by Karen King
Phil seemed to have reverted back to the easy-going Phil she had once loved so much. But how could she know if he would remain that way?
12
Thursday
It had taken a great deal of thought and soul-searching but by the next morning Freya had made her decision. Phil was really looking forward to coming home tomorrow and it would be cruel to tell him that she was leaving him, leaving him alone to cope with his injuries and memory loss from the accident. I’m sure he has changed but any sign of him being abusive and I’ll get out right away, she promised herself. She had to give Phil a chance. She owed him that much. He could have been killed. And however bad things had got between them, there was a part of her that still loved him, and wanted him to revert to the man he had once been.
First, though, she needed to go into work to talk to Stefan. She was sure she could sort out a flexi-time agreement that would allow her to spend time with Phil and continue working but didn’t want to discuss that over the phone – it was better done face to face. And she wanted to see everyone again, talk about the new project, make sure she wasn’t completely out of the loop. She’d worked hard on the Kada account and didn’t want to lose it. Phil might still be a bit fragile, but he didn’t need her home all day, every day. And it would be good for them to have a bit of space from each other.
‘Freya, honey, how good to see you!’ Julia, Stefan’s secretary, jumped up from her chair and across the room to give Freya a big hug. ‘How are you? And how’s that gorgeous husband of yours?’ She stood back and scanned Freya’s face. ‘You look tired, but that’s only to be expected.’
‘I am tired, but I’m feeling a lot better today. I’ve come to see Stefan, ask if I can arrange some flexible working.’
‘I’m sure he won’t mind at all. He and Nadia are in a meeting but I’ll tell him you’re here as he might want to include you.’ She picked up the phone.
I hope it’s about the Kada contract, Freya thought, eying the door of Stefan’s office. She couldn’t wait to hear all about it.
‘He said to go straight in,’ Julia announced, putting down the phone.
‘Thanks.’ Freya gave a polite knock on the door then walked in.
Stefan stood up as soon as she entered. ‘Freya, good to see you. How’s Phil?’
‘Fine – apart from some memory loss, a few broken ribs and an injured arm. He’s coming home tomorrow.’
‘That’s good news.’ Stefan sat back down and indicated for her to sit in the empty seat next to Nadia. ‘Now, how are you fixed about coming back to work?’
She was pleased that he’d raised the subject; it made it easier for her. ‘I was wondering if I could work flexibly for the foreseeable? Even though he’s making a good recovery, I don’t want to leave Phil at home by himself all day, not just yet. So if I could work from home a couple of days a week…’
‘No problem, we’ll have a talk and sort that out. But first, let me bring you up to speed with the Kada deal.’ He beamed. ‘Kada absolutely love your ideas – you did a great job there. Well done.’
Freya was chuffed. Stefan was a good boss but he didn’t give praise lightly, so his comments meant a lot to her. She listened as he filled her in with what had happened at the meeting, the deal they had signed, and what the company wanted. As he outlined everything, Freya felt herself relax. It was good to be back at work again and have something else to think about. She loved her job and the design team she worked with.
‘So now let’s talk about your flexi-hours because we definitely want you to be Kada’s first point of contact.’
They discussed various options, finally deciding that for the next month Freya would come into the office to work on Mondays and Fridays, then work the rest of the week at home, and try to arrange any necessary face-to-face meetings with clients during her ‘work in the office’ days.
‘I also know you still have several days’ holiday due to you, so if you need to take the odd day off to look after Phil without needing to do any work, just email and let me know,’ Stefan told her.
Freya was relieved; it sounded like a perfect arrangement. After going for a coffee break with Nadia and some other members of the team, she set off to do a supermarket shop before going to visit Phil again; she’d only picked up a couple of items last night and needed more supplies for when Phil came home. She’d blitz the house too after the afternoon visit.
Phil’s eyes lit up when she walked in. He was obviously so happy about the thought of coming home the next day that Freya gave him a hug and spontaneously kissed him quickly on the lips. Phil’s eyes sparkled.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked as she sat down.
