Page 73 of Don't You Forget About Me

I mean, in time I was braced for some astonishing creature with hair like molasses to sashay up to the bar, and say in a Celtic brogue:Is Luc about? then vanish upstairs, as someone with the sort of rights that meant they didn’t need to knock first. And for us not to see Lucas at all for the next forty-eight hours, and for me to spend a lot of time trying not to think about that. But she wasn’t going to be a wife. I’d made up the rules.

‘He’s married?’ I say, hoping I sound casual. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring?A wife.

‘Yes, well, he was. She died. He’s a widower.’

I open my mouth and close it again. Devlin continues:

‘Brain tumour. Very sudden, last year. She had eight weeks from diagnosis,’ he shakes his head. ‘He doesn’t say much so it’s hard to know what’s going on inside his head. I pushed to buy this place because I thought he needed a distraction, something to focus on, you know? He’s always been down on Sheffield, I was surprised he agreed.’

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘Don’t say anything will you?’ Devlin says. ‘He’s not one for opening up and sharing and I probably shouldn’t have said.’

‘No of course not, don’t worry.’

I’ve tried, very carefully, to hide my special interest in Lucas from Devlin – well, from anyone – but there’s something I want to know so much that I can’t stop myself.

‘Devlin. What was her name? Lucas’s wife?’

‘Oh, Niamh. We called our daughter after her. You know, you say itNEVEbut it’s got a crackpot Gaelic spelling. N-I-A-M-H.’

‘That’s beautiful.’

Devlin nods back and gives a sad smile.

I don’t concentrate on anything I’m doing, as I head off to my taxi in quiet turmoil.

I feel more foolish than ever about my reaction to Lucas to forgetting me.

Before, it was wounded pride, aching heart, knowing it was so significant to me and not to him. I felt like I deserved my misery. Now, I realise I was other things too. Petty, self-important and ridiculous.

I expected him to care about someone he tapped off with during the last summer of A-levels. While he’d been dealing with the love ofhislife, dying.

As I fully expected, she’s beautiful. I mean, was beautiful.

Staring into Niamh’s deep-set brown eyes, mine following her as she cavorts through holidays, weddings and mimes fake surprise at office Secret Santas, I think, I didn’t know her and yet I can’t believe she’s gone. It’s not as if death was ever easy to accept, but this vibrant and informal digital afterlife we have now makes it even more incomprehensible. Dad would hate it.

I’ve wasted no time finding Niamh online.

I got in from The Wicker, and scanned my latest Karen love note:

• SHARWOOD’S GARLIC NAAN (1) – MISSING

• AMOY LIGHT SOY SAUCE – ONE QUARTER MISSING AND CAP BROKEN

• QUAKER PORRIDGE, SYRUP FLAVOUR – PACKET STRANGELY DAMP: ANY IDEAS??

So many ideas, Karen, involving you accidentally self-immolating while making your blueberry Pop Tarts.

I went upstairs, hauled my laptop onto my knees in bed, opened Facebook and searched Niamh McCarthy (even the name is gorgeously musical).

Straight away, I found a public memorial page. I could see the posts, read the tributes. I think I’m right that Lucas has no online presence because I see no tagging. And there’s no sign of him in the many pictures posted either, which seems slightly odd.

It’s the right Niamh though, of that I’m sure – not only do the dates match, but every so often, someone refers to Lucas in passing, saying he’s in their prayers and so forth.

Lucas’s late wife has high cheekbones and a ribbon of a mouth with a pronounced Cupid’s bow, constantly curled in amusement. The profile photo is one with her brown-black hair in tendrils, whipping round her rosy face as she laughs, caught in an unguarded moment while doing something healthy up a hill. There’s a vast gallery of photos and I click through them, fascinated and voyeuristic.

When looking at a photo with enough dark space, I see my own face reflected back in the laptop. I look like a looming ghost.It’s me, Cathy …

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