‘Why did you say that?’ I ask.
‘You dared to put your tea down on the table without using a coaster. You obviously forgot what mum’s like about stuff like that.’
I feel my cheeks growing warm, pick up the mug and place it on one of the black leather coasters. ‘Sorry,’ I murmur.
‘Cara!’ My mum glares at her. ‘Don’t mind her,’ she says to me. ‘She’s just winding you up. I don’t care where you put you put your mug, sweetheart. You could pour your tea all over the rug and I wouldn’t give a hoot. I’m just happy to have you here, safe and well.’
Cara mumbles something, but I don’t hear what.
The room falls silent. We sip our tea.
‘So,’ my mum says. ‘You going to tell us what happened to you? How you lost your memory?’
‘I’m not really sure how it happened,’ I reply. ‘After you called last night, I got a call from the police. They think it was a rowing accident. That I capsized and was swept out to sea, but then I washed up on the beach. They said I’m really lucky to be alive.’
‘My God, Mia,’ my mum says, taking my hand in hers and kissing it. ‘You nearly died!’
‘How come you were rowing?’ Cara says. ‘Were you, like, in a boat on your own?’
‘Yeah. Apparently I like to row.’
‘Weird,’ Cara says.
‘So, didn’t I used to row? Growing up?’
‘Er, no.’
‘I didn’t know it was something you were into, love,’ my mum says. ‘Sounds dangerous. Perhaps you shouldn’t do it anymore.’
It strikes me as really odd that they don’t know about a sport I apparently love. ‘Are you sure I never mentioned it to you?’ I say, rubbing at my temple. ‘It’s one of the things I love to do. Why wouldn’t I have told you about it?’
‘You probably did mention it, love,’ my mum replies. ‘You know what I’m like – brain like a sieve.’
Another silence cloaks the room. Cara picks at the hem of her denim cut-offs, and my mum helps herself to a biscuit while I rack my brains for conversation.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ I say, ‘but we don’t look very similar.’
‘That’s cos you look like your dad,’ my mum says.
‘Oh, right. I don’t suppose you have a photo?’
‘Cara, can you get the album? It’s in my room on the dresser.’
Cara puts her tea down on the tray and stares at my mum, giving her a look I can’t decipher.
‘The album, Cara,’ my mum repeats. ‘Or do I have to do everything myself?’
Cara peels herself reluctantly from the sofa and leaves the room.
‘My dad died, right?’ I ask my mum.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. You and Cara have different dads. Me and your dad – Marcus – we split up when you were a baby. You never really knew each other, which is a shame. And then he died a few years back. I met Steven, Cara’s dad, soon after Marcus left. Me and Steve got married. Stayed together for eighteen years, and he brought you up like his own. We’re still friends, but he’s with someone else now. He’ll be shocked when I tell him what’s happened to you.’
I try to take it all in, but it’s like she’s talking about someone else’s life. Someone else’s family. I can’t relate to any of it. I don’t feel any kind of emotion, other than a simmering panic that I’m in the wrong place with the wrong people.
Cara comes back into the room with a chunky looking photo album. She sits on the other side of my mum, so now we’re all squashed onto the one sofa together.
‘Right, let’s have a look,’ my mum says, taking the album from Cara and opening it at the beginning.
‘I’ve just realised,’ I say to her, ‘I don’t know your name.’
She turns to me and strokes my cheek. ‘Oh, Mia. It breaks my heart. How can you not even remember your own mum’s name? I’m Fiona. Fiona Richards.’
‘Would you mind if I called you Fiona, rather than Mum. It’s just . . . it feels too strange at the moment.’
‘Of course,’ she says. But then I see her wiping a stray tear from her cheek.
‘Oh, no’ I say. ‘Forget that. I’m sorry. That’s an awful thing to ask, isn’t it? Of course I’ll call you Mum. I’m sure I’ll get used to it again.’
‘Whatever makes you most comfortable, sweetheart. It’s not a problem.’ She sniffs and then smiles as she gazes down at the album. I follow her gaze.
