The Forgetting(36)

Remembering that she needed to take one of Dominic’s jackets to the dry cleaner’s, she headed upstairs, retrieved it from the wardrobe, carried it into the sitting room. Laying it over the back of the sofa, she slipped a hand inside the pockets to check he’d left nothing inside. She found an empty packet of artisan salted pistachios and felt a spark of irritation that Dominic was buying overpriced snacks while she was avoiding cafés to save money on coffee and cake.

Patting the inside breast pocket, she felt something rustle, reached inside, pulled out a small square of white paper. Turning it over, she saw it was a car park ticket, price and date printed in thick black letters. She was about to crumple it into a ball ready for the bin when the location caught her eye: Waterloo Station Car Park.

The four words jarred in her head like a dissonant musical chord. Picking up her phone, she opened Google Maps, tapped in the location, watched it hone in on a blue pin. She waited as the surrounding buildings revealed themselves: the Royal Festival Hall, the Hayward Gallery, St Thomas’ Hospital. The curve of the River Thames, a quintet of bridges over the water.

London.

Opening her internet browser, she googled the name, wondered if perhaps there were two Waterloo stations: another, less famous incarnation somewhere on the outskirts of Sheffield. But Google only offered page after page about the London landmark.

Turning back to the ticket, she double-checked the date and opened the calendar on her phone. It was last Friday, when Dominic was still in Sheffield. The time on the pay-and-display ticket told her it had been bought at 14.23 and had expired three hours later.

The numbers danced in front of Livvy’s eyes, refusing to slot into any comprehensible narrative.

Opening WhatsApp, she scrolled back to the previous Friday, eyes scanning the correspondence between her and Dominic. There was no mention of a trip to London, just prosaic messages about his estimated arrival time home.

It didn’t make any sense. Dominic had no reason to be in London. And she had no recollection of him mentioning a trip there.

My beautiful goldfish. Dominic’s familiar epithet rang in her ears and irritation bristled her skin. She knew Dominic was only being playful, but sometimes it stung, like the prick of a thorn not deep enough to draw blood but sharp enough to wound. And yet now she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d mentioned a trip to London and she’d simply forgotten, or perhaps hadn’t been paying attention: there were plenty of days when they spoke and she had half an eye on Leo.

Looking at the ticket again, she told herself there must be some logical explanation. Dominic would be home in two days; she would ask him then.

The house phone rang and Livvy scrabbled to answer it, didn’t want it to wake Leo when he was so in need of sleep.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Livvy?’

Livvy felt a hint of recognition, hoped she was wrong. ‘Who’s calling?’

There was a pause, the silence heavy with anticipation. ‘It’s Imogen. Dominic’s mother.’

Livvy heard herself inhale a deep rush of air.

‘Please don’t hang up. I know I shouldn’t have followed you last week, but I was desperate. It’s the funeral tomorrow and I just wondered—’

‘I’ve already said I can’t help you with that.’ Livvy tried to keep her voice steady.

There was another pause, and Livvy could almost hear a dilemma being evaluated on the other end of the line.

‘I wanted to ask if you might meet with me. There are things I think we should talk about.’

Livvy felt her body stiffen. ‘What things?’

‘I can’t say. Not over the phone. They’re too . . . delicate. Please will you meet me, just once? If you don’t want to see me again after that, I promise I’ll leave you alone.’

Thoughts scrabbled for clarity in Livvy’s brain.

‘It doesn’t have to be for long.’

From upstairs, Leo cried out, and Livvy glanced down at her watch, realised with a heavy heart that he’d managed only a single sleep cycle.

‘Will you think about it? Just one meeting.’

Leo began to squall and Livvy felt an urgency to get to him. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

‘Of course, I can hear Leo, poor mite. You go.’

Livvy replaced the receiver, raced upstairs to collect Leo. Lifting him from his cot, Imogen’s words echoed in her ears – There are things I think we should talk about . . . Not over the phone. They’re too delicate – and however much she tried to tell herself that Imogen was just trying to bait her, the words burrowed under her skin, niggling at her, refusing to let her go.





ANNA


LONDON

‘Are you going to have your usual?’

Stephen looks at me over the top of his menu, and I am aware of a now-familiar sense of failure flickering in my chest like a faulty light bulb. ‘What do I usually have?’

There is a moment’s hesitation before Stephen places his menu flat on the table, reaches across the polished marble tabletop, strokes the back of my hand.

‘I’m sorry. That was tactless of me. You usually have the grilled chicken salad.’

My eyes return to the menu and I read the description of it, think it sounds rather bland. ‘What are you having?’

‘Same as always – pasta with meatballs.’