Roar Page 8

  He takes out his phone and slides the photographs across one by one. She’s either not in any of them or, when she is, she’s looking elsewhere, looking lost, chasing the past.

  She studies her image and her eyes fill with tears. These are not photographs she would want to eat ten years from now. She looks so sad. Her husband reaches out to her.

  ‘We miss you. We want you back.’

  He pulls her close, like the evening he first asked her to dance. He presses his lips to hers, like the day they first walked hand in hand on the beach; he runs his fingers through her hair and grips her tight, like the first time they made love. A deep, long kiss, a message, a silent conversation similar to their earlier days, like the time at the first wedding they went to as a couple and watched their friends marry before them, both wishing for the same thing. The kiss that first revealed the shared wish. All the moments she’d consumed recently.

  They communicate with each other through this kiss now. A new moment.

  It tastes better than any photograph.

  She’s feeling frazzled. Only twenty minutes to get ready for her night out. A Saturday of activities with the children: drama, football, art and then two birthday parties, a complicated drop-off that overlapped with a pick-up and so a deal was brokered with another mother, meaning she became responsible for two more children, one who hit his head getting out of the car by trapping his foot in the seat belt, sending him tumbling to the ground. Drama averted, hospital trip avoided, it was suddenly dinnertime. Leaving the children to eat, she dives in for a quick shower, hoping the babysitter will have arrived by the time she comes out.

  The taxi driver shows up early and starts getting impatient because she’s not ready. Five minutes later, he’s claiming that she’s kept him waiting ten minutes, which leads to an argument over whether she’s five or ten minutes late. Blood pumping with anger and irritation, she feels that going out for a meal is the last thing she wants to do. More conversations, more mental stimulation, no room to think for herself, no room for nothing. Nothing would be nice.

  She enters the restaurant, already sweating despite her shower, having gone from blasting her head with a hair dryer that was too hot, to an overheated taxi, to cold air, to air-conditioned restaurant. Her head is hot from the hair dryer, her coat is on, along with scarf and gloves; she can feel her make-up melting. She’s stressed, distracted, faint, not really there. The restaurant manager stares at her expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, pulling her scarf from around her neck, enjoying the feeling of air on her skin. She looks at the manager again. Frowns. She removes her gloves and coat, killing time. Restaurant staff appear to take them from her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She feels less faint now, her skin less clammy, her body temperature comes down, she should be able to think more clearly and yet … she looks at the restaurant manager again. She reads his name badge: Max.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she frowns. ‘What did you ask me?’

  ‘For your name.’ He smiles politely. ‘Or the name of the booking.’

  Nothing comes to her mind.

  Nothing.

  ‘I booked it in my name,’ she replies, buying more time.

  ‘Which is …’

  ‘For eight p.m.,’ she glances at the clock. Despite everything, she is only five minutes late.

  ‘For how many people?’ he asks, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Two people.’ She is sure of this though she can’t remember with whom she is dining. She squeezes her eyes shut. Nope. Nothing. Why can’t she remember her name? She thinks hard. She pictures her home. She pictures her house. Her three children. Her job. Her office. Her desk in the corner with the high-heeled shoes beneath that she leaves behind in the evening. They’re a trusty black pair of heels, they match most things – not that it matters, nobody ever sees her bottom half, she’s always behind the desk fielding calls. Half the time she doesn’t even wear shoes. She tries to think of her colleagues, she plays out their conversations in her head, visualizes their day. If she can see them talking to her, then surely she’ll remember her name.

  ‘Can you do this? Can you call? Can you be a doll and …?’

  She doesn’t hear them say her name.

  She moves back to her house in her mind. Pictures her three boys. ‘Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.’ Always Mummy.

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s booked under Mummy?’

  Max laughs. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Maybe you can give me a hint,’ she says, leaning over the counter, to look at the bookings. His hand blocks the page. She moves back instantly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She thinks of her husband. His handsome face. What does he call her? Honey. Baby. Sweetie. Coming up behind her in the morning as she makes school lunch sandwiches. Hey, sexy.

