‘I live here?’
‘You do.’
I gaze at the row of riverfront properties as we cruise past. Three and four-storey townhouses with parking underneath and their own moorings. Piers swings the Porsche into a parking bay next to a pale blue Mini Cooper.
‘Home,’ he says. ‘And that’s your Mini, in case you were wondering.’
I gaze up at the narrow white building. Now we’re here, my nerves have resurfaced with a vengeance. Although this place is spectacular, I still don’t recognise any of it. And I can’t shake the feeling that this must be a joke, or some kind of elaborate hoax. That Piers, and the house, and this pretty town in the sunshine will all disappear in a puff of smoke, and I will be left alone on a cold beach with nothing and no one.
He turns off the engine, its soft thrum replaced by the gurgle and splash of the river, the screech and squawk of waterfowl, the boat masts clanking, the shouts and laughter of children in the distance. None of it familiar.
‘Here,’ Piers says, handing me something. I look down at my hand to see a set of keys. ‘They’re mine,’ he says. ‘You’ve got a spare set in the kitchen drawer.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But you’ll need to change the locks, babe,’ he says. ‘I guess you must have lost your keys along with your phone and stuff.’
I nod, wrapping my fingers around the cold keys.
‘Shall we?’ He opens his car door.
As I open mine, a wall of heat hits me, along with the damp smell of the river, mixed with diesel oil and barbeques. I follow Piers to what must be my front door. He’s waiting for me to open it, but instead, I hand him back the keys, too disorientated to even attempt unlocking it. He does the honours and I follow him into a cool, dim entrance hall. I watch as he disables the alarm. ‘I’ll give you the code later,’ he says.
‘I must have a good job to afford this place,’ I say.
‘Actually, you’re not working at the moment.’
‘What?’ I stop in my tracks. ‘How come? What do I normally do?’
‘You used to be a primary school teacher.’
‘“Used to be?” Why aren’t I working now? How come I can afford to live here? Teachers don’t get paid that much, surely.’
‘Let’s talk about all that later,’ he says.
There are so many questions flailing around in my head that I’m getting brain-ache again. He’s already halfway up the stairs, but I’m curious about the rooms down here. ‘Piers, what’s in there?’ I point to a door ahead of me.
He stops and turns. That’s your office. It opens onto the garden. Well, I say “garden”, it’s really just a courtyard. The other door leads to the garage, and there’s a loo through there. Do you want to see?’
‘That’s okay, I’ll look later.’ I follow him up the stairs to the first floor, expecting to see a kitchen or a lounge.
‘Your bedroom, and a spare bedroom,’ Piers says, pointing at two doors off the landing through which I glimpse cream carpets and plump, cushion-strewn beds.
He continues on up to the second floor. I follow dutifully behind. When he reaches the top, he turns and catches hold of my hand. ‘Welcome home, Mia. I missed you.’ He pulls me towards him and leans in to kiss me.
I jerk back and turn my head so his kiss grazes my ear.
‘Mia . . .’ he says. ‘I . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Piers’ I say. ‘I can’t . . . I don’t know you yet.’ Even his name sounds strange on my tongue.
His cheeks and neck flush red. He looks angry, but I guess he could simply be embarrassed. He has to understand that whatever our relationship used to be, it’s changed. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a stranger.
I extricate my hand from his, and step away, turning to look at the room, trying to think of something to say that will break the tension. It’s a wonderful light-filled space up here. One half is a sumptuous sitting room with a cream corner sofa, a leather chesterfield, deep cushions and a thick cream rug. The other half is an open-plan kitchen dining room. French windows lead onto a wide balcony with views over the river and fields beyond.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s some view.’
‘It’s stuffy up here,’ he says, pulling at the neck of his polo-shirt. ‘I’ll let some air in.’ Piers strides over to the doors and tugs them open. A warm breeze winds its way over to me. ‘Glass of vino?’ he asks.
