Читать книгу The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018 - Vanessa Carnevale, Vanessa Carnevale - Страница 11

Aside from one small detail about loving egg-free coconut-cream cake, days pass with no memories of Blake, or any other significant aspect of my past surfacing. After several failed batches (despite following the recipe and using kitchen scales), I’ve managed to bake my favourite cake with success. Even though Dr Cleave told me that simple tasks could be challenging, I’m still finding it hard to accept. Hence, my six attempts at making coconut-cream cake until I got it right.

On this particular morning, I’m trying to master the fine art of tying shoelaces, with the aim of taking a walk around the Royal Botanic Gardens before lunchtime, when the landline rings. I wait before answering. What if it’s Blake calling? I’ve had my mobile phone, with its countless unread messages from him, switched off and tucked away in a drawer since I returned home from hospital. When I can no longer ignore it, I take a deep breath and answer on the fifth ring.

‘Hello, this is Gracie.’

‘Oh, Gracie, it’s Amanda Chadwick of Chadwick and Nelson Real Estate. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks. Your mobile keeps going to voicemail. Anyway, I was wondering if you could come in for a chat. There are a few things we should talk about regarding your mother’s property. I’ve got a busy week in front of me, but does this morning happen to suit? I could fit you in around ten.’

‘Uh, yeah, sure … this morning’s fine. What’s the address?’

She titters. ‘Still the same.’

‘Right. Okay, well, I’ll see you then.’ I hesitate. ‘Um, what’s the street name again?’

After a slight pause, she reels off the address, which I silently repeat in my head several times over. I hang up the phone and contemplate how I’m going to make this appointment. Deciding that I’m going to need to embrace autonomy sooner or later, I look up the address and manage to work out that Amanda’s office is only a few tram stops away. As soon as I reach the end of the street, the thought of throwing myself onto a congested tram with other commuters is too overwhelming, so I make the trip by foot, instead. After stopping several times to ask for directions, I eventually make it to Amanda’s office, its large frontage visible at the end of a tree-lined street. The trees look unhappy here surrounded by concrete, their naked boughs almost completely free of the weight of their leaves. I reach for a leaf from the nearly bare canopy of an elm, and trace the veins with my thumb. The veins don’t meet in the middle.

A receptionist greets me once I step through the door, and a couple of minutes later, Amanda emerges from her office sporting a crisply ironed red shirt, a grey pencil skirt and black patent leather shoes. She flashes me a smile, revealing a mouth of perfectly white teeth. Striding towards me, I’m confronted with the scent of her perfume, a blend of floral tones with a hint of spice. She extends a manicured hand, before gesturing to her office.

‘Come right in.’ She motions to one of the leather seats in front of her mahogany desk as she reaches into a drawer with her other hand. She pulls out a manila folder, before pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She opens it, revealing a full-page colour advertisement for a property located in the Macedon Ranges. A perfect family home just a kilometre from the heart of Daylesford. I twist my head, trying to make out the finer details of the property, a restored 1870s miner’s cottage—a white weatherboard, fringed with delicate latticework, with a wraparound porch and grey Colorbond roof on a plot of land surrounded by flowers. Lots of them. I can’t take my eyes off them.

Amanda pulls in her chair and starts flicking through the papers in her file. She lifts out a sheet and scans it. ‘It’s been a while since we last spoke. Now … where to start?’ she says, looking up at me. ‘So, I finally got a call last week from my colleagues in the country—’

I lean forward. ‘When was the last time?’ I ask, interrupting her.

She shakes her head with the slightest hint of impatience. ‘A few months ago.’

‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘Uh, go on.’

She looks strangely at me and then continues. ‘Given the location, the current market and the potential for—’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

She slides her glasses down her nose and peers closely at me. ‘I found a buyer for Summerhill, Gracie. They’ve made an offer that’s more than generous seeing as it’s ridiculously overpriced in the first place. A young family looking to move from the city.’

I fold my arms across my chest and clear my throat. ‘It’s no longer up for sale,’ I say, trying to act as business-like as possible.