  She smiles to herself.

  ‘There are three eight p.m. bookings for tables of two,’ Max says, trying to help. ‘One person has arrived for one table. Perhaps you know him?’

  They walk into the restaurant and the lone man stands as soon as he sees her. His face lights up as though he knows her.

  Max grins and leaves her to it as a waiter holds out a chair for her. She greets the gentleman with a tight smile, searching for him in her memory bank, everywhere, anywhere, in the darkened corners, beneath the layers. He’s at least twenty years older than her, balding, well dressed in a suit, not particularly new or fashionable but safe and clean and neat. She searches his face for clues as she approaches him, clinging tightly to her purse.

  ‘Hello,’ she says.

  ‘It’s me, Nick,’ he says, holding up his hands as if to display the goods.

  She laughs nervously. ‘Nick, I’m …’ she stalls.

  ‘Karen, of course,’ he finishes. ‘Sit down, sit down.’

  ‘Karen,’ she says her name, feeling the name in her mouth, rolling it around, seeing if it fits. She’s not sure, but then her mind is still filled with nothing, who is she to argue if this man who knows her says that she’s Karen?

  ‘I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late,’ she begins. ‘There was a little confusion with the table.’

  ‘Oh, no need to apologize. I was early. Too eager. Or nervous. It’s so good to finally meet you after so long.’

  ‘How long has it been?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes, trying to imagine him as a younger man, a man perhaps she knew once upon a time.

  ‘Three months? We would have met sooner of course, but that’s my fault. I’m a little nervous to go out since Nancy died.’

  ‘Nancy …’ she studies him, the grief and loss in his expression. ‘Your wife.’

  ‘Nancy was my greatest friend,’ he says sadly. His eyes fill. ‘This is exactly what my friends told me not to do. I shouldn’t talk about her.’

  ‘Talk about her!’ she encourages him. ‘It’s completely understandable,’ she says, instinctively reaching across the table to hold his hand in hers.

  ‘Thank you.’ He takes a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand and dabs at his eyes. ‘Rule Number One of what not to do on a date,’ he smiles miserably. ‘First thing I do is talk about my wife.’

  She stiffens, freezes, then slowly pulls her hand away from his, along the table like a snake, not wanting to be seen. A date? Her heart hammers. She thinks of her husband. His handsome face. Hey, sexy. She wouldn’t have an affair on him, would she? Wouldn’t she have remembered?

  ‘Nigel,’ she says, cutting into his story about his last promise to Nancy on her deathbed.

  ‘Nick,’ he says, looking at her, a little coldly.

  ‘Nick, yes, of course, that’s what I meant.’ She looks at the reception desk where Max is standing, his back to her. She was hoping to get his attention but his head is deep in the reservations book. She thinks of her phone, she can read her messages for her name. She picks up her handbag and Nick watches as she roots in her bag.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  No phone. She left it at home or
in the taxi. At home. She can suddenly see it. By the sink in her bathroom, beside the scattered make-up and brushes. She hopes the babysitter will call her at the restaurant if there are any problems. Though if the restaurant calls her name, will she know it’s for her? This worries her. She looks up at the man across from her claiming to be her date.

  ‘Niall—’

  ‘Nick,’ he frowns.

  ‘Nick. Yes. Nick, you are a lovely man, but I don’t think that I’m the right woman for you. I mean, I literally am not the right woman for you. I don’t think that I am Karen.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’m having a bit of an identity crisis at the moment. Please bear with me. Have we ever actually met in the flesh before?’

  ‘Well no … you emailed me a photograph, though you do look much, dare I say, younger than the image in the photo, and it’s usually the other way around.’ He frowns, puzzled.

  Max appears, guiding a new arrival through the restaurant. She’s stressed-looking, complaining of traffic delays following an accident. As he approaches, Max’s eyes widen; he points to the new arrival and mouths Karen.