‘Look at the state of you, Mum,’ Cara says. ‘You look well pissed in that photo.’
A younger version of my mother leans against a good looking man with dark hair, his arm around her waist. Her eyes are unfocused and she does look slightly drunk. But she also seems happy. Her clothes are casual – jeans and a vest top, her hair tumbling down around her shoulder in blonde waves. The man wears jeans and a white t-shirt. He’s much taller than her, staring directly at the camera, as though he’s looking at me. Seeing right into my soul.
‘That’s your dad, Marcus,’ my mum says. Although I already guessed that much. ‘Handsome devil wasn’t he.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, my eyes glued to the photo. ‘Yes, he was.’
My mum closes the album and passes it back to Cara. ‘Put that back in my room, love.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Can’t I see some more? Are there any of me and Cara growing up? Maybe they’ll help me remember.’
‘These are just pictures of me,’ my mum says. ‘Of my younger days. They’ll be boring for you.’
‘Do you have any of me?’ I ask.
‘Yes, of course, but they’re―’
‘They’re in storage,’ Cara interrupts.
‘Yes,’ my mum agrees. ‘This place was getting cluttered, so I had a clear out. The albums are in storage, but I’ll go and get them soon. Then you can come over again and take a look.’
My shoulders droop. I had hoped that seeing photos of my childhood would help me get my memory back. Never mind.
The rest of the day passes quickly and pleasantly enough. We talk some more about my childhood, about school and growing up. But I don’t remember any of the things they tell me. Not a single thing.
As the day wears on, my mum becomes more and more emotional. She’s worried about me, and begs me to stay for the whole weekend. But the thought fills me with dread. I find my sister a little intimidating. She’s friendly enough, but I don’t relish the idea of staying overnight. Even though, it turns out, this is the rented flat I grew up in, where she and I shared a room for over twenty years. No, I can’t stay here. I crave the peace and solitude of my own house, so I leave my mum and sister at around five o’clock. My mum cries, and I feel bad for her. But not bad enough to stay.
The journey home is a nightmare, with commuters crammed into the train carriages, and no spare seats, so I have to stand for the entire ninety-minute journey back to Christchurch. I almost fall into a taxi at the station, and I’m too tired to think about anything other than the fact that I’m so pleased to be nearly home. My shoulders relax as we cruise down Christchurch High Street. The town is fairly quiet for a Friday evening, just a few clusters of people heading into the local pubs, wine bars and restaurants.
At last, we cross the stone bridge which leads to my house. I’m looking forward to washing the travel-grime off my skin and having something to eat. The taxi comes to a stop, its engine still running, and I pay the driver, adding on a generous five-pound tip. I step outside, breathing in the familiar river air, and fumble about in my bag for my house keys, panicking for a few seconds when I don’t locate them instantly. I finally wrap my fingers around them, unlock the front door and stumble inside.
Home.
Something’s wrong. I realise the alarm isn’t bleeping. I’m sure I set it this morning. My body tenses. Should I be worried? Is someone here? An intruder? But my fear turns to annoyance as my brain catches up and I realise who it is.
‘Mia! Is that you?’ His voice floats down the stairs
Shit, I’m right. It’s
Piers.
Chapter Twelve
Dual feelings of relief and irritation flood my body. It’s not an intruder. Piers must have let himself in with his spare set. I think I might have to get those keys back off him. I get the feeling it won’t be easy.
‘Hi, Piers!’ I call up the stairs, my voice shaky. I could cry – I’m all talked out. I don’t have the energy to tell him about my day. I just want to be on my own. Can I ask him to leave? No, probably not. I’m going to have to play the sweet girlfriend. It’s not his fault I turned into someone else. I take a deep breath and begin to climb the staircase. His face appears, peering down at me from the top floor.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ he says.
‘Why? What’s happened?’ I jog up to the top and kiss him on the cheek. He pulls me into a hug and then pulls back, staring at my face intently.
