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

Scarlett doesn’t return the laugh. Instead, she looks at me as if she wants to tell me something but is afraid to. ‘He’s waiting outside.’

My smile fades. ‘Blake?’ I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

‘Noah. He thought he’d come along in case you changed your mind about seeing … meeting …’ Her eyes dart right and left as she tries to decide which is more appropriate. ‘ Seeing him,’ she says, pointing her finger in the air as she finally settles on a word. ‘You know what I mean,’ she adds.

As much as I want to do the courteous thing and invite Noah inside, I can’t, so I stand there awkwardly, watching Scarlett pull out a limp bunch of celery and a bag of carrots from my fridge. She holds them up, demanding answers.

‘What?’

‘You haven’t touched them.’

I shrug my shoulders, hoping she’ll let it go.

‘You haven’t been eating,’ she replies, pulling open the crisper to inspect it. ‘Gracie! You haven’t touched a thing in here!’

It’s true. I’ve mainly been surviving on toast and cereal, as well as the occasional omelette. I can finally make them without consulting the recipe.

She eyes the box of cereal on the bench before her eyes travel to the stack of bowls in the sink. She looks me up and down and narrows her eyes.

‘When was the last time you washed your hair?’

My lips twist sideways as I try to figure out how long it’s been. Five days ago? Six, maybe?

She surveys the overflowing bin.

‘Have you even stepped foot out of this apartment since I last checked on you?’ she asks with a hint of annoyance in her voice. ‘If you want me to leave you to look after yourself, you need to show me you can look after yourself. I promised Blake I’d …’

I close my eyes at the mention of his name, even if he’s responsible for saturating most of my thoughts.

‘Getting out of the apartment isn’t on my priority list right now.’ I fold my arms. I don’t want to tell her I’ve been spending my days rotating between bed and the couch. I don’t know if I’ve always been this partial to re-runs of Escape to the Country , but at 3.45 pm I’m there, on the sofa, eyes glued to the screen.

Scarlett inhales and fires a disapproving look at me.

‘I might not be able to find my way back home,’ I retort, and as soon as I say it, I regret it. Scarlett doesn’t deserve me making this situation any harder for her than it already is. She has gone above and beyond what any friend would do.

‘Sorry, I just … we just … we all just want you to be okay.’

‘You want things to be like they were.’

‘Yes,’ she whispers.

‘Well, things are different now. They’re not as they were. I don’t think they’ll ever be the way they were again.’ There’s something in my voice I don’t recognise. Bitterness. Resentment. Somehow, it all sounds so much worse when I admit my feelings out loud. If things can’t ever be the way they were before, then all I have is what is in my life right now. A life stuck in an apartment, with crumpled bedsheets, a fridge full of decaying vegetables, and more empty bowls of cereal than I can count, seems like a terrible prospect for the future. Envisaging anything else seems so impossible, though. Venturing out into Melbourne’s busy streets alone frightens me, going back to work isn’t an option, and I don’t have any hobbies. None that I’m aware of, anyway.

‘You don’t know that, Gracie.’

‘I’m having a hard time right now maintaining your level of optimism. It’s kind of hard, considering I couldn’t tie my own shoelaces yesterday.’

Scarlett’s jaw drops.

‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘And the day before that? I couldn’t work out how to turn on the washing machine. There’s this trick, you see, where you have to—’

‘I thought the doctors said your procedural memory was okay. Even you said you were okay.’

At my check-up last week, Dr Cleave and his team had reiterated that it might take some time to relearn some of the tasks I used to be able to do with ease. I haven’t been completely honest with him or anybody else about not being able to do some of these things.

‘Well, obviously, it’s not,’ I reply, looking down at my feet. I’m wearing the same pair of yoga pants I was wearing three days ago, with oversized bed socks that have slipped down to my ankles. My hair hasn’t had a brush through it all day, and a wisp of fresh air hasn’t swept through the apartment in days.

Scarlett and I look at each other, and in that moment we both realise that my life has changed in more ways than one.

‘Different doesn’t mean it has to be harder than it needs to be,’ she says softly, almost so I can’t hear her.

‘For the record, I’m not trying to be difficult. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d just like to know whether the blue or yellow toothbrush belongs to me.’

‘If you let us in, we could tell you.’

‘I don’t want you to tell me, Scarlett,’ I say, the frustration I’ve been holding onto escalating. ‘I want to know it and feel it and understand all the things that make me, me . I want to know what it’s like to fall in love. I want to know what it feels like to go weak at the knees and have your belly flip-flop when someone you love looks at you or whispers your name. I want to know what it was like to enjoy styling fruit platters and boho furniture because right now, I couldn’t think of a more boring job! I’d love to know why I chose to live in an apartment in Melbourne when I can’t stand city traffic or concrete footpaths and I’m not interested in art galleries or theatre shows.’ I make my way to the pantry and fling the doors open. I start pulling canisters of tea from it, lining them on the bench. Scarlett cringes and takes a step back.

Unintentionally, my voice rises. ‘And I’d also love to know why on earth my pantry is stocked with ten different kinds of tea and I have sixteen teapots in the cupboard, when I can’t stand the taste of it!’ I pause to catch a breath, swallowing down my anger. Scarlett’s lip starts to quiver.

‘You used to drag me into tea stores, trying to find the perfect herbal tea. We had a thing for tea. It was our thing.’

I push down the guilt, staring blankly back at her. I’m sick of the way I look blankly at her.

‘Piermont and Lincoln’s on the first Sunday of every month?’ she questions me, as if I’m meant to remember.

I shake my head, the words, I don’t remember, but I want to remember , catching somewhere deep inside my throat.

Scarlett rubs her temples and returns to unpacking the shopping. ‘You don’t remember that either, do you?’ This time she says it like a statement.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

Her face contorts into a grimace, tears imminent. She raises a hand for me to not say anything more. I hand her a tissue and she bows her head into it, blowing her nose before she straightens up, gathering her composure again. She unwraps a tart from its brown paper packaging. ‘It’s feta and asparagus,’ she says, switching on the oven. ‘Seeing as you’re now eating eggs,’ she adds, trying to crack a joke.

I don’t know what I loved about her before, but one of Scarlett’s most endearing qualities is her ability to bounce from sad to hopeful in an instant. As much as I’d like to, I can’t seem to find a way to laugh at her joke; another reminder that I’m different now.

‘I can do it,’ I say, taking the tart from her. ‘You get going. You don’t want to keep Noah waiting. It’s raining out there.’

She releases her grip on the tart.

‘Blake asked me to pick up some of his belongings. Is that okay?’