The Memory of You

THE MEMORY OF YOU SAMANTHA TONGE For three lovely people – Sue Blackburn, Beverley Ann Hopper and Jan Wooller. Thanks so much for all the support. It means a lot. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Acknowledgments More from Samantha Tonge About the Author About Boldwood Books 1 Alex put in her wireless earphones and pressed play on a rap album her most recent not-boyfriend had recommended. She took the lift down to reception and nodded at the doorman in his top hat and frock coat, unaware that tonight would be her last sleep in the glass tower apartment. Late May sunshine air-kissed her face as a nearby quarrel of sparrows fought over a chunk of focaccia from Bernardo’s next door. Perhaps she’d pop in later for a celebratory nightcap. In time to the rap, she strutted past a wall of floral street art and left Great Northern Square. The Gothic John Rylands Library loomed into view, dominating Deansgate’s skyline. Alex’s phone vibrated; she took it out of her blazer pocket and turned down the music. Standing to one side of the pavement, next to a street cleaner and his luminous yellow trolley, she read the short text. ‘Everything all right, flower?’ asked the cleaner, as he cast her an appreciative glance. Her handbag fell to the ground, and the contents skidded near to a street drain. He collected up the scattered belongings. Eyes still on the screen, she snatched back her bag and walked off, bristling as other pedestrians stared. ‘My pleasure, no need to thank me,’ the street cleaner hollered. Heat filled Alex’s face. It had been good of him to help her. At the top of broad and bustling Market Street she reached Piccadilly Gardens. The text must have been a joke. Yes, that was it. On automatic, she followed commuters marching up to the station one behind the other, like a queue of inmates heading for yard time. A taxi’s horn told her off as she crossed another road without looking. Her feet loped over an arched metal bridge and down the other side. The Manchester Canal appeared, along with a flock of paddling ducks that overtook moored narrowboats in triangle formation. Alex passed a rainbow-painted oblong planter, drawn on further by fairy lights tied between trees and lampposts. Customers spilled out of a bookshop with sale posters and multi-coloured banners outside. At five o’clock sharp, she stopped outside the bar, dance music pulsating inside. Clouds of fruity vape smoke wafted over from outside tables. She took out her earphones and went in, but ever punctual Miranda wasn’t there. Alex gripped the back of a chair. The text had been serious. Her agent really wasn’t turning up. Having bumped into a young man wearing a studded neck collar and a tartan kilt, she then headed straight for the bar. As she rifled in her handbag, a woman with pale skin, wearing a baggy taupe sweatshirt and jogging trousers, came in. Alex’s search became frantic. A pin in her hair came loose and strands tumbled down one side of her head as she rummaged in her bag. ‘Let me pay for your drink,’ said the other woman, gently. ‘I’ve lost my purse,’ snapped Alex and she shook her head. There were more important things than buying wine, or the cash or bank card. She cared about finding the old photo of her mum – not that anyone else needed to know that. The woman stepped back and her chin trembled. ‘I was only trying to help.’ ‘My terrier’s got better manners than you,’ said the man in the kilt. He glared at Alex. ‘Kindness doesn’t cost anything.’ Alex froze. As the back of his head disappeared into the mêlée of customers, her face contorted. Miranda’s text message, the cleaner’s shouts, being rude to this poor woman… But she wouldn’t cry, Alex was stronger than that. She rubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand and went to apologise. However, the woman’s fists curled into balls and a very small sob escaped from her chest. Shoulder to shoulder, the two women stood, eyes and noses streaming. Alex focused on the tiled floor, willing it to open up and swallow them. ‘Are you okay?’ Alex muttered. ‘I will be.’ The woman sniffed. ‘It doesn’t take much to set me off these days.’ ‘Nothing to see here, folks,’ the bar manager called to a group of captivated drinkers. She tightened the neon bobble around her greying dreadlocks, shook her head, poured two large glasses of wine and pushed them across the counter. ‘On the house.’ The other woman paused, but Alex spontaneously picked up both drinks and the bar manager’s offer of a bag of crisps as well. They found a table in the corner and after Alex brushed it down with her hand, they sat on a black velvet couch in the shape of a pair of lips. The woman passed Alex a tissue, collapsed against the couch’s back and blew her own nose loudly. Alex dabbed her eyes and thought back to one frosty morning, not long before her fortieth birthday, when she’d resisted crying in public. Black absorbed heat, perhaps it also absorbed feelings, because standing next to the coffin, in her designer charcoal dress, Alex hadn’t felt a thing – not until she’d got home from the funeral, closed the door, and changed into her pyjamas. ‘I’m Hope.’ ‘Alex.’ ‘You should ring your bank. Cancel your cards.’ ‘Would you mind looking up Santander’s contact number, while I sort