Good, we’re going to ignore the awkward kiss. That’s fine by me. ‘Sounds good,’ I say, relieved. I take a couple of steps toward the open doors, enjoying the cooler air. I desperately want to change out of these horrid pyjamas. I’m also craving a shower. To be honest, I wish Piers would just leave. I need to get my bearings and be alone for a while. How can I phrase it without sounding rude and ungrateful?
He strolls over to the kitchen area where he takes a couple of glasses from a cupboard and places them on the black marble counter top. I watch as he expertly opens a bottle of red wine. His eyes are focused on what he’s doing, he doesn’t look up at me once.
Okay, I decide, we’ll have one glass of wine together and then I’ll ask him to give me some space.
The night air is warm with hardly a breeze. A pearl of sweat trickles down my back. The river is quiet, the wooden building looms, its blank windows gazing at me, menacing. No one is here. It’s just me, so why is my heart beating so fast, why am I so on edge? I’m waiting for something, for someone. And then I see her in the distance. She’s walking towards me, unhurried, along the river’s edge. I cannot run. I cannot move. She’s coming for me, with hatred burning in her eyes.
Chapter Seven
I finally got rid of Piers last night. That sounds uncharitable, but I was desperate to be alone and he hung around for ages. He wanted to stay the night in the spare room – to make sure I was okay. But I managed to persuade him that I would be fine on my own. That I needed some space after the hospital with its endless parade of nurses, doctors and police officers. That I just wanted some peace and quiet. He wasn’t happy about leaving, but I promised we’d meet for lunch today, and that seemed to appease him.
Now, I lie beneath the warmth of my quilt, my bedroom shrouded in darkness. The illuminated numbers of my bedside clock say 7.22 am. I stretch, slide out of bed, draw back the heavy cream curtains, and squint as golden sunlight floods the room. Once again, I’m taken aback by the view. Like the lounge upstairs, this room also has a balcony overlooking the river. I certainly knew what I was doing when I bought this place.
It feels luxurious to be here all alone. Like I can finally breathe. I may not know who I am, but at least I have my own place in a beautiful spot. I can work on the rest of it. I even managed to sleep well last night. My bed is so comfortable and large compared to the one in the hospital. I sit back on the rumpled quilt and stare out at the pale blue sky and the glistening water.
As my mind relaxes, a memory hovers around my subconscious. I don’t dare breathe for fear of dislodging it. I wonder is it a memory? Or is it simply the remnants of a dream I had last night? I’m getting snippets of feelings, but I can’t seem to hold onto them. Desperately, I struggle to remember the details:
I was standing by a wooden building at night. But it was locked up. Deserted. I felt . . . scared? What else? My heart begins to thud as I recall feelings of fear. The image of a woman flashes into my mind. I can’t picture her face clearly, but she was coming towards me. She meant to do me harm. I felt terror. I was rooted to the spot, unable to run.
I close my eyes and try and squeeze some more details out. But the harder I try, the more the details elude me. The feelings it conjured up are already slipping away. If only I knew whether or not it actually is a memory. It could just as easily have been a dream. How can I tell? I’m sure I used to know the difference between a dream and a memory, but my mind is jumbled, broken. Another beat of fear creeps sounds in my chest, and I try to shake it loose, to recapture my earlier waking moments of peace. But that peace is shattered, replace by deep unease.
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I can’t live like this. Not knowing who I am. Not knowing what is real and what is imagined. I sigh. The sunshine feels as though it’s mocking me. Everyone out there knows who they are. They know their place in the world. Yet I am untethered. Adrift.
I refuse to sit here and wallow. I’ll get dressed and keep myself busy. Anyway, I have my follow-up doctor’s appointment this morning with Dr Lazowski. I take a deep breath and wonder if there’s anything in the kitchen for breakfast. Hunger galvanises me up and into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I slide open one of the doors to the wardrobe which lines one wall of my room. It’s stuffed with clothes and shoes, and I’m overwhelmed with the choice of what to wear. Not jeans – it’s far too hot. In the end, after rejecting several items on the basis that they’re too glamorous, I settle on a chambray knee-length sundress.
