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 9

In the unfamiliar bed that’s mine, I wake up in a mess of tangled sheets, my arm embracing a pillow in the place where Blake should be. There’s a fleeting moment of comfort in knowing that my body might remember what it felt like to feel close to him while my mind plays catch-up.

I kick off the quilt and try to orient myself as my eyes fixate on the view outside of the terraced homes that throng the street lined with plane trees still persisting to hold onto what remains of their yellowed maple-shaped leaves, even though we’re midway through winter. A lone leaf drifts to the footpath and scuttles across the street, where intermittent passers-by head to the nearest tram stop.

Sliding my feet into a pair of slippers, I shuffle to the kitchen, where there’s a note from Scarlett letting me know she’s headed out to run a few errands and will be back soon to check on me. I open the pantry and start lining up my breakfast options beside each other—a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, a box of cereal. Nothing seems to appeal until I eye the canister of ground coffee beans. I switch on the machine and stare blankly at it before filling one of the empty compartments with coffee. I push one of the buttons, and wait for the liquid to drip into the glass jug. All that ensues is a grinding noise. I grip my empty mug tighter and try again, pressing the same button, over and over, to no avail. I pour a glass of water into the machine and try again. The digital screen flashes an error message. ‘No, no, no,’ I say, my voice rising with each push of the button. I press down one last time and finally, defeated, I rip the cord from the power point, disturbing the box of filters tucked away behind the machine. I pull them out from the box, one after the other, until the bench space is covered in them. With the sweep of one arm, I send them to the floor, along with the open coffee canister and my mug, which shatters into countless pieces, pieces that can’t be—won’t be—glued back together. My body slides to the kitchen floor, and now I am knee deep in coffee grounds, picking up the fragmented pieces of my mug, trying to fit them back together like a jigsaw, even though I know they’ll never fit back in the same way they did before. They form the broken words: Don’t forget to live. I tip my head to the ceiling, close my eyes, and feel my body convulsing into a series of silent sobs as my fists hit the cupboard behind me.

Minutes pass before I finally pull myself off the floor and tidy up the mess with a dustpan and brush. I make a second attempt at making a coffee, this time opting for an instant. Next, I scour the kitchen cupboards for a frying pan and mixing bowl. I find what I’m looking for, close all the cupboards, brush the hair away from my eyes and take the eggs out of the carton. My body stiffens. I know what I want to do, but I don’t know how to do it. I stare at the eggs, mouth agape. How can this be possible? I stand there, unconsciously holding my breath, as I admit to myself that I have no idea how to prepare an omelette. Anger bubbles up inside of me. I can’t accept this—won’t accept this. I slide my hand across the bench and snatch the recipe book from the wrought-iron stand it’s propped on. I furiously search the index. Why can’t my attention focus on these words?

Concentrate, Gracie.

I scan the page slowly this time, purposefully. O for omelette. Right there. Flipping to page twenty-six, I read over the instructions out loud—twice for good measure—and somehow, between flicking my attention from the recipe book to the mixing bowl to the frying pan, I manage not to burn breakfast.

I’m serving up two cheese-and-herb soufflé omelettes with a side of spinach and two glasses of orange juice when Scarlett stumbles through the front door. She wipes her boots on the inside doormat.

‘Gosh, it’s pouring out there,’ she says, lifting the beanie off her head with one hand. She shakes her hair free, allowing her mass of curls to bounce around her shoulders. She enters the kitchen, her left arm full of shopping bags. She wears barely any makeup, her velvety skin, with a hint of colour where it counts, making her lucky enough not to need it. Her jaw drops when she sees me. I swallow a mouthful of omelette and question her with my eyes.

‘What’s that?’ she asks, staring at the plates, her bow-shaped mouth still slightly ajar.

‘An omelette,’ I reply, uncertain of what I’ve done wrong.

She sets the bags on the counter and straightens her posture. She rests her hands on her curvy waist. ‘But you don’t eat eggs.’

‘I don’t?’ I say, glancing at my half-empty plate. ‘They’re so good though. You should try some,’ I add, handing her a fork. ‘I made some for you, too.’

She looks at me wide-eyed, her doll eyes blinking.

‘What?’ I ask, noticing something’s off. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. It’s odd, that’s all. Unexpected.’

‘So why did you buy eggs if you know I don’t like them?’

‘I didn’t. They were already here.’ She throws me a look that is enough to remind me.

Of course. Blake.

‘Oh,’ I reply, exhaling a deep breath. Scarlett heads towards the fridge and starts unpacking the groceries to supplement the ones she’d already shopped for before I came home. ‘You were always nagging him to eat healthy. I think he used to bring home junk food just to rile you up.’ She holds up a tub of coconut yoghurt. ‘I bought you your favourite,’ she says, poking out her head from behind the fridge door. ‘From the organic grocery store down the road. They asked why you hadn’t been in.’

The yoghurt doesn’t look familiar. In fact, I couldn’t care less about the yoghurt. I’m still thinking about the eggs. And Blake. And how many other things Blake and I might not have in common. I give her a smile of appreciation and inhale sharply.

‘You go in every Tuesday for your grocery shop, but you stop by for a chai every morning because you don’t drink …’ Scarlett closes the fridge and stares at my steaming cup.

‘Coffee?’ I raise my eyebrows and take a sip. Her eyes are still trained on me when I put it down. I roll my eyes. ‘I know, it’s instant. I had a little trouble with the machine.’

A gentle shake of her head tells me she’s chosen to ignore the topic at hand. ‘I left a list of things for you to get to on the kitchen bench. Once you’re ready, that is.’

I scan the list.

Call work to let them know your return date.

Make appointment at the hospital for your check-up.

My heart begins to thump a little harder in my chest. I’m not ready to face the world with the everyday tasks required of me.

‘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.’