  The woman stands and picks up her handbag. Nick looks at her in surprise.

  ‘You’re leaving already?’

  ‘Nick, you are a wonderful man. I hope you find happiness.’ She leans in to give him a hug and whispers, ‘Don’t tell the story about Nancy’s deathbed wish.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she says gently.

  His cheeks flush as he looks over her shoulder and it’s as though she has disappeared because all he can see is Karen.

  ‘Karen!’ he says, shocked. ‘You are a vision.’

  Karen’s stress visibly lessens and she giggles nervously.

  The woman who can’t remember her name hurries back to the bookings desk with Max.

  ‘So that wasn’t my table,’ she says nervously, biting her lip.

  He laughs. ‘You don’t say. Well, isn’t this fun.’ He leans in conspiratorially and surveys the restaurant. ‘We have two remaining tables of two. One person is waiting at table five and nobody has arrived yet for table eight. If they don’t show up soon, they’re going to lose their table.’

  ‘But I could be here.’

  ‘You are here.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I do. Good point.’

  ‘You know you could just tell me the names of the bookings and that would help me,’ she says, peering at the bookings again. His hand swiftly blocks the page.

  ‘What’s to say you’d remember?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You might not. And I think you’ll figure it out better this way.’ He looks around, a glint in his eye. ‘Try her, on table five.’

  The woman studies the diner at table five. She’s incredibly fashionable, wearing clothes that look like they’re from the future but probably will be on Madison Avenue next season. She’s chic, everything about her looks expensive, from her haircut to the frame of her glasses.

  The woman sighs. ‘She doesn’t look familiar.’

  ‘You can’t even remember your own name, familiarity has gone out the window. Try her,’ he says, then ignores her as he greets the next group to arrive.

  The woman takes a deep breath and adjusts her outfit. She likes what she is wearing but if she’d had one minute more to get dressed she might have chosen something better. This woman is dressed in black, head to toe, she appears so elegant and the woman who has forgotten her name feels like a clown in her colourful pleated skirt and blouse. She should have kept it simple, she wants to take the necklace from around her neck, but it’s too late, the woman is looking at her.

  She stops at the table, waiting for the woman to tell her to go away, that she’s waiting for somebody else.

  ‘Olivia?’ the woman at the table asks, as she approaches.

  The woman who has forgotten her name purses her lips and sits down. Olivia doesn’t seem familiar to her either. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Veronica Pritchard, thank you so much for coming today.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Veronica,’ the woman says, clearing her throat. Max arrives at the table to fill her glass with water.

  The sophisticated woman suddenly seems nervous, a tiny crack in her smooth exterior. The woman who has forgotten her name waits for her to speak.

  ‘I suppose I should tell you why I contacted you.’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She gulps some water.

  ‘Well, I was told you are the best, naturally.’

  The woman splutters, then puts down her glass, as Max rolls his eyes and walks away.

  ‘I’ve been working for thirty years in my company, and never, ever have I reached a point like this. To be frank, I thought it was for the weak-minded and I was never weak-minded.’

  The woman waits for more.

  Veronica clears her throat. Her fingers are weighed down with rings on almost every part of the finger.

  ‘Thirty years of scents. Thirty scents, not including special Christmas editions, I have created without a problem. Some years I had so many options, I had to choose among them. I’ve now used up all of those options, even though they weren’t the best. I have to admit it: I have a block. That is why I contacted you. They say you are the best muse in the country.’

  The woman who can’t remember her name stares at her. ‘Muse?’

  ‘Influencer, whatever it is you call it,’ she waves her hand dismissively. ‘I’ve heard them speak of you, quietly in our circles of course, don’t worry. I know you like to operate secretly.’

  ‘Secretly. Yes.’ The woman feels nervous. She searches her mind. She sees herself sitting at her desk at work, fielding calls, making appointments, but no, not feeling like much of an influencer. Certainly not at home with three boys and a husband. There’s too much to do to be going around influencing others.