Accompanied by my gurgling stomach, I take the stairs up to the kitchen, hoping there’s something edible. There are a few tins and packets in the cupboards, but the contents of the fridge are more promising, with some salad items, Greek yoghurt, and a punnet of fresh berries. Although I almost gag when I sniff the milk which is way past its sell-by-date.
Moments later, I’m heading out onto the balcony with a cup of herbal tea and a bowl of granola and yoghurt. It’s more of a wide terrace than a balcony, with plenty of space for the two sun loungers and a rattan patio set which comprises a sofa and two armchairs furnished with plump cream cushions. I slide past the glass-topped coffee table and settle myself onto the sofa, putting my mug and bowl on the table with a clink.
A car engine starts up below. And then another. I guess it’s around the time when people are leaving for work. Piers still hasn’t told me why I’m not working. How can I afford to pay the mortgage if I don’t have any money coming in? I’ll have to quiz him some more at lunchtime today.
Through the balcony railings, I see a heavyset man in a suit, with a bicycle, standing in next door’s driveway. He’s talking to a woman. Arguing. Words float up – fragments of sentences – ‘not my fault’ . . . ‘don’t forget to’ . . . ‘No, don’t be stupid.’ The man glances up. He’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t tell if he’s actually looking at me, or at something else. He raises his hand. I guess he must be waving at me, so I wave back, feeling slightly awkward. The woman follows his line of sight and catches my eye, but her scowl remains. They must be my next door neighbours. The man gets on his bike and cycles away.
‘Matt!’ she calls after him.
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his hand and calls back: ‘I’m late, see you later.’
She glances back up at me, her scowl deepening. Then she turns and disappears into the house.
It’s not even eight o’clock yet, but it’s already warm, the summer sun rising above the river and fields to the east. I think I’ll let my hair dry out here this morning, allowing its natural wave to come through. In the photos Piers showed me, my hair was immaculate – dead straight, styled to within an inch of its life with hair products and straighteners. A reminder of the person I used to be versus the person I seem to be now.
I chew my granola and gaze out at the river, trying to let my mind rest for a while. To stop forcing it to try and remember.
Half an hour later, I make my way back inside, the cooler air a relief on my heated skin. My doctor’s appointment is at 10.15 this morning, and I don’t want to be late. I’m pretty sure I still know how to drive, so I’m going to be brave and attempt the journey on my own. I know I could call a cab – Piers gave me a large wad of cash until my replacement bank cards arrive – but I want to get back into the swing of things as soon as possible. Anyway, driving will help me orient myself. I need to get to know the area.
I find a set of car keys in one of the kitchen drawers. I assume they’re the right ones, as the key fob is emblazoned with the Mini Cooper logo. I stuff some cash in a small leather shoulder bag and head downstairs, ignoring the swooping nerves in my belly.
Satnav gets me to Bournemouth Hospital in plenty of time and without any incidents. I find a parking space without too much trouble, get a parking ticket, and make my way into the main entrance, my low-heeled sandals clicking across the tarmac. It feels like weeks since I was last here. I can’t believe it was less than twenty-four hours ago.
I make my way to the Neurotherapy Department, give my name to the receptionist and take a seat in the waiting room. After skimming a magazine for ten minutes, I’m called into Dr Lazowski’s room.
She gives me a smile as I enter the small consulting room. I’m taken aback again by how young she looks – not that much older than me. I guess I assumed a neurology consultant should be older. Her window is wide open, and the sound of distant traffic filters in.
‘Mia,’ she says. ‘Please take a seat. You look great. Much better. Sorry it’s so warm in here. I’ve opened the window but it makes no difference.’
‘Hi,’ I say, sitting down.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.
‘Okay thanks,’ I say.
‘Have you managed to remember anything?’
‘No . . . well . . . sort of.’ I flounder, still not sure how much to say.
‘Really? Well, that’s great news. Tell me.’ She has my notes in front of her on the desk. Her pen is poised, ready to record my words.
‘I don’t know if it’s a memory,’ I say. ‘It could just’ve easily been a dream. I’m not sure.’
