by A J Waines
I felt like a pale, miserable shadow of myself, especially when I thought back to the theatre last night. Watching Con from a distance I suddenly felt like his stalker. I didn’t even want to be with him. I’d only gone because I wanted to remember that feeling when we were first together: the excitement, the anticipation, the intense sexual charge between us. I hadn’t realised ending it with him was going to leave such a jagged hole in its wake.
My friends were right, I needed to meet someone new, to move on. It had been over a year, after all. I opened my laptop and started to browse through online dating sites – and closed it again pretty swiftly. The whole scene made me wince. It was all bad teeth, receding hairlines and the ubiquitous good sense of humour. There had to be a better way.
The phone rang again and I checked the incoming caller: ‘withheld’.
I picked up the receiver, but didn’t say anything. I refused to be intimidated. Silence again. I waited. Nothing. I put it down.
Right, that was it. I was getting myself a whistle to keep by the phone. No, two whistles; one for my mobile when I was out and one for home.
Unable to settle, I threw on my jogging gear and took to the streets, hoping the exercise might lift my mood. Outside, it was crisp and slippery and my breath made wispy clouds as I built up speed, but after about twenty paces I got a stitch; I was running too soon after breakfast. I slowed to a brisk walk instead and turned round to look down the hill at the line of trees. Most of the branches were threadbare and unremarkable, hanging inert, as if they’d given up any hope of coming back to life. It left me feeling worse. I turned and broke into a run again.
Feeling invigorated as I took the last corner, I stopped at the payphone to call Miranda. I knew if I rang from home, my number would come up on her caller ID and she might not answer. She picked up after three rings, sounding bright and breezy.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, enthusiasm swiftly draining from her voice.
‘Just wondered how you were; how your day in Eastbourne went?’
‘That was ages ago. Fine on both counts, thank you.’
‘Any chance of a coffee? You busy?’
‘Can’t just now.’ She didn’t elucidate. ‘I’ve got to go to the laundrette later though, how about then?’
It didn’t sound like much fun, but if that was all there was, I’d take it.
‘Okay. What time?’ I said.
She sighed. ‘About five o’clock?’
Back home, there was a small package for me at the main entrance; a CD pushed through the door with a note saying, Just a little something for all your hard work. I recognised the handwriting from the thank you card. Rosie must have looked at my shelves and seen I had a couple of other Adele albums. Patients occasionally bought me gifts, but typically at the end of a productive series of sessions. I usually responded with genuine gratitude, but this only made me feel awkward. It needed handling carefully. I took it upstairs and left it on the kitchen table.
I was going to have be more vigilant with Rosie from now on. She seemed desperate to please me, hungry for the most meagre scrap of affection in return. She seemed to be trying to force open a door that, in therapy, had to remain closed. I needed to emphasise that my care for her was purely professional; I wanted her to recover her memories – that was all. But she was so vulnerable. How could I tell her the cards and gifts had to stop, without hurting her feelings?
Miranda looked fresher than she had last time we’d met; she’d had chance to prepare for my visit. We hauled two laundry bags along to the launderette and as she set the machine running, I went out for take-away drinks. When I got back, she was reading a paper, humming to herself.
‘Kora rang me,’ she said, stuffing the paper down beside her on the bench.
‘I thought she might.’
‘Everything’s all right, you know.’
I patted her hand. ‘I know. I just worry. That’s what sisters do.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve sold another picture and someone else is interested in a couple I haven’t finished yet.’ She said defensively, as though to remind me that she was not only capable, but successful too.
I nodded and sipped my hot chocolate, wondering how to turn the conversation round.
The washing machine clunked into spin. ‘Kora says you’re seeing someone.’ It was out.
She shuddered. ‘Ugh. Why can’t anyone keep secrets?’
I pulled back sharply. ‘Why keep it a secret from me?’