  ‘Tell me about your scents,’ the woman says, reaching for the bread, stuffing it into her mouth so she doesn’t need to speak.

  ‘They are luxurious. Expensive. Each transports people to a time and a place of splendour and grandeur, beyond their daily lives, beyond the ordinary.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the ordinary?’ the woman asks, frowning.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Veronica is rattled to be interrupted when she is just getting started.

  ‘Why do you want to go beyond the ordinary?’

  ‘So that people can be transported. So that people can escape. I want my scents to move people. To feel special. Extravagant.’

  ‘I find that the magic of a scent is that it can take you back to a time in your memory, a time of such importance in your life that you’re there instantly, magically—’ The woman snaps her fingers. ‘Nothing else can move you like that. Except maybe a song.’

  Veronica ponders this. ‘But what separates me from others is the luxury element.’

  ‘I’m not saying make an Irish stew fragrance,’ the woman laughs. She thinks, ‘When I met my husband I always thought his skin smelled of marshmallows,’ she shares. ‘Always so sweet and soft. And then the same with my children. We made milky sweet-smelling babies. Whenever I see marshmallows, I think of them. Now that is an ordinary smell, but it’s an extraordinary feeling.’

  ‘Marshmallows …’ Veronica repeats slowly. ‘Interesting. Actually, this is very interesting …’ She sits forward in her seat, as though a fire has shot through her. ‘I have been playing with something for a while but could not get the right connection. It was champagne, but what to pair it with? Strawberries would be too obvious, too … for the masses, not my style. But now that you remind me, my mother used to make homemade champagne marshmallows!’ Her eyes light up and she claps her hands gleefully. ‘Champagne marshmallow, oh my, my sister will love it! It will bring her right back to the kitchen, right before the dinner parties my mother used to throw …’ She stalls and looks at the woman who can’t remember her name. ‘Olivia, thank you. You are a wonder. You really are. You don’t mind if we skip d
inner? I really must get back to the studio.’

  She stands up, blows her a kiss and runs from the table and out of the restaurant. Max joins her. ‘What did you do?’

  The restaurant door opens and a very fashionable woman wearing oversized sunglasses looks around.

  ‘Ah. That must be Madame Olivia Moreau,’ Max says.

  The muse. The woman who can’t remember her name looks up at Max, annoyed. ‘Moreau? You knew this wasn’t my table. I’m not even French.’

  ‘You could have married a Frenchman,’ he shrugs, a mischievous look in his eye.

  ‘I think you’re enjoying this too much,’ she replies, standing and following him back to the reservations book.

  ‘I think you are too,’ he says, smiling. He crosses a name off his reservation list. ‘Muse to the perfumer, romantic advisor to a lost widower.’

  ‘You were listening,’ she hisses.

  ‘It must be nice to forget yourself,’ he studies her again, serious this time.

  She frowns. ‘Do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

  ‘You seem fine to me, just a little forgetful. Want to sit at table eight? I will give it away if they don’t arrive.’

  ‘But I’ve been here since eight-oh-five.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Max, tell me, what name is on the final reservation?’

  He blocks it with his hand, his fingers twitch as he considers moving it away. ‘I can tell you, if you want. Or …’

  ‘Or what?’ She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

  ‘Or, you could wait and see. See if the last person who arrives for table eight reminds you who you are.’

  The woman grows nervous. ‘What if they don’t remind me? What if they don’t even show up?’

  ‘Well, then you go home. You remember where that is, don’t you?’

  The address comes to her instantly, she sees it, she smells it, she feels it. She nods.

  ‘Up to you to take the chance.’

  She sits at table eight, feeling nervous, eyes going from the clock to the centre candle glowing warmly, flickering wildly as the waiters pass by. What if she doesn’t know the person? What if she never remembers her own name? Of course her husband will tell her, but she’d rather remember, there has to be a value and importance to remembering her own name.