Amanda sits back, purses her lips together and slowly nods, as if she’s trying to figure out the real problem here. I pull down my blouse and readjust the woollen vest I’m wearing over the top of it. I really should buy some more comfortable clothes. Everything in my wardrobe feels so stiff and corporate.

‘I know where you’re coming from, Gracie, but hear me out. I think this is going to be as good as it gets.’

‘Tell the buyer it’s off the market,’ I say, surprised at the firmness in my voice. There’s no way I can let this sliver of a memory slip away to a buyer. I know this must be the property I remember—the place I grew up. The place that surely must hold more memories of my mother and me.

Amanda narrows her eyes. ‘You’ve been waiting nearly a year for someone to come along and make an offer on this place. You told me you hadn’t set foot there since your mother passed away. Why the sudden change of mind?’

‘Memories,’ I reply.

Amanda’s expression softens as she reaches for my hands. ‘I know this must feel like the final goodbye, but the thing is, she’s gone.’

‘I know. But I need to be close to her.’

Her eyes meet mine.

I swallow uncomfortably. I don’t want to have to find a way to explain my reasons for not wanting to sell when I don’t understand why I wanted to sell in the first place.

Finally, Amanda gives me a nod and inhales deeply. ‘Okay,’ she replies in defeat. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’

Relieved, I make my way to the door and pause before letting myself out. ‘Could I have a copy of the listing, please?’

She takes the sheet from the folder and hands it to me. ‘Gracie, I want you to go home and really think about your decision. If you don’t do something soon with it, it’ll become harder to sell in the long run. It’s only costing you money right now.’ She extends a hand and dangles the keys in front of me.

‘I promise you I’ll think about it,’ I reply, nodding as I close my hand around the keys, a hint of hope filling me.

‘I know you loved it there.’

I know. I just wish I could remember.

On leaving Amanda’s office, I head down the street in what seems to be the direction I’ve come from, but once I walk several blocks, none of the surroundings seem familiar. In fact, all these homes with their grand façades and luxury cars parked in their driveways seem so similar I can’t tell one apart from the other. I fumble through my handbag, a feeling of dread anchoring itself in my stomach. All I manage to find are three lipsticks, mascara, a miniature bottle of perfume, an empty packet of mints and a set of keys. No wallet. No driver’s licence. No phone. I close my eyes and groan. ‘Stupid,’ I mutter.

Pausing on a street corner, I ask a man for directions, but he responds with a thick accent, telling me he’s not from around here. I continue down the road, turning into street after street, hoping I can recognise my apartment complex. A glance at my watch tells me I’ve been walking for over an hour. I wait at a bus stop beside a woman with a toddler. ‘Excuse me, by any chance do you know of an apartment complex around here with a white stucco façade and a wrought-iron gate out front?’

‘Do you know the street name?’ she asks.

I shake my head. ‘Um, no, never mind.’

She offers a sympathetic smile and it takes everything I have to hold back the tears.

Dark clouds have gathered above, bringing with them the smell of impending rain. The trees murmur as the wind picks up, and the rain starts to tumble out from the sky with fury. I stand on the street corner on my tiptoes, trying to spot a cab in the sea of traffic, while the tyres of passing cars spray muddy water in my direction. Eventually, I manage to wave down a taxi, and soaked, I take a seat in the back.

‘Where are you off to?’ asks the driver.

I wipe the moisture off my face and fasten my seatbelt. ‘Let me explain,’ I tell him.

I tell the driver everything—about the accident, Blake, Scarlett, the apartment, the wedding, the coffee, the omelettes, my shoelaces, the toothbrushes—all of it pours out of me. Harry ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘wows’ and ‘my Gods’, intermittently handing me tissues over his shoulder. Eighteen minutes later, I blow my nose with as much elegance as a small child, and tell him, ‘I think we can go now.’

He nods sympathetically and pulls out into the traffic. We manage to find my apartment thirty-eight minutes and forty-one dollars later.

‘Hold on and I’ll go up to grab some money for you,’ I say, as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I make my way through the front gate and upstairs to the apartment, pulling a fifty-dollar note from my wallet, which is sitting happily on the hallway table. I race down the stairs, and run out to the street. Harry’s cab is nowhere to be seen.