The Forgetting(37)

I find it on the menu, turn back to Stephen. ‘That sounds nice. I think I’ll have the same.’

Stephen raises an eyebrow, smiles. ‘Really? Usually you won’t go near pasta. You say it’s the devil incarnate for women approaching forty.’

I look back down at the menu, try to connect to the version of myself who would happily relinquish nice food for the sake of a few extra calories. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll have the salad.’

‘Are you sure?’ Stephen turns his head, raises a hand, catches the eye of a waitress and orders for us both.

It was Stephen’s idea for us to come out for dinner tonight. Nothing fancy, he said, just the local branch of a chain restaurant within walking distance of home. ‘We’ve been there so often, it might help jog something.’ There was a note of quiet encouragement in his voice, and as we’d walked into the brightly lit restaurant, I had felt his eyes on my face, was aware of the charge of expectation between us, waiting for a glimmer of recognition that didn’t arrive. I’d fixed a smile on my face even as I could sense the disappointment passing between us like an electrical current.

As we wait for our food to arrive, I wonder what it was like before, when we came out for dinner: whether we talked non-stop, gossiped about people we knew, discussed politics and world affairs. Whether we speculated about the lives of other diners, held hands romantically across the table. Whether we made each other laugh. Or whether, like now, we sat in slightly awkward silence, feeling conspicuous for our lack of conversation.

I look around the restaurant, in search of something – a smell, a sound, a sight, a word – to give some insight into our marriage as it was before, but nothing materialises.

At a nearby table, two men are scrolling and tapping on their phones, and it reminds me of my conversation with Zahira. ‘Where’s my mobile phone?’

Stephen looks up from the wine list he is studying even though the glass in front of him is still half full. ‘What?’

‘My mobile phone. I must have had one, before the crash. I wondered where it is.’

Stephen slots the wine list back into its plastic stand. ‘It got broken in the accident. We need to get you a new one.’

‘But what if there are people trying to contact me? Friends and . . . other people.’ I don’t know who I mean, cannot recall the name or face of anyone specific who may be trying to get in touch.

‘They can always call the house phone, or me. I suspect the only calls you’ll be missing are people trying to sell you PPE.’ He rolls his eyes as if I am having a lucky escape.

I think about Zahira in the park today, about her surprise when I said I didn’t have a phone. ‘When can we get me a new one?’

‘I can order one tomorrow. It’ll probably take a few days to arrive. But what’s the rush? You’ve always got the house phone.’

I think about my walks to the park, about my fear that I might not be able to find my way home even with my handwritten map. ‘It would make me feel safer if I had one. At least if I go out I could call you if anything happened.’

Stephen eyes me with concern. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go out without me.’

I feel myself hesitate. I haven’t told Stephen about my trips to the park last Friday and today, or about my conversations with Zahira. It seemed better not to. But now I’ve made two successful trips, I feel more confident in telling him the truth. ‘I went to the park, but it was fine. I made a map on my way there, and I found my way home without any problems.’

Stephen looks startled. ‘Oh, my love, I wish you hadn’t. What if you’d got lost again? I know it must be tedious, being at home all day. But going out by yourself . . . It’s such a risk when you’re still recovering.’

He stops abruptly as the waitress places our food in front of us. I look at the grilled chicken strips arranged on a bed of leaves, glance enviously at the steaming plate of pasta and meatballs Stephen has ordered. We both remain silent as the waitress heaps spoonfuls of Parmesan onto Stephen’s food, watch as it begins to melt, and I thank the waitress as she leaves.

‘If you do go out, just please don’t stray too far from home.’ Stephen takes in a long, deep breath. ‘We love living in London but . . . it’s not always a safe city if you haven’t got your wits about you.’

A phone pings and Stephen picks up the mobile lying face down on the table, looks at it, puts it back again. He hesitates before reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and taking out a second phone, one I haven’t seen before, its transparent cover stained with the clear impression of fingerprints. He glances at me before swiping a finger across its screen, reading a message.

‘Why have you got two phones?’

He looks up at me, distracted. ‘It’s my work phone. I should have left it at home. I’m sorry.’ He sighs, slips it back into his pocket.

‘What’s wrong?’

Stephen shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘It doesn’t seem like nothing.’

He hesitates, rests his fork against the edge of his plate. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to tell you at some point. I’ve got to go away this weekend, to an academic conference. I know it’s appalling timing. I told my Head of Department it wasn’t fair to expect me to go but she’s . . . well, she’s not the most sympathetic of women.’