‘Because I know you’ll get all protective and nosey. Who is he? What’s his background? How trustworthy is he? Is he going to take advantage?’ She was spot on, of course. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘it’s nothing serious.’
‘Someone from the Project?’
‘No. I met him at the library.’
Since when did Miranda borrow books? She gave the spot behind her ear a quick scratch. I let it go.
The wash ended and we dumped the damp clothes into two separate dryers and set them running. Once the rhythmical thudding came to a halt, she started pulling items out. I offered to help.
She elbowed me away. ‘It’s okay, I can manage.’
‘It’ll take half the time, with two of us folding,’ I insisted.
I dragged out pillow cases, towels, a blouse, jeans, pairs of knickers and a bra.
‘I’ve finally ordered a washing machine of my own,’ she said. ‘I’m sick of all this.’
It was then that I came across a handful of unexpected items. A pair of men’s socks. Then two pairs of boxer shorts. I held them up.
‘Not serious, eh?’
‘No,’ she said, snatching them from me. ‘Not really.’
I knew I wasn’t going to get any further.
Chapter 21
Rosie
Big changes are happening! I’ve been to the hairdresser and had my hair straightened. Coloured as well. I’ve taken it down a few shades to chestnut brown instead of screaming ginger. Cost a fortune, mind you – and I’ll have to keep going back to make sure it stays like this. In fact, I’m going to go even darker next time, because it’s not quite what I want.
When I check in the mirror, I have to say, I look terrific. A new me. I’m wearing a pair of those tight magic pants that squash in your stomach and, in my lunch-hour, I had an appointment for eyebrow threading. I’d never even heard of it. I thought it meant you get them plaited, but turns out they pluck out the stray hairs to give them a defined arch. Blinkin’ painful, I can tell you. Like a rabid hamster nipping at my skin, but at least it was quick. And cheap.
Tess, at work, did a double take as soon she saw me.
‘OMG,’ she said, ‘have you got a bloke or something? You look amazing.’
I did a twirl for her on the spot, my hair fanning out in a soft curve with no crazy spirals in sight. ‘Just thought I’d treat myself,’ I told her.
I didn’t mention it was my birthday last week. When Jack turned twenty-five, we all went along to The George for a few drinks and we gave him the bumps, but I knew no one would have suggested that for me.
On Tuesday, I had a massive scare on my way home from work. I was trotting along Oxford Street minding my own business when I looked up and saw him. I was sure it was Max – heading in the same direction on the other side of the road. I crossed over to get a closer look, but it was hard to be sure it was him from behind. He had the same tightly curled black hair, albeit a bit shorter, the same kind of Barbour jacket he’d worn in October. But hadn’t the police found that in the lake?
I didn’t know what to do. If I called out his name, he might run for it and I’d lose him. Had he lost his memory or assumed a new identity? All kinds of crazy possibilities raced through my mind. He seemed to be speeding up and I was finding it hard to keep up without breaking into a run. There were hordes of people around as usual; tourists stopping to consult their maps, groups dawdling outside shops getting in the way. I tripped on the heel of someone’s shoe and ended up on my knees. A woman helped me
up and I barely thanked her, I was desperate not to lose sight of Max.
I dodged through the next dense crush and saw him disappear down a side street, but as soon as I got to the corner, I’d lost him. There were a handful of people on Poland Street, but none of them were Max. Had he seen me and legged it? Had he gone into one of the businesses? There was a modelling agency on the left, a recruitment agency opposite. I walked further down the street: a Chinese restaurant, a lingerie shop, a fish bar, a printing company. I looked inside the window of each one, but he’d given me the slip, intentionally or not.
I wandered back to Oxford Street. Was it really him? Could Max have got out of the lake alive? Or had my brain turned a complete stranger into his double, because I can’t take my mind off the crash? I stood on the corner for twenty minutes, watching and waiting, but it was a waste of time.