‘Better. Not so achy. Bloody frustrated, though! I’m getting stir-crazy lying here,’ he told her. ‘Although at least I’ve thought of a few ideas for articles. I’ll write them up when I get home, even if it’ll be a bit slow – my arm is still aching.’
‘You’ve got some speech recognition software on your computer,’ Freya told him. ‘You use it a lot because you get RSI in your fingers.’
‘Do I? There’s such a lot I can’t remember.’ His face clouded over.
‘It’ll come back to you, I’m sure, once you get back in familiar surroundings.’ Freya squeezed his hand, though part of her secretly hoped that some memories of their fraught relationship would never come back. ‘At least you still remember me, and that we’re married, and our home. Imagine if you couldn’t remember that.’
She’d been thinking about that last night. It would have been terrible if Phil had lost his memory completely or had no memory of her at all. They had to be grateful that it was only the last two years he’d forgotten.
‘Tell me what you’ve been doing today,’ he urged.
‘Well, I went into work to arrange flexi-hours.’ She told him what she’d arranged with Stefan. ‘I can’t work from home every day, but you’ll be fine on your own Mondays and Fridays, won’t you?’
‘I’ll manage… At least it’s either side of the weekend.’ He frowned. ‘I know you said my courses at the uni are finished for the summer but I wonder if I should be doing some marking or planning next year’s course? Do they know about my accident?’
‘Yes, Tom read about it in the newspaper and phoned to ask how you are. Remember I told you? The editor of the Telegraph phoned too. You can contact them in a week or so when you feel stronger.’ She’d only told him this yesterday; she hoped he hadn’t got short-term memory loss too.
They chatted for a while, easily, just like they used to do. And when she was about to go, Phil reached for her and pulled her to him. ‘How about another kiss goodbye?’
‘Now you’re being greedy.’ She bent down, lowering her lips to his. Then his arm was around her neck, gently pulling her closer, deepening the kiss, and she remembered just how much she loved him. They loved each other.
They were going to be happy this time. She’d make sure of it. Phil was so weak and vulnerable, she would have the upper hand now.
13
Phil
Friday
‘Here we are. Home.’ Freya’s voice was bright and breezy as she pulled up in the drive outside a semi-detached house in a cul-de-sac, which Phil immediately recognised as their home. From the outside it was pretty much as he remembered: a dark green door with a polished brass letterbox, knocker and number 9, large drive with a lawn to the left and paved driveway alongside the single garage on the right, large bay window. He was relieved that it felt so familiar. A memory suddenly flashed across his mind of them getting out of a taxi; they’d just returned from their honeymoon.
‘I remember us coming home from honeymoon… and I carried you over the threshold!’ he said, excited as the image of them both laughing as he swept Freya off her feet came into his mind. ‘Maybe I’ll remember more things now I’m home.’
He saw something – was it apprehension? – in Freya’s eyes but then she smiled. ‘I hope so.’
She got out of th
e car, walked around the bonnet and opened the passenger door for him. ‘This is the wrong way round. I should open the door for you,’ he said as he carefully eased himself out, mindful of his still-painful ribs.
‘Just be glad that you’re alive. I am,’ she told him, kissing him on the cheek. She locked the car then took his arm, and they both walked over to the front door.
It’s strange to lose part of my memory yet remember so much, Phil thought as Freya opened the door and they stepped inside. This house was so familiar to him, yet he had lost the two years since the day he had opened this very same door and carried Freya over the threshold. Would it be the same inside? he wondered. Had they decorated? So many questions were floating around in his mind as he walked in the hall.
‘Does it look how you remember it?’ Freya asked as she closed the door behind them. ‘Does it feel like home?’
