The Forgetting(82)

I watch him get out of the car, close the door, thrust an arm behind him to activate the alarm. I keep watch of him as he strides through the black metal gates and into the park, my fingers curling into tight fists, nails digging into my palms. I realise I am scared of him – of who he is, who he might be – and I have no idea where the feeling comes from, only that it is coiling in my stomach like a threatened snake.

And then he is there, standing next to the bench, towering over me.

‘Are you okay? You’ve had me seriously worried for the past half an hour.’

He sits down, takes hold of my hand, and I snatch it free.

‘Anna, what’s the matter?’

I turn to him, my throat burning. ‘Don’t you mean Livvy? What’s the matter, Livvy?’

My eyes do not leave his face as I search for any sign of derailment. But his expression is impassive, no flicker of unease. ‘What do you mean?’

I breathe slowly, in and then out, remind myself of the photographs. ‘I’ve seen the Facebook profile. My Facebook profile. I’ve seen your page on the university website. I know your real name is Dominic.’ My voice is steady, unwavering, and I do not know where my confidence is coming from.

‘Listen, whatever you think you’ve seen, it sounds like you’ve got the wrong end of the stick—’

‘So you can explain the photograph of me with my parents and my son, posted nine months ago, can you? Parents and a child that you told me were dead.’ A crack opens up in my voice, a fault line between conflicting versions of my past, and I swallow it down, will not capitulate to it.

‘My love, I think you must be confused. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but you’re still very fragile—’

‘I’m not fragile. I’m not imagining anything. I saw the photos on Facebook.’

Stephens sighs as though corralling every ounce of patience. ‘Social media has all sorts of fake nonsense on it. That’s why we never use it. Come on, let’s go home, where we can talk in private—’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you. I found the letters in the loft. All the letters from Livvy, declaring her love for you. Either you’re having an affair, or you’ve been lying to me about who I really am. Which is it?’

Stephen holds my gaze, eyebrows raised. ‘Please, Anna, I can see you’re upset, but you know how unstable you’ve been since the accident. You can’t let your imagination run away with you.’

He reaches out, places a hand on my arm, but I shake him off, do not want him touching me.

He sighs. ‘Please don’t make a scene. You know how erratic your emotions have been. Think about how you overreacted when you couldn’t find the piece of paper with the therapist’s number on it.’

‘You mean the appointment with the therapist that you cancelled and then lied about?’ I stare at him, will not be intimidated.

Stephen frowns. ‘What are you talking about? The appointment was cancelled. Has she been in touch to arrange a new one?’

There is such nonchalance in his voice that for a second I’m destabilised, as though I’m in a parallel reality where everything is distorted and I cannot trust what I know to be true. But then I think about my call with Carla, about the letters in the loft, about the Facebook page, and I know these doubts aren’t just figments of my imagination. ‘Stop lying, Stephen. I just want the truth. All I care about are my parents and my son. Just tell me where they are.’

There is a weighted silence, heavy with anticipation.

‘It’s always the same, isn’t it?’

Stephen’s quietly accusatory tone throws me off balance, a misstep from which it takes me a moment to find my footing. ‘What do you mean?’

He turns to me, eyes flickering with something between disappointment and contempt. ‘They always come first.’

He pauses, as if waiting for me to speak, but there seems to be a lag between my ears and my brain.

‘Can you imagine what it’s like, coming home from work to discover you’re with them yet again? Just wanting a bit of time and space with my wife and child but always having to share you with your bloody family?’

His words are like glue in my ears. ‘What are you talking about? Just tell me where they are.’ My voice is steadfast, unflinching, and I do not know where my courage is coming from. All I can think about is that photo, my baby in my arms, my desperate need to find my way back to him.

Stephen continues as though I haven’t spoken. ‘You were so unhappy when I met you. You don’t remember, do you? Dumped by your last boyfriend, desperate for a baby, biological clock ticking loudly in your ears. I’ve given you everything you wanted – everything – and still it’s not enough.’ His voice is bitter, and it evokes something in me, an instinctive tightening in my chest, like a muscle memory learnt from experience.

‘Do you know what it’s like, always feeling like you’re second best? Always feeling like you’ll never be enough, however hard you try? Have you ever stopped to think what that’s like for me?’

He is unrelenting now, his grievances all-consuming, and I do not know what he is talking about, what has prompted this tirade, only that it seems futile to try to stop him.

‘Your family always breathing down our necks. Your sister muscling in, so sanctimonious, so bloody jealous that we were happy when her life was so small, so lonely. And yet you couldn’t see it. You just wouldn’t see it.’