Thankful that another day at the music store is behind me, I open my French windows and stand in the dark of the overgrown garden. It isn’t the least bit windy; just cold in a solid, rooted-in kind of way. Like walking into a tall fridge. I can see a sprinkling of stars, which is rare in London. It must be a clear evening. As I look up, I think of Sam. I’ll be heading over there in a few minutes; she’s the highlight of my week.
I try to imagine what it would have been like to get a birthday card from her. Would it have had sunflowers on the front? Or an arty photo of a woman holding a fan? I would’ve traced my finger over the words she wrote inside; nothing gushing, just a simple, formal greeting like, With all good wishes, Sam Willerby. Impersonal or not, it would have meant the world to me. It would have meant she’d spent time in a shop thinking about me, browsing the shelves to choose that card just for me. I’d have treasured it like it was made of solid gold. I’d have framed it.
I come out in goosebumps just thinking about it. I hurry back inside, lock the doors and get ready to go.
I love that feeling when I get off the bus and walk along to the end of her road. I turn the corner and see her gate, then look up to the first floor. One light goes off, this time, but another one, further inside, goes on, sending out a faint glow. She’s getting ready for me. The house pulsates with her presence.
My chest starts to burn inside as I get nearer. I check my watch, but I’m early, so I have to sit on the wall and wait. No one ever seems to come out, so I’m starting to think she doesn’t have any other patients before me on a Thursday. Maybe she doesn’t have any other patients at home at all. Maybe I’m the only one she’s allowed into her sacred space. The chosen one. The thought makes me tingle and I get to my feet. I walk to the end of the road to kill the last five minutes before approaching the house again.
There’s a noise inside and the communal front door shudders when I give it an exploratory shove. I find it’s already open. Nevertheless, it seems polite to ring the doorbell first and I wait for Sam to press the buzzer to let me in. I climb the stairs and she’s waiting for me, holding her flat door open. Inside, there’s a floral aroma, like bath oil, wafting into the hall, but I can’t smell food. I know she’d turn me down if I suggested we go for a bite to eat somewhere after our session. It wouldn’t be allowed, though personally I can’t see what harm it would do.
She waits until I sit down before she admires my hair and new outfit. Does she really like it or does she mention it because she can see I’ve made an effort? I hate not knowing what she’s really thinking. After that, she rather spoils things by asking me not to buy her any more gifts. I tell her the CD was a freebie from the music store, that’s all, but she still isn’t happy. I just want to show my appreciation for what she’s doing for me. She says it’s her job and I’m already paying her a fee. Spoilsport.
I don’t know whether to tell Sam about my ‘sighting’ of Max or not. She might think I’m losing it, that it’s wishful thinking. It’s no use calling the police either, not without a photograph or concrete identification. But thinking I’ve seen him like that has given me nightmares. In my dreams I keep following him and in the end I turn a corner and find him, but when I pull on his sleeve to turn him towards me, his face is grey and slimy from being underwater for weeks. His eyes are sucked out by the fish. I suppose I could tell Sam about that, but there’s not much point. I ask about her family instead and that doesn’t go down too well either.
‘We’re here to talk about you,’ is all she says, as usual.
‘I want to know what a normal family is like,’ I tell her, but I really want to know more about her. She never gives anything away, always keeps herself out of reach. It’s so annoying. Therapy is terribly one-sided. She’s allowed to hide behind an iron door and I can’t ask her anything.
‘Okay, here’s something about me,’ she says, as if she can read my mind. ‘About what’s going on inside my head right now.’ She blinks twice. ‘I’m wondering what you expect from me. Whether you want me to help you recover your memories or whether you want something more from me?’
That shakes me. I try to stay centred.
‘Sounds complicated,’ I say, not looking at her.
Suddenly I’m not sure if I want to know what she’s thinking any more. The comfort of not knowing might be a safer place to be. In my case, the truth always hurts. Still, it’s nice to feel real contact for a change; sometimes I feel as though I’m in the middle of a game, one with stupid rules, like I’m playing chess with a waxwork at Madame Tussauds.