‘That’s alright. Was it a clear memory, or fragments?’
‘Well, I woke up this morning and it came to me as a feeling, and then as images.’
‘Go on,’ she says.
As I recall the dream again, my palms begin to sweat. Images of the woman flash up in my mind. ‘It was night time,’ I say, ‘and I was standing near a wooden building. I remember I felt . . . nervous.’ I decide not to tell her about the scary woman in the dream. I’m sure that she was part of a nightmare, rather than a memory, and it would sound too over-dramatic. Anyway, I don’t want to think about that woman, let alone talk about her. I shiver at the memory. The more I think about it, the more real it feels. So I push it away.
‘Do you recognise the building?’ Dr Lazowski asks.
‘No. Sorry. It’s probably just a dream, anyway.’
‘Mia, it’s good! You’re seeing images and you’re remembering feelings. This is progress. Whether or not it’s a dream or a memory, doesn’t necessarily matter. Before this, you hadn’t been able to tell me anything. So, I’m hopeful for you.’
My heart lifts at her words. I hope she’s right. I hope this means my memory really is returning.
‘I also have the results from your MRI,’ she says. ‘I asked the radiology department to fast-track the results for me.’
This piece of news instantly takes my mind off the dream. I don’t know which is scarier. I flex my fingers and then cross my arms, waiting.
Dr Lazowski continues. Thankfully, she doesn’t string it out:
‘According to the scans,’ she says, ‘everything is normal – no dead tissue, lesions, aneurysms or tumours. Your brain appears healthy. So there’s no reason why your memories shouldn’t return. There’s nothing we can see that suggests your condition will persist or worsen.’
I feel my shoulders relax at her words. Now they’ve come back clear, that’s one less thing to worry about.
‘Thank you so much,’ I reply, my voice barely a whisper. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as we can be. I don’t think those bumps on your head are anything to do with your memory loss. Retrograde amnesia is more likely to have been caused by psychological trauma – the shock of almost drowning, something like that.’
The rest of our consultation goes by in a blur. I’m hardly concentrating, my relief is so great. She gives me a list of things I can do to try and help my memory along. Things such as talking to friends and family, revisiting familiar places – old schools, places of work, clubs, usual routes etc. I nod along, and
resolve to do everything she’s telling me. She’s also going to schedule me in for regular therapy and a follow-up consultation.
Although the results of the scan are good, it still doesn’t explain what happened to me. I still don’t know how I ended up unconscious on the beach with no memory. And, although I know my name and where I live, I still don’t really know who I am.
Chapter Eight
After my hospital appointment, I stop off at home to freshen up before my lunch date with Piers. I’m going to walk to the restaurant which is somewhere in Christchurch. Given that the town centre is more-or-less one long street with a few little side roads, I’m confident I’ll find it. I leave the house and head away from the river towards the Priory. I find myself cutting through a busy car park, weaving past queues for the ticket machine and parents wrestling with car seats and pushchairs. All these people leading normal lives with people they love – or maybe they hate, but at least they know them. The only person I know is Piers, and today I’m determined to get to know him better.
Leaving the car park behind, I find myself in the shadow of the Priory, walking along a path through a grassy graveyard. The gravestones are old and worn, covered in white spots and lichen. I draw my gaze up, and am mesmerised by the grand stature of the building, by its ancient solidity, its huge square tower staring down at me. I wonder how long it’s been standing here. What dramas and tragedies it’s seen during its lifetime.
Piers gave me directions yesterday. He told me I needed to turn right at the roundabout. I spot it up ahead, a little further along the crowded high street. Nothing about this place seems familiar. No landmark or shop that I recognise. I don’t have any sense of having been here before, other than the drive home yesterday. Maybe, I’m concentrating too hard, too desperate to remember.
I’m hungry again. Haven’t eaten since breakfast so I’m more than ready for lunch. A few moments more and I find myself pushing open the door to a pretty French restaurant. I don’t know why I expected it to be half empty. Instead, it’s buzzing with diners. There doesn’t appear to be a single spare table. I hope Piers has booked.