‘Are you okay?’ he says. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been going out of my mind with worry, Mia. You need to get yourself another phone so you can let me know where you are.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘What’s the matter?’ he repeats. ‘You just vanished. I came over this afternoon and you weren’t here. No note. Nothing. You didn’t call me to let me know where you were. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, feeling a twinge of guilt. I guess I should have let him know where I was. He is supposed to be my boyfriend, and he doesn’t have my new mobile number yet.
‘Honestly,’ he says, ‘I was just about to call the police and all the hospitals. I had visions of you wandering around lost with no memory of anything. Where were you, anyway?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know you’d be worried. I thought you’d be working.’
‘You really do need to get a phone, Mia.’
‘It’s okay, I got one yesterday.’
‘And you didn’t think to give me the number? Or give me a call to let me know you were alright?’ His worry is turning to anger. I’m trying to keep my temper under control, too. I’m not in the mood to deal with this right now.
‘I need a shower,’ I say. ‘Give me ten minutes? And then we’ll talk.’
‘Do what you want, Mia. I’m going home.’
God, I’ve really pissed him off. My anger subsides. Even though I would rather he left, I realise I don’t want him to go off in a mood. ‘Hang on, Piers. Look, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please don’t go. Don’t be mad at me.’
He scowls, but at least he makes no move to leave. ‘I wanted us to spend the afternoon together,’ he says. ‘I made us a picnic.’
Now I really do feel like a bitch. He was trying to do something nice for me and I didn’t spare him a second’s thought. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I mean it. I’m sorry. Look, come and sit down. Let’s have a drink.’ I take his hand and lead him over to the kitchen where he sits down on a bar stool and pulls me up close to him, his arms around my waist. I guess my quiet evening will have to wait while I try to make it up to him. ‘How about I make us dinner this evening?’ I say.
‘Really?’ He raises an eyebrow and looks doubtful.
‘What’s that look for? I’m sure I can rustle something up?’
‘Cooking isn’t really your strong point, babe,’ he says with a reluctant smile.
‘Cheeky.’
‘Go ahead, then,’ he says. ‘I’m prepared to be proved wrong.’
‘Let me just have a quick wash and get changed,’ I say, ‘and I’ll be right back.’ I try to disentangle myself from his embrace, but he pulls me back.
‘You still haven’t told me where you’ve been.’
‘Pour me a glass of wine and I’ll tell you all about it in a minute,’ I reply.
He lets me go and I throw him a smile as I leave the room and head back downstairs to my room. It’s sweltering in here, so I throw open the door to the balcony. Evening noises and aromas filter in. The sounds of someone cooking – pots and pans clanking, taps turning on and off, someone somewhere playing a Motown track. I strip off my clothes, dump them in the linen basket and walk into the en suite. Then, I step into the shower, turn on the spray and let the London grime slide down the plughole.
I’m hoping the cool water will energise me for the night ahead. At least Piers is here for me. I should give him a fair chance and shake off any negative thoughts I might have had about him. I owe him that much. I step out of the shower, pull on a bath robe and towel dry my hair, discarding both on the floor a minute later. My body is still a little damp, but the air is so warm, that I’m guessing my skin will be dry by the time I’m back upstairs. Without too much thought, I pick out some fresh underwear, and another summery dress which I slip over my head. I don’t bother with shoes or makeup.
I pad up the stairs, back to the living room, looking forward to my glass of wine. I glance around, but Piers doesn’t appear to be up here any longer.
‘Out here, babe!’
I cross the room and step out onto the balcony where he’s sitting sipping a glass of red wine. He’s wearing beige shorts, a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and aviator shades, his legs stretched out on the low coffee table next to a bowl of olives and a half-empty wine bottle. He hands me a glass and I sink into one of the armchairs.
‘Cheers,’ Piers says. We clink glasses and I take a healthy swig, relishing the warm alcoholic burn in my throat, and letting my shoulders relax. The sun is sinking, but the air still holds the heat of the day.
‘So,’ Piers says. ‘Are you going to tell me where you’ve been all day?’
‘I went to London,’ I say. ‘I went to visit my mum.’
