Remember Me This Way (40 page)

We had brought sausages and bread and wine and Sam collected driftwood to make a fire. No one else around. Or hardly anyone; a couple of figures in the distance. I remember clocking them; I tend to be aware of strangers. When you lose a person you’re close to, whatever the truth of the relationship, you never stop feeling that something is missing – not really. But it was late afternoon; that time on a Sunday when you’re normally gearing up for school or work. There was a bank holiday ahead of us and we were luxuriating in the feeling that we were bunking off. The sand stretched, stippled, in all directions. Wind bent the beach grass. You could taste the early breath of summer in the air. It was heaven.

I said I’d go when we realised we’d left the matches by the kitchen stove. I love Sam. I love my daughter. Every day I want to pinch myself; I can’t believe how lucky I am. But I still quite often seek out opportunities to be alone.

We’d passed a garage back on the main road. I climbed back up to the car and drove there, parking on the forecourt to one side of the pumps. There were no other cars. Inside, a young woman with heavy bags under her eyes was sitting behind the glass partition at the till. The shop was empty. I was choosing a bar of chocolate when I sensed a presence. The door must have opened and closed without me noticing. A single figure, tall, dark-haired, was picking out a pint of milk from the cold storage.

Something about the shape of him, the gait, lopsided, stooped. He was wearing heavy boots, the kind worn on building sites, jeans and a pale blue shirt. He crossed the shop in front of me and stood at the counter to pay. I waited behind, hardly breathing. What I could see of his face was brown, weather-beaten; hanks of hair hung forward across his brows.

He didn’t look at me until he reached the door and then he turned, caught my gaze, trapped it for a fleeting moment in his.

Of course it wasn’t. Too tall, his face too angular. But I didn’t move an inch until the door jangled shut.

I don’t think I’ll ever be free. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, despite everything, and half wanting to see him standing there.

I waited, flicking through magazines, until I could be sure the man was gone.

Acknowledgments

Lots of people were very helpful when I was researching this book. My gratitude is due to Sophie Mellor, Karen Robinson, Sophie Hayes, Jo Marchington, Ben Smith, Katie Smith and Ella Hearn. Thank you also to my wonderful agent Judith Murray and to my fantastic editors Ruth Tross, Emily Bestler and Lorissa Sengara. And, as ever, thank you to Giles Smith.

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