Phil took in the silver-grey carpet that covered the hall and stairs, the silver-and-white embossed wallpaper, the large framed mirror on the wall. ‘This looks the same.’ Then he turned to the left and walked into the lounge, scanning the room: the same wallpaper, but light oak tiles instead of carpet, the grey rug he’d remembered was replaced by a cream one, cream pleated curtains, a new cream soft leather suite – they’d had the black leather one from his flat, he remembered. What else was new? He frowned as he searched the room. The cream leather pouffe and the sleek light oak coffee table.
‘We’ve had quite a bit of new stuff in here. It looks great.’
‘Yes, we got the sofa last year, and bought the new curtains and rug to match. Oh, and the coffee table to match the unit.’
Phil walked over to the light oak unit running along the right wall – their wedding photo was in pride of place, and there were various ornaments scattered about. His gaze paused. There was something else that should be there. What was it? He searched through the fog in his mind and then it came to him, piercing through the mist like the sun’s rays through a cloud. The crystal vase that his department at the university had clubbed together to buy them as a wedding present. It was a beautiful vase. They’d put it on the lower shelf of the unit just before they’d gone on honeymoon and he’d promised to always fill it with roses for Freya. Roses were a symbol of their love for each other.
‘Where’s the vase?’ he asked.
He saw something flicker across Freya’s face again, an emotion he couldn’t quite catch before it was gone.
‘The crystal one? I’m afraid it got broken.’
‘That’s a shame. I loved that vase.’
‘Me too. Fancy a cup of coffee and a sandwich?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got steak and mushrooms for tonight but thought you’d prefer something lighter for now.’
‘Please. I’ll just have a wander around while you make it. See what I can remember.’
He walked from room to room slowly, trying hard to remember the last two years of living here. These walls must hold so many memories, if only they could speak to him. Freya was already in the kitchen – a long kitchen with the white marble worktops and sleek black cupboards that he remembered, and an alcove leading to the dining area with the familiar light oak table with a black marble top and four light oak chairs. Nothing much had changed here then.
He walked up the stairs and saw a door on the left and two doors on the right. The bathroom was the door on the left, and the first door on the right was going to be the spare room and a study. They hadn’t decided yet whose study it would be – well, they hadn’t when they’d come back from honeymoon. He opened the door, taking in the single bed with the white lace bedcover, the white desk and chair, the artwork on the wall, and knew that it was Freya’s room. So he had the converted garage room – he was pleased about that; it was the one he’d wanted, he remembered.
He was the one who worked from home the most so needed the bigger, more accessible room. He opened the door to their bedroom, his eyes skimming over the king-size bed with the cream padded headboard and footboard, the lilac and white bedspread, the floor-length, lilac, pleated-top curtains at the window – the bedspread and curtains were both new but the rest was the same as he remembered. Slowly he walked over to the wall-to-wall white wardrobes, opening the door on the right, which he’d remembered as his. Rows of shirts, trousers and jackets hung there. He opened the next door. Here were casual clothes, jeans, T-shirts, jumpers. He moved along to the next wardrobe, opening it to reveal Freya’s clothes, not as neatly sorted out as his, but then Freya was untidy, he remembered that. Her flat had always been a mess – organised chaos, she’d laughingly called it. It had driven him mad although he had never shown it. Did it still drive him mad now or had he learnt to tolerate it?
‘Lunch is ready!’ Freya called.
Slowly he turned and walked out, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Two plates of wholemeal bread and ham sandwiches and a bowl of mixed salad were on the worktop, and two cups of coffee. ‘How was it? I don’t think we’ve changed that much in the last two years, have we?’
‘It doesn’t seem so – except the bedspread and curtains,’ he remarked.
‘We changed the colour scheme a couple of months ago. Want to eat at the table?’
‘Sure.’ Using his left hand he helped her carry the things over to the dining table – his right arm was still painful although it was healing now. They sat and ate, chatting a bit awkwardly at first but then somehow they managed to relax, and they ended up sitting out in the garden, relaxing in the sunshine, reminiscing over their honeymoon, things they had done, with Phil asking Freya questions which she patiently answered.