‘You did what?’ He takes his feet off the table and sits bolt upright.
‘She called me last night, worried out of her mind. I had to go and see her and Cara. Let them know I was okay.’
‘Cara? You saw Cara?’ Piers’ face has turned a deep shade of red. He puts his glass down and removes his shades, leaning in towards me. ‘Have you gone mad, Mia?’
‘What? What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. Your sister is a money-grabbing little bitch and you haven’t seen or spoken to her for three years.’
‘And you didn’t think to mention this to me before?’ I hiss. His words set my whole body trembling. My sister – a money-grabber? We haven’t spoken for three years? Is Piers telling the truth? I take another gulp of wine and put my glass on the table with shaking fingers.
‘Well . . . I . . .’ he stutters.
‘Well?’ I demand.
‘I didn’t think you’d go rushing off there without telling me,’ he says throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he adds. ‘I should’ve―’
‘Three years!’ I interrupt him, still unable to believe what I’m hearing. ‘I haven’t spoken to Cara for three years? And what about my mum?’
‘You haven’t spoken to her either. She sided with your sister, so you cut them out of your life. Shit, Mia. I was going to tell you about them, but I didn’t want to overload you with drama. Not after everything you’ve just been through. How the hell did you end up going to see them today?’
‘I told you, my mum rang last night. Apparently Cara saw something online about me losing my memory.’
‘Yeah, I bet she loved that. You losing your memory is the perfect opportunity to get back in your good books and hit you up for more cash.’
I suddenly feel cold. Sick. Could they really only have wanted to see me because I have money?
‘Piers, there’s something I still don’t understand – how come I have money in the first place? I thought you said I was a teacher, but here I am, living in this house and driving a brand new car. Am I rich?’
Piers exhales and leans back into the sofa. He runs his hands over the top of his head. ‘Yeah, Mia. You’re rich. You don’t need to work, and from everything you’ve told me, your sister is jealous as fuck.’
‘So, how did I get my money? Did I win the lottery or somethi
ng?’
‘I don’t know how much your mum told you, Mia,’ Piers says. ‘Did you know you and Cara have different fathers?’
‘Yeah, she told me my dad’s name was Marcus James, but he died three years ago. She showed me a photo.’ In my mind, I see the image of that handsome man gazing out of the photograph at me. My father. A man I will never know.
‘Yes, well, back when he knew your mum, Marcus was dirt poor. But later on in life he made a fortune out of some dodgy South American tree-planting scheme. I don’t know the details. All I know is that when he died, he had no heirs other than you. You got everything.’
‘How much?’
‘Just over eight million.’
‘Oh my God,’ I say, my voice barely a whisper.
I sit there letting that information sink in.
I’m rich.
Really rich.
‘Mia. Are you okay? I know it’s a lot to take in.’
‘So why did me and Cara fall out? Surely, I would have given mum and Cara some of the inheritance, wouldn’t I? I can’t spend eight million all by myself.’
‘Yes, you gave them some, but they wanted more. You never really had a great relationship with them. You always said your mum preferred Cara. That they were a happy little unit – Cara and her mum and dad. You said you always felt like an outsider. That it was only when you inherited the money they started being nicer to you.
‘Your mum said she was owed some of your inheritance because your dad never paid any maintenance while you were growing up. You were pissed off to hear your mum talking like that. That’s how you ended up here, in Dorset. You got on a train and left London.’
‘So I came here to get away from them. I thought I must have left London to be with you.’
‘We only met last year, babe.’
Somehow, I assumed Piers and I had been together longer.
‘So exactly how much of my inheritance did I give to my mum and sister?’
‘I don’t know. You don’t like to talk about it. About them. You always said that they weren’t part of your life anymore. That they were in your past.’
I think about what Piers has told me. I obviously didn’t give either of them enough money to buy their own place. My mum’s still renting and Cara lives with her. I must be really mad at them not to have at least bought them a place each. With eight million pounds, I could easily afford it. I wish I could remember what they’d said or done to make me cut them out of my life.