The Forgetting(23)
Surely even you . . . ? Livvy gripped the handlebar of the buggy, fingers aching with the pressure. ‘I think we’re probably done here. Please don’t follow us again.’ Spinning the buggy around, her pulse raced.
‘Wait, please. I know Dominic’s got a lot of complicated feelings about his father, and about me, but do you honestly think he should abstain from John’s funeral?’
Blood throbbed in Livvy’s ears. ‘Complicated feelings? Do you really need to ask why Dominic won’t come to his father’s funeral? Do you really have no idea how deeply damaged he is by the way you and his father treated him?’
Imogen shook her head with apparent impatience. ‘I know Dominic’s angry about a lot of things. But John and I were only ever trying to do the right thing, give him some boundaries—’
‘I can’t listen to any more of this.’ Livvy hauled the change bag over her shoulder. ‘If Dominic chooses not to reply to your messages, that’s his prerogative. You have to stop following us. I don’t want you around me or my son.’ Flipping the brake on Leo’s buggy, she walked away as quickly as she could, only turning to check over her shoulder once she’d exited the farm and left Imogen far behind.
ANNA
LONDON
I sit on the sofa in the living room, hear Stephen’s muted voice from behind the closed door into the hallway, apologising for the umpteenth time to the two police officers, reassuring them that it won’t happen again. There is something purposefully restrained in his voice, as though he is having to contain his impatience for them to leave.
Eventually I hear the click of the front door, and Stephen re-enters the sitting room, sits down on the sofa beside me, takes hold of my hand. ‘What were you thinking, my love? Anything could have happened. Just imagine if that police car hadn’t come along when it did.’
His voice is gentle, soothing, and it exacerbates my sense of self-reproach. ‘I’m sorry. I just felt so cooped up and I thought if I kept the journey simple, I’d be okay . . .’ My explanation tapers off, humiliation burning in my cheeks that I’ve been brought home by two police officers like a wayward schoolgirl.
Stephen pulls his lips into a strained smile. ‘I understand. But your memory’s still so fragile. I was frantic when I got home and you weren’t here. Please promise me you won’t go out on your own again until you’re better.’
Guilt claws at my throat. I cannot imagine what this is like for Stephen, finding himself in the role of my carer. ‘I promise.’ It is not a difficult pledge to make, given my mortification at this afternoon’s events.
I glance at the digital display on the DVD player, see that it is not yet five o’clock. ‘You’re home much earlier than you said.’
Stephen nods. ‘I hated the thought of you here all day by yourself. I was concerned about you.’ The rest of his sentence hangs in the air, no need to be spoken: Stephen’s legitimacy in fretting about me is all too clear.
He leans forward, kisses the top of my head with paternalistic affection, and I wonder whether this is how we always interact or whether he would normally kiss me fully on the lips.
‘So what else did you get up to today?’ Stephen heads back into the hallway, hangs up the coat he was wearing when I got home, returns to the sofa. The sequence feels both entirely familiar and yet disquietingly foreign, as though we are characters in a play acting out a well-worn scene, but it is our first day of rehearsals and we haven’t quite found our rhythm yet.
I think back through the hours since Stephen left, and it feels both unimaginably prosaic and yet eventful at the same time. ‘I tried to get into the loft, but it’s got a padlock on it.’
Stephen looks at me with alarm. ‘What were you doing, trying to get up there? I told you – that ladder’s treacherous.’
‘I wanted to find the photo albums.’
‘But I said I’d get them for you at the weekend. Honestly, my love, you’ve only just got home from hospital and you’ve had a serious concussion. You shouldn’t be clambering around on ladders. You could have had a blackout, or fallen, and I wouldn’t have been here to look after you.’
I think about my awful dizzy spell earlier, decide not to share it with Stephen. I do not need to give him any further cause for concern. ‘I won’t do it again. But why’s it locked?’
Stephen rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, dark hairs bristling on his arms. ‘Some friends of ours were burgled a few years ago when they were on holiday and everything valuable in the loft was cleared out. We’ve kept ours locked ever since.’
I wonder who those friends are, whether I would remember them, decide it is not worth the risk of asking just to discover that I don’t.
‘How did you get on with the books today?’
Our heads turn in unison to the trio of novels staring accusingly at me from the coffee table as if daring me to lie.
‘I found it quite hard to concentrate. I’ve had a pounding headache all day.’
‘Have you been taking your painkillers regularly?’
I nod, thinking about how I have been spacing them out to ensure I still have some left for bedtime, unable to countenance the thought of another fretful night.
‘Maybe try with the novels again tomorrow. I honestly think they’d do you good. It’s like the doctor said – you’ve got to try and take charge of your own recovery.’ He smiles and I feel like a child being encouraged to eat Brussels sprouts against my will.