The Forgetting(60)

The sound of a key in the lock makes me jump and I jerk away from the kitchen counter, open the kitchen door, and there is Stephen, striding across the sitting room towards me, smiling. And yet, even as relief washes over me, the butterflies in my stomach do not come to rest.

‘Hello, you. Everything okay?’ He kisses me lightly on the lips and I try not to flinch. I cannot allow my body to keep treating Stephen like a stranger. ‘You’re shaking. What’s wrong?’

I swallow against the anxiety clutching my throat. ‘Nothing. I was just worried – about you being late.’ I have tried to keep the alarm from my voice, but I can hear it, swimming against the tide.

Stephen eyes me quizzically. ‘I told you I’d be late tonight. There were departmental drinks – just some warm white wine and a few peanuts – but I couldn’t not make an appearance. I got away as soon as I could.’

I scour my memory for any mention of work drinks, find nothing but empty drawers where the information should be. ‘Sorry. I didn’t remember.’

Stephen cups a hand to the side of my face. ‘It’s me who should apologise. I should have written it down for you. The last thing I want is you worrying unnecessarily. God, you’re trembling.’ He takes my hands in his, rubs them as one would a child’s after they’ve been out in the snow. ‘You know it’s just the head injury making you anxious like this? You wouldn’t usually get so worried if I was late home.’

He pulls my body to his, encircles his arms around me. I try to believe that I have not always been like this: anxious, agitated, uncertain.

Stephen releases me from his arms. ‘You need to be kind to yourself, my love. You’re still so fragile emotionally. It’s understandable that your feelings are all over the place.’ He turns his head, looks down at the pan of simmering chilli. ‘Dinner smells delicious.’ Unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, he rolls up his sleeves. ‘Anyway, tell me what you’ve been up to today.’

I flick the kettle on, pick up a plastic spoon, stir the now viscous sauce. ‘Nothing much. Just reading, cooking. Nothing very exciting.’ The lie tastes bitter on my tongue and I wonder if it is audible in my voice, wonder why I do not feel able to tell him about my meetings in the park with Zahira and Elyas.

‘It’s just that when I called this morning there was no answer. I was worried.’

Heat floods my cheeks and I wish he’d mentioned it earlier, when we spoke at lunchtime, when my guilt would not have been so visible. ‘I just popped out for a walk.’

‘Where to?’

‘Just around the block. Don’t worry – I know my route well now.’

I wait for Stephen to say something, but there is a stillness between us. I think about the mobile phone Zahira gave me, crammed inside a pair of balled-up socks at the back of my underwear drawer, the charger tucked in a shoebox at the bottom of the wardrobe. I wish I had never hidden them. I should have left them out on the kitchen table for Stephen to see, explained where I got them from. But now it is too late: I have tied my deceit in a knot between us and cannot easily unpick it.

‘I’ll make sure I’m home earlier tomorrow and we can get out for a walk together before dinner.’ He slips an arm around my waist, his breath warm on my neck. ‘I know it must be boring being home alone all day, but once your memory returns, maybe you can think about looking for a job? We just need to be patient while you get better.’

I nod, my muscles tensing automatically in response to his touch, wonder whether either of us can actually envisage a time when my memory will be sufficiently restored for me to start job-hunting.

Stephen leans his back against the work surface, thrusts his hands into the pockets of his navy chinos. ‘I don’t know if this is a good time to tell you, but I’ve got to go away again this weekend, just for a night. I’m really sorry.’

My eyes dart towards him, anxiety creeping between my ribs.

‘It’s only Friday night. I’ll be back on Saturday evening. There’s a conference in Southampton I just can’t miss. I’ll make it up to you on Sunday, I promise. If the weather’s good, maybe we could drive to the coast.’

I sense him watching me, waiting for me to respond. But the thought of another night by myself tightens around my chest like a vice, and I can only nod, pull my cheeks into a poor semblance of a smile.

‘Perhaps we could go to West Wittering. We’ve always loved that beach and if we get up early we can have a nice walk before the crowds descend.’ There is buoyancy in his tone and I cannot tell whether it is instinctive or deliberate. But I do not remember any beaches, do not feel it is a decision in which I can be an active participant.

There must be a whole life of yours that you don’t yet know about. Wouldn’t it be better to find out? I hear Zahira’s voice in my head and know she is right: I cannot be trapped inside my amnesia forever.

‘Stephen . . . I’ve been thinking – about everything I don’t remember. I think it might be helpful for me to know more about my life before the accident.’

Stephen places a hand on my arm, strokes a thumb across the flesh above the crook of my elbow. ‘There’s no rush, is there? It’s still early days.’

‘But I think it might help me.’ There is urgency in my tone: now that I have asked, I realise how keenly I want to know.