‘I want to remember what happened, that’s all,’ I add, hoping that will end the matter.
For some reason, my mind floats towards Richard. I’m putting together what his sister told me, about him having money problems, with the conversation we’d had in the pub that first night. Had he really been sounding me out, not just joking, about stealing Max’s Guarneri?
I make myself picture the van as it’s filling up with water. Where was Richard? Did he manage to get out and take Max’s violin with him? Had he planned it from the start?
‘As we work with your memories, what would you most like to resolve?’ Sam asks, leaning forward, noticing I’ve drifted off.
‘Lots of things. I want to know if the crash was deliberate or not, for a start. I want to know whether someone was trying to kill one of us. Or all of us. Or if it was about the violin. But most of all, I want to know where my viola is.’
We do some focused trance work after that and something incredible happens. Part of a phone call I overheard after one of the rehearsals in the big house comes back to me. It was the day of the accident and I’m convinced it’s significant. It’s only a few words, drifting up the staircase from the hall: It’s worth a fortune and it’s under the bridge. That’s all.
‘I’ve no idea whose voice it was or what they were talking about,’ I say.
‘A man’s voice or a woman’s, do you think?’ Sam asks.
‘A man’s.’
‘And you’re sure it was at the Hinds’ place? Could it have been at the B&B?’
‘No. It was during a break in rehearsals at the mansion,’ I say. ‘Max told us all to take five, while he made some “important calls to his agent”. He went onto the veranda with his mobile and I wandered on to the landing to stretch my legs. That’s when I heard it.’
‘So, it wasn’t anyone in the quartet?’
‘No. It was someone already using the phone downstairs in the hall.’
‘Someone from the house?’
I shrug.
Neither of us have a clue what it means. There are hundreds of bridges in the Lake District.
My phone rings straight after that. I forgot to switch it off. I think it might be the police so I answer it, even though Sam’s frown says she disapproves. But it isn’t the police – it’s Max’s mother.
I can’t hide the tremble in my voice. Why is she ringing me? DS Fischer must have dished out my number to all-comers, given how easy-going I was about taking Lucy’s call.
Feeling bold, knowing Sam is right by my side, I put the phone on speaker so we can both hear what she say
s. Her questions are similar to the ones Lucy had asked about Richard.
‘I hadn’t seen Max for six months,’ she says, her voice breathy and strained. ‘I wanted to know…can you tell me what happened? Did he seem happy? Did he suffer?’
Big questions. I stare at Sam for guidance, but she’s sitting back avoiding my eyes, waiting.
‘He seemed in really good spirits,’ I say, making my voice sound bright. ‘Didn’t the police tell you what happened?’
I don’t want to have to trawl through it all again.
‘Yes… of course, but you were there…you…’
A sick feeling takes over my stomach. You got out, you escaped, you were the lucky one…
‘I can’t remember much,’ I tell her. ‘I’m having memory therapy to try to bring it back…but I’m sure whatever happened, it was quick…’
It sounds like a cop-out to me, but it seems to satisfy her.
‘To be honest, I’m surprised he accepted the job,’ she tells me, shifting into a business-like tone.
We all were. It seemed beneath him following his meteoric success.
‘Especially as he’d had a bit of a run-in with the organiser’s son,’ she adds, ‘during that first visit, years ago.’
‘I didn’t know about that,’ I say, turning to Sam with my eyes wide. Funny how grief seems to encourage people to reveal all kinds of personal details probably best kept hidden.
‘Karl Hinds threatened him,’ she explains. ‘He accused my son of stealing something from the house.’
I keep my eyes on Sam to see her reaction. She looks annoyed that I’m allowing this intrusion to hijack our session, but she can’t hide the fact that she’s a teeny bit intrigued, too.
‘What did Karl say he stole?’ I say into the phone.
‘I’ve no idea. Max said it was all a silly misunderstanding and couldn’t wait to get out of there.’