The House Swap(23)

I nod and start to pull off my own clothes, standing in front of the bed and looking around the room. I have the odd sensation of something being somehow out of place or disturbed. I look carefully in all directions, trying to pinpoint the source of the feeling, but nothing concrete emerges, just a vague sense of difference and unease.

In the same way you can search your mind for a long-forgotten name for hours and then wake up with it instantly clear and present, I notice what it is that is different about the bedroom the instant I open my eyes the next morning. The little dark purple umbrella that hung over a hook in the bedroom wall next to the mirror has disappeared. I glance around the room, in case I have moved it for some reason without remembering, but it isn’t there. I think about the footsteps above our heads as we sat downstairs the evening before, and I try to imagine Amber coming in here, swiftly scanning the room for anything of interest. Despite the austere minimalism of the room, I can see several items of clearly higher value at a glance. It makes no sense that she would have taken the umbrella.

‘So maybe she’s some sort of klepto,’ Francis shouts over the noise of the shower when I go into the bathroom to tell him. He shrugs, energetically shampooing his hair. ‘There doesn’t have to be a reason, does there?’

‘I suppose not.’ For a therapist, Francis is often surprisingly dismissive of human behaviour. ‘Bit bizarre, though,’ I add, but he has already turned around, tipping his head up to the shower and lost to the roar of the water.

I stand there for a few more moments, then quietly leave the room and go downstairs to the kitchen. Once again, I’m struck by its unnatural perfection: the spotless surfaces, the regimented rows of crockery and kitchenware. A shaft of sunlight is slanting through the window, hitting the surface of the worktop like a carefully placed spotlight. The only thing out of place is me.

I try to recapture the easy relaxation I felt the previous evening, before Amber’s visit, but it’s gone. My whole body feels tight and strained, as if I am waiting for a blow. I fill the kettle with water, flick the switch and stare at it. I can barely see what is right in front of my eyes.

My head is unexpectedly flooded with pictures, memories. They are flicking through me so fast it makes me dizzy. I open the cupboard and take out the jar of instant coffee and a mug. I go to the fridge and get the milk. I pour the boiling water out, the thin stream of sound hissing into the silent air.

My body is going through the motions, but I’m not here. I’m walking down a dark street towards your car and the air is warm and scented and your hand is in mine and I’m looking up at your smiling face and saying, ‘I want to remember this, I want this to be a night we don’t forget.’

‘No,’ I say aloud.

The sound of my voice jolts me back and I say it again, louder. My heart is racing and the palms of my hands are slippery. A shudder passes down the length of my spine, bristling my skin. I close my eyes and count. I have not had to do this for months – had thought I would not have to do it again. The effort of blocking these thoughts out is immense.

At last I open my eyes again, and fear rips through me, sudden and fierce. It’s coming here that has done this. The flowers, the music, the photograph in the hall … all these little sparks of memory fusing and starting a fire I now have to smother. It doesn’t feel like coincidence, no matter what I have told myself. I stare around at this stranger’s kitchen, and I find myself breaking away, walking fast through the rooms, trying to find some chink in their anonymity. It’s a show home, a shell. I’m opening cupboards, rifling through the limited possessions. They tell me nothing.

I begin looking deeper, excavating. Running my hands underneath the sideboards and sofas, checking behind curtains. I’m in the bedroom, kneeling by the side of the bed, when my hand closes around something hard and smooth, pushed against the wall behind the headboard. I pull it out and stare at the small glass bottle in my hand. It’s aftershave, and as soon as I see the slashed black logo on the front I recognize it. I bring it to my nose and the smell of it hits me, sends an instant rush of nostalgia right to my heart.

My mouth is dry and crazy thoughts are whirling inside me, and I have to do something, something to get them to stop. I’m thinking about the meaningless little messages I exchanged on the house-swap site. I can’t even remember what we said. They were functional, formal. Trading details.

S. Kennedy. It’s just a name. It might not even be real.

Abruptly, I snatch up my mobile phone and tap the web address for the house-swap site into the task bar. I know my log-in details, can read those messages again. But the site won’t come up, my phone freezing, refusing to reload.

Fighting for breath, I try to think. I open the available wireless connections and find a new BT entry in the list, but it’s locked. Suddenly, the note that was waiting for me on the pillow pops into my head. Information in kitchen folder. I run downstairs again and immediately see a navy wallet file leaning against the microwave. I haven’t bothered to open it before, but maybe the wifi details will be here. I cross the room quickly and snatch it up. I flick to the contents page and scan it. Wireless Information, p.4. The paper creases and scrunches under my fingers, and my hands are shaking as I smooth out the page I want, and then I’m staring at the little printed words and something has exploded in my head and everything is clear and quiet and still.

Password for wireless internet: silverbirches