Free Forget Me Not by Luana Lewis Page A

tracksuit, content to bask in the glow of Vivien’s reflected glory and not needing to be centre stage.
    ‘I felt so important,’ she says, ‘when I was allowed to go backstage to help her get dressed. It was all so magical to me, the way Vivien would sleep in ringlets, or you would tease her hair and spray in ten tons of hairspray and then arrange it into a bun. Her tutus were so beautiful and so pink, with all that tulle. I remember you would put glitter on her cheeks, and make it stay on with Vaseline.’
    I’m grateful to her, for reminding me I was there for Vivien, sometimes. Sometimes I was present, even if it wasn’t often enough.
    ‘You had your talents too, Cleo. You were top of your class, right the way through school. I don’t think Vivien would have made it through as far as she did without your help.’
    ‘I loved school. It was so much better than being at home. My parents couldn’t stand the sight of me.’
    ‘What did you do,’ I say, ‘afterwards?’
    ‘A degree in languages. It was my dream to work as a translator for the UN. But instead, there was Ben.’
    We both fall silent. I can’t help but feel sorry for her.
    A gust of cold air from the door blows all the little white pieces of serviette to the floor. I try to gather the remaining shreds from the steel table top and, not knowing what else to do with them, I shove the scraps into my pockets. I leave my ice-cold hands deep down inside my coat.
    Cleo’s fingers dance restlessly across her forehead as she pulls strands of her hair loose from her ponytail.
    I’ve never known what happened, between the three of them. All I know is that Cleo and Vivien stopped speaking. I always suspected that Vivien had interfered in Ben and Cleo’s relationship and that she was the cause of their break-up. I didn’t want to know the details. I didn’t want to see that my daughter might be capable of hurting someone weaker than she was.
    We both reach for our paper cups. The tea has cooled down and I take a few more sips. I do still like Earl Grey.
    So far we’ve had the café to ourselves, but now a group of teenage girls bursts in through the glass doors. They’re all black-rimmed eyes, long hair and short skirts.
    Cleo bites down on the rim of her paper cup. She leaves teeth marks all around the edges. Her fingers creep up to her hairline again and she scratches at the skin of her forehead. I remember now, how she used to have a nervous habit of pulling at her eyebrows. There was barely anything left of them by the time she was in secondary school.
    As I watch her, awkward and fidgeting, I find it hard to believe she had anything to do with the argument between Vivien and Ben. I simply cannot imagine Ben choosing Cleo over Vivien.
    ‘Cleo,’ I say, ‘we’ve known each other a very long time and I hope you don’t mind if I’m direct.’
    ‘Of course not.’
    ‘What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Ben?’
    ‘He’s in shock and he’s lonely,’ she says. ‘I keep him company. He doesn’t want to be alone.’
    ‘Do you understand how vulnerable he is?’
    I can see by the blankness in her eyes that she doesn’t want to hear what I’ve got to say.
    ‘Ben doesn’t talk about you very much,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d see more of you at the house.’
    The teenage girls arrange themselves across three tables, with their feet propped up on chairs. They’re becoming louder and louder, laughing and screeching. A paper cup lies on its side, the straw fallen to the floor and vanilla milkshake leaking across the table top. Cleo is staring at them.
    ‘What sort of relationship do you have with Ben?’ she asks.
    ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘Things aren’t great, between us.’
    ‘Maybe I can help,’ she says. ‘I could talk to him.’
    If what Cleo says is true, that she’s fond of me and always has been, then she might be able to help, in my quest to win Ben over.
    ‘It’s worth a try,’ I say. ‘I’d like