Remember Me?

“It's not a crock of shit!” I retort indignantly. “It's romantic!” 332 “Oh, really? So would he love you if you didn't swing your briefcase?”

I'm momentarily stumped. “ I . . . don't know. That's not the point.” “How can it not be the point? It's exactly the point. Would he love you if your legs weren't long?”

“I don't know!” I say crossly. “Shut up! It was a lovely, beautiful moment.” “It was bullshit.” “Okay.” I jut out my chin. “So what do you love about me?”

“I don't know. The essence of you. I can't turn it into a list” he says, almost scathingly. There's a long pause. I'm staring straight ahead, my arms still folded tightly. Jon's focused on the road, as though he's already forgotten the conversation. We're getting nearer London now, and the traffic is thickening up around us. “Okay,” he says finally, as we draw to a halt in a queue of cars. “I like the way you squeak in your sleep.” “I squeak in my sleep?” I say disbelievingly. “Like a chipmunk.” “I thought I was supposed to be a cobra,” I retort. “Make up your mind.”

“Cobra by day.” He nods. “Chipmunk by night.” I'm trying to keep my mouth straight and firm, but a smile is edging out. As we crawl along the dual carriageway, my phone beeps with a text and I pull it out. “It's Eric,” I say after reading it. “He's arrived safely in Manchester. He's scoping out some possible new sites for a few days.” “Uh-?huh. I know.” Jon swings around a roundabout. We're into the outskirts of the city now. The air seems 333 grayer and a spot of rain suddenly hits me on the cheek. I shiver, and Jon puts the roof of the Mercedes back up. His face is set as he negotiates the lanes of the dual carriageway. “You know, Eric could have paid off your dad's debt in his sleep,“ he suddenly says, his voice matter-?of-?fact. ”But he left you to it. Never even mentioned it.” I feel at a loss. I don't know how to reply to that; I don't know what to think.

“It's his money,” I say at last. “Why should he? And anyway, I don't need anyone's help.” “I know. I offered. You wouldn't take anything. You're pretty stubborn.” He reaches a big junction, draws up behind a bus, and turns to look at me. “I don't know what you're planning now.“ ”Now?“ ”The rest of today.“ He shrugs. ”If Eric's away.“ Deep within me, something starts stirring. A gentle pulsing, which I don't want to admit to. Even to myself. ”Well.“ I try to sound businesslike. ”I wasn't planning anything. Just go home, have some supper, read through this folder...“ I force myself to leave a natural pause before I add, ”Why?“ ”Nothing.“ Jon leaves a pause too, and frowns ahead at the road before he adds casually, ”It's just there's some stuff of yours at my flat. You might want to pick it up.“ ”Okay.“ I shrug noncommittally. ”Okay.“ He swings the car around and we travel the rest of the way in silence. Jon lives in the most beautiful flat I've ever seen. Okay, it's in a daggy street in Hammersmith. And you have to ignore the graffiti on the wall opposite. But the 334 house is big and pale brick, with massive old arched windows, and it turns out that the flat runs into the next-?door building too, so it's a million times wider than it seems from the outside. ”This i s . . . amazing.” I'm standing, looking around his workspace, almost speechless. The ceiling is high and the walls are white and there's a tall, sloped desk covered in paper, next to a workstation bearing a massive Apple Mac. In the corner is a drawing easel, and opposite is an entire wall covered in books, with an old-?fashioned library ladder on wheels.

“This whole row of houses was built as artists' studios.” Jon's eyes are gleaming as he walks around, picking up about ten old coffee cups and disappearing with them into a tiny kitchen.

The sun has come out again and is glinting through the arched windows onto the reclaimed floorboards. Discarded pieces of paper are on the floor, covered in lines, drawings, sketches. Plonked in the middle of all the work is a bottle of tequila next to a packet of almonds. I look up to see Jon standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me soundlessly. He ruffles his hair as though to break some mood, and says, “Your stuff's through here.” I walk where he's pointing, through an archway into a cozy sitting room. It's furnished with big blue cotton sofas and a massive leather bean bag and an old TV balanced on a chair. Behind the sofa are battered wooden shelves, haphazardly filled with books and magazines and plants and... “That's my mug.” I stare at a hand-?painted red pottery mug that Fi once gave me for my birthday, sitting on the shelves like it belongs there.