Forget Me Not by Luana Lewis Page B

whisky.
    ‘What’s the matter, Lexi?’ I whisper, my mouth against her damp curls. Her hair smells sour, as though she’s been ill. Her eyes are red and puffy and snot streams from her nose. She looks wretched.
    I keep hold of her with one hand as I reach into the pocket of my coat with the other, and take out a tissue. I wipe her cheeks, her nose, her mouth.
    ‘
Mummy
,’ she says.
    I think that’s what she says.
    She lays her head back against my chest. Ben is watching us again, from the doorway of the living room, a glass in his hand. Father and daughter are the same shade of ashen.
    I carry Lexi up to her bedroom. It takes all my effort, but I manage. Her head lies heavy on my shoulder. When I lay her down on her bed, she turns away, onto her side. Her eyelids droop as I lean over her to smooth her wild curls away from her face. I pull her duvet around her, and tuck the quilt down under the edges of the mattress.
    I sit on the edge of the bed and hold her hand and watch her as she drifts away. I hope my touch might give her some sense of comfort in a world that has become so unsafe. I feel helpless, looking at her.
    Ben has not come up to check on her.
    Lexi seems to be fast asleep, and so I walk back downstairs. I pull my boots off, leaving them under the round mahogany table. I drape my coat over the banister. I could do with a whisky myself.
    ‘Ben?’
    I peer inside but the living room is empty. The drinks cabinet stands wide open and the whisky bottle is gone. I return to the entrance hall and peer down over the banister, into the basement, where there is only a thick and silent darkness. I walk up again, to the first floor, and pop my head round Lexi’s door. She’s sound asleep.
    The lights on the landing seem too bright. It’s eerie, standing here, surrounded by these photographs, by the ghosts of a happy family.
    ‘Ben?’
    There is no answer.
    I climb up to the second floor, gripping the banister for support. By the time I reach the top of the staircase, I feel drained and my legs have grown weak, as though they no longer have the strength to hold me upright. I stop.
    My favourite portrait of Vivien hangs here, on the landing. Her wedding veil covers her face, softening her features as she gazes out at me. Her eyes still burn, intense and alive. She is my exotic princess, my sleek, dark-eyed panther.
    My daughter always stood out. Not quite Asian, not quite Caucasian, her features shifting and blending. There was something arresting about her, something that made people want to stare; the almond shape of her eyes, perhaps, or the way she held herself.
    I reach out and place my hand against the cool glass that covers her skin. Then I turn away and I step into the master bedroom.
    On my left is a dressing room lined with tall oak wardrobes. The lights are on in here and I catch sight of myself in the standing mirror placed at the far end of the room. I look as haggard as I expected, my face is crumpled, my hair lank. There is something eerie about my reflection. I am drained of colour, as though I’m looking at myself in black and white, as though I’m looking at my own ghost.
    I see Vivien, as a toddler, staring at herself in the mirror, pouting and smiling and pleased with what she saw.
    I walk deeper into the room, and I open each of the cupboards in turn. The first two are filled with suits, shirts and ties. They smell of leather and vetiver, of Ben. But when I open the third one, Vivien’s scent floats out, her sweet, floral perfume. Her clothes still hang in neat rows, as though she might return. My fingers close around a soft crêpe dress. I pull it out and hold it against my face. I breathe her in.
    When I open my eyes, Ben is standing in the doorway. Embarrassed, I push the dress back into place, and close the cupboard.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I came up here to look for you.’
    He gestures towards the cupboard behind me. ‘Did you want to take something of