Vanessa Carnevale - The Memories of Us - The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018

‘Scarlett?’ I say, almost shyly. I’m embarrassed that I don’t know how to deal with this list. Work is the last thing on my mind, and the thought of going back to a job when I have no idea what I used to do or how I used to do it, causes me to break out in a sweat. Especially after the effort it’s taken me to cook an omelette.

‘Yeah?’ she replies, staring into the pantry.

‘What do I do for work, exactly?’ My face scrunches as I brace myself for her answer, the possibilities racing through my head: lawyer, waitress, physiotherapist, town planner, data-entry clerk, chef. God, please don’t let me be a chef.

Scarlett’s shoulders sag. ‘You’re a stylist. Country Dwellings magazine. You work on their photo shoots. You know, arrange the furniture, sort out the props … that kind of thing,’ she says. ‘Every now and then you do a bit of interior-design consulting on the side.’

My brows knit together as I try to get my head around what Scarlett is telling me.

‘Are you … do I like it?’ I ask, thinking that I couldn’t possibly enjoy it.

She shrugs. ‘I think so. Making things look good is what you do.’ She waves a hand around the apartment. She’s right. It’s lovely. Minimal and uncluttered. Fresh and modern yet warm and inviting. ‘And as far as work goes, you don’t mind the long hours, you love interior design and you’ve been there long enough. You’ve been working crazy hours this year, chasing a promotion. You haven’t let me hear the end of it. Anyway, I think they’re going to let you go back part-time. That’s what Ava—your boss—said to Blake last week.’

‘Right,’ I say, rubbing my forehead as if I’m trying to coax out some kind of recollection about the fact that I have a job people are expecting me to return to.

‘You don’t have to go back right away,’ says Scarlett, sensing my discomfort. ‘Maybe wait a week and then see how you feel. By then, you might be ready to see Blake and …’ She huffs out a breath. ‘Never mind. Just take your time.’

Now feeling even guiltier about the entire situation, I tip the rest of my coffee down the sink, and scrape what remains of the rubbery omelette into the bin, where it lands with a smack. I head to the bathroom while Scarlett finishes unpacking the groceries. Peering at my reflection in the mirror, I unravel the messy bun on the top of my head and let my hair drop around my shoulders. There are layers. And the kind of blonde highlights only a hair stylist could create. Where do I get my hair done? I run my hands over my legs. Who does my waxing?

As the running water in the shower infuses the bathroom with steam and fogs up the mirror in front of me, I ask myself the more pressing question of whether the blue or yellow toothbrush is mine and try my hardest not to cry.

By the time I’ve showered and dressed, Scarlett has managed to find the photo albums and has stacked them on the coffee table. She’s sitting on the couch, flicking through them with a pensive smile on her face, when she finally looks up and notices me.

I stand there, frozen, looking at the albums and back at Scarlett.

She fiddles with her fingers before speaking. ‘I found them in one of the cupboards. They’re in order according to year. So, I thought we could go through them and maybe they’d spark some kind of memory for you. There are the photos of the summer we spent in the country a couple of years ago for my wedding and …’

I stare blankly at her.

‘You know, the summer Blake proposed?’ she says, raising her eyebrows. She continues, and I’m almost sure it’s nerves causing her to ramble like this, but it’s too much for me to take in right now. I close my eyes, trying to drown out her words. Something about trees and lights and barns and …

‘Stop!’ I say, more forcefully than I’d intended. I take a deep breath. ‘Stop,’ I repeat, my voice lower. ‘I don’t want to know. Not right now. I don’t want to know it like this.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she says, her brow creasing. She’s looking down at her feet, and closes one of the albums, as if doing that can erase some of her words.

‘Me either,’ I say, dropping onto the sofa beside her.

‘Don’t you want to remember?’ she asks, turning her body towards me.

I fold my hands in my lap. In the hospital, I’d asked Scarlett to not tell me details about my life until I was ready. I try explaining it to her again. ‘Of course … of course I do. I just … I want to remember on my terms. I don’t want to remember things because you or anyone else that knows me remembered them a certain way. I don’t want to be told stories about how things were and what I felt. I want to know it and feel it myself. Otherwise, how am I going to know if what I feel is real?’

‘Surely if you see Blake again you’ll feel it?’

I shake my head. ‘Scarlett …’ I say softly, looking into her eyes. I know this is going to be painful for her, but I have to make her understand. She blinks at me, her blue eyes wide, waiting for me to speak. ‘I have no idea who you are. I don’t remember anything about you. I don’t remember your birthday, or your shoe size, or the last time we laughed together or cried together or shared a secret together. I don’t know where you live or what you do for a living. I don’t know if I was a good friend, or a bad friend, or …’

Tears well in her eyes. ‘You were the best kind of friend,’ she whispers, her face contorting into a grimace as the tears slide down her cheeks.

I nod, maintaining eye contact with her. ‘If I told Blake what I told you right now, what would that do to him?’

‘He’d be completely heartbroken,’ she says through trembling lips.

‘Right. So now you know why I don’t want to see him at this time. I can’t do it, Scarlett. I don’t feel anything for him. And I should feel something for him. But I don’t. And I don’t know if I ever will again.’

‘That’s a problem.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, handing her a tissue. ‘It’s a very big problem.’

Scarlett hasn’t mentioned Blake’s name since our conversation the other day. It doesn’t change the fact that every morning I wake up scrambling for a memory of the two of us. I’ve read his letter so many times I could recite it by heart.

Scarlett lets herself in this afternoon, carrying a new supply of groceries. She’s taken it upon herself to make sure I have a fully stocked fridge at all times. Unable to take more time off from her teaching job at a local primary school, she returned to work a few days ago. Since she reluctantly agreed to move out of my spare room and back to her home in nearby Windsor with her husband, Noah, she is now checking in on me every day after work.

‘Thanks,’ I say, as I take a bag from her arms. ‘For everything.’

‘Noah reminded me to buy you these,’ she says, holding up two blocks of chocolate. ‘He said you and Blake used to argue over the last piece.’

I turn over one of the packets and read the label. Sour cherry and vanilla. Organic. Handmade. I nod and let out a false laugh, as if I recognise the packaging. It makes me wonder what else Blake and I used to argue over, whether we argued sometimes, or whether we argued at all. Were we arguing when he lost control of the car on the night of the accident?