He didn’t ask her where he’d been driving to last Friday on his own, though, and she didn’t mention it either. He had a feeling they both had things they wanted to forget.
That night, in bed, they snuggled up to each other, said they loved each other, kissed just like they used to do, but Phil couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that something was wrong and he sensed that Freya was tense too. Finally, he fell asleep on his left side, cuddled up to Freya, his arm wrapped around her waist like they always used to do. He was home, with his wife.
In the middle of the night he woke with a start. Something had disturbed him. Then it came to him. A dream. Something thrown against the wall, shattering glass everywhere. He touched his forehead – the glass had hit him, he was sure it had. The cut on his forehead hadn’t been caused by the car crash. Someone had thrown something glass against a wall and it had bounced back and hit him.
He looked down at Freya sleeping beside him. What had happened? What had he forgotten?
14
Saturday
Sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window when Phil opened his eyes. For a moment he lay there, enjoying the closeness of Freya’s body against his. It was so good to be back home. Even though he had been in a side ward by himself, he’d found it difficult to relax with all the hustle and bustle of the hospital. He glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table: eight thirty. Freya was still soundly sleeping; she must have been exhausted. He lay still for a moment, recalling the strange dream he’d had of shards of glass shooting everywhere, one of them hitting his forehead. Was it a memory or a dream? He probed his mind for memories of things that had happened after they’d returned from their honeymoon but there were none. It was all a blank. How could he forget two years of his life when he could remember so clearly the day he and Freya had first met? He’d fallen in love with Freya as soon as he’d seen her. The memory of that day flooded back into his mind.
Phil paid for his coffee and glanced around at the bustling café. It looked like he’d be drinking this standing up. Great. He really wanted to sit for a few minutes and jot down some notes; his article for the Telegraph was due tomorrow. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted two women getting up from a small table in the corner and quickly legged it over there before someone else could grab it. He plonked himself in the seat just as an elderly couple headed over to the table, disappointment registering on the
ir faces before they turned away. If Phil hadn’t been so desperate for a few quiet minutes to work, he might have given up his table to the old couple. As it was, he put his briefcase down on the empty seat next to him, hoping it would deter a stranger from sitting there and trying to engage him in idle conversation. He hated pointless chatter with people he had never met, and usually avoided crowded cafés like this, but it was raining and he’d just missed his train due to the meeting running over. It had gone well, though – he’d got a commission for a monthly magazine article. He took a sip of his coffee, pulled his notebook out of his briefcase and started to write.
‘Excuse me, is that seat taken?’
Damn, just what I need. And it was a woman too – she was bound to want to chat. He looked up resignedly then his breath caught in his throat at the vision in front of him: vibrant jade-green eyes, cheeks flushed, her bright red lips curved in a smile, raindrops sparkling on her long chestnut waves, the promise of a stunning figure underneath the electric-blue raincoat and knee-length black boots, her black-leather gloved hand holding a mug of coffee. She was early thirties, he guessed, beautiful, and she looked so alive.
‘No.’ He reached across to move his briefcase. ‘Please sit down.’
‘Thanks.’
She placed the mug of what he could now see was cappuccino down on the table in front of her and eased herself into the seat as Phil closed his notebook. ‘Please, don’t let me disturb you. You carry on.’
He didn’t want to carry on with his writing. He wanted to talk to her, find out more about her, make a connection so that she didn’t just finish her coffee, get up and walk out of his life. He watched transfixed as she rolled off her gloves then picked up the sachet of sugar, the dark blue varnish on her short fingernails very slightly chipped. She ripped the corner of the sachet and emptied it into the foamy coffee, then gently stirred it round before taking out the spoon and licking the froth off the back of it. He wondered if she realised how seductive she looked, licking the spoon like that. She glanced up, as if suddenly aware that he was staring at her. Their eyes locked for a second and he felt a shiver of desire. Not just desire. Love. He suddenly knew for certain that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this gorgeous woman.