost touch. He was a tall, blond man, handsome in a smooth, unfocused way. I remembered him as lean, but he now had a visible paunch. We strolled round the room together with our tall-stemmed glasses of sparkling wine, looking at large and derivatively painted canvases. The wine relaxed me. I told him about my marriage ending, and he asked what had made me actually leave Claud. I didn’t want to get into this.

‘I suppose,’ I answered slowly, ‘that I couldn’t bear to think that this was my life. It’s hard to put into words.’

He told me that he had separated from his wife, Lucy, seven years before, and saw his daughter every other weekend. They had broken up because he had had an affair with a woman in his office.

‘I don’t know why I did it,’ he said. ‘It was like a madness, like a landslide which I was helpless to resist.’

I said that I had heard that excuse before and he gave a pained smile.

‘God, Jane, I know. When Lucy left, I looked at the other woman and, of course, I didn’t feel a nicker of desire for her: nothing. I destroyed my marriage and lost my only child.’

He stared at an orange splash (£750, according to the catalogue).

‘I hate myself for it,’ he said.

He didn’t seem to hate himself so very much. He took me to a basement wine bar and ordered a bottle of dry white wine and some chicken sandwiches. He told me that he’d recognised me as soon as he’d seen me at the preview; that he’d always found me attractive. I was slightly drunk by now but at the same time eerily clear-headed. I thought to myself, I can get away with this. William was not a man who would leave much trace. I felt nervous though. I smoked, coiled my hair around my finger, chewed the dry salty chicken, drank some more. When we’d finished the bottle of wine, he asked me if I’d like another, and I heard myself saying: ‘Why don’t you come back to my house and have a drink there? It’s just ten minutes in a taxi.’

At home, I drew all the curtains, put on some music, and even turned down the dimmer switch. I poured two glasses of wine, and sat on the sofa next to William. My mouth was dry and I could feel my pulse in my ears. William put a hand on my knee, and I stared down at the unfamiliar, broad fingers; out of the corner of my eye I saw the answering machine winking messages at me. I’d forgotten to ring my father. I turned towards William and we kissed. His breath was a bit sour. I felt his hand under my skirt and along my stockinged thigh, and I wondered how often he did this kind of thing. I pulled back and said, ‘I’m out of practice; I’ve forgotten how to do this.’ He shook his head and kissed me again.

‘Where’s the bedroom?’ he whispered.

He took off his shoes and tucked his socks neatly into them. I took off my jacket, and started to undo the buttons on my shirt. He unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his trousers, which he folded neatly and laid on a chair. I felt a flash of dislike for him, but at the same time a muted desire. My flesh felt chilly when I took off my shirt; my body felt unused, awkward. I saw myself in the mirror as I unhooked my bra: there were faint stretch marks on my breasts, and the scar from the caesarean I’d had when I’d given birth to Jerome puckered my stomach. I’d lost weight since October; my arms looked thin and wrists bony. I turned back to William, who was now standing in his underpants.

‘What do I do now?’ I asked.

‘Lie on the bed and let me look at you. You’re lovely, you know.’

I pulled off my knickers and laid myself out on the large bed, closed my eyes. A mixture of excitement and embarrassed self-consciousness gripped me as William’s hands began their slow journey up my body. I heard the telephone ring, then the answering machine switched on. The voice carried up the stairs quite clearly: ‘Mum, hello it’s me, Robert, on Thursday evening. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Let me know what you’re up to.’ What was I up to? I wondered.

I didn’t tell Kim much about William that evening, just mumbled that I’d had sex with someone other than Claud for the first time in twenty years and it had been all right, a bit nerve-racking.