by Jean Levy
Matthew appeared to be caught off guard. ‘Annie, I …’
‘I don’t mean to interfere.’
‘No, Annie, that would be wonderful. But … God knows what state she’s left it in!’
‘Don’t you worry, dear. Me and Mr Dickson will nip over later. We know the way.’
‘Phone me straightaway if there’s anything wrong. The keys are on my desk. Thank you so much.’ I felt him becoming less tense.
Mrs Dickson went to leave: ‘Oh yes, Sarah, are you not home this Friday?’
I put my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, I forgot to mention!’
‘Not to worry, dear. But I’ll need a key if nobody’s going to be there.’
Episode Thirty
The taxi took a different route back and all the way I clutched The Lost Christmas Tree and tried not to think of Lucy Ashdown. Matthew was subdued and clearly also grappling with thoughts of this other woman.
‘How long were you and Lucy together?’ I whispered, when I could stand it no longer.
‘On and off for over ten years. It started on and became increasingly off. We didn’t live together most of the time. She had a place in Kensington but she sold it last year and she’s been hanging out in Hampstead ever since. It was always an open relationship. Have you got everything? We’re almost there.’
‘Yes. What kind of open relationship?’
‘The kind that involved other people.’
As soon as we were home, I hurried through to examine myself in the long mirror. It was a disaster. To come anywhere near to competing with Lucy Ashdown I would need a new body and lessons in choosing the right clothes and … I saw Matthew’s reflection appear behind me, felt his arm around my waist, his cheek against mine.
‘I could have made it work with Lucy. But I loved you.’
‘I’ve ruined you. She’s taken all your money.’
‘Not all of it. Just the bit I’d set aside for our first holiday together. And I had to re-mortgage. And sell my golf clubs … and my grand piano.’
‘Do you play the piano?’
‘No, but I was enjoying the look on your face.’ He started to laugh. ‘We’ll manage as long as you get on and write your books. With the central heating off.’
I turned to face him. ‘What did Lucy do before the agency?’
‘She shopped … I can’t remember. Some kind of liaison for a fashion house in Paris. She speaks fluent French. And Italian.’
This latest information did not help my feelings of inadequacy. I wriggled away from him. ‘What’s she going to do now?’
‘More shopping.’
I sat on the bed. ‘You must have been my age when you met her.’
‘Thirty-five and devastatingly handsome.’ He laughed. ‘Are you jealous about who I was with before we met?’
‘You’d be jealous if I’d had someone else.’
He sat down beside me. ‘Probably. Sarah, I chose to be with you.’
‘But you weren’t with me. You were in your flat and I was here.’
‘And that was then and this is now.’ He closed his palm over my knee. ‘And right now I’m contemplating …’
‘Did you used to cook for Lucy?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes. She was about as good at preparing food as you are.’ He stroked his hand up my thigh. ‘We ate out a lot.’
‘Did she know about you and me?’ I resolved to wear a skirt more often.
‘Yes. She’d never cared in the past but with you she did. Now, can we think about something else?’
*
I cleared away after supper and sang along with the music …
‘You remember the words!’
Matthew was holding a CD case. Keane: Hopes and Fears. I took the case and read the titles. ‘Somewhere Only We Know’. That was the song I’d been singing.
‘Matthew, I’m not pretending to have no memories.’
‘God, I wasn’t suggesting that! It’s just … perhaps music might help you remember.’ All at once Matthew’s mobile sounded like an angry duck. ‘Shit, that’s Annie! … Hello, Annie, what’s up? … Good Lord, really? A note? … No, better not. I’m in the office tomorrow afternoon. Just leave it on my desk … Good Lord … Really? Look, Annie, thanks a million. You did check for booby traps, did you? Bombs? Mustard gas? … Really? … Thanks again, Annie … Bye.’ I folded my arms and waited.
‘It was fine,’ he explained. ‘Three bottles of Clicquot in the fridge. Car not wrapped round the gatepost. Grass cut. She must have hired a clean-up team.’
‘Will you move there right away?’ The thought of him going away made my chest hurt.
‘Not until you’re ready to come with me. There’s a garden. Alfie will love it.’
I didn’t know how to live anywhere that wasn’t my flat. ‘What about Miss Lewis?’
‘Well, I’d rather she didn’t come and live with us.’
‘No! I mean she’ll miss Alfie.’
‘Shall we worry about that when it happens?’
We carried on sorting through the CD box but Matthew’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. Eventually, he stopped.
‘I ought to phone her.’
‘Who?’ I knew who he meant.
‘Lucy. I shouldn’t let things end like this.’
I forced myself to stay calm. ‘Like what?’
‘Lucy redeeming herself and me not acknowledging it. Do you mind if I make a quick call?’
Yes, I did mind. ‘I don’t care what you do.’ I carried the CDs to the sofa and sat facing away from him, as he moved to the cramped dining area. I breathed quietly, and listened:
‘Lucy, hi, it’s me. Look, Annie’s been over to the house … no, not yet. I just wanted to say thanks. You didn’t have to do that.’ He chatted, said a few things about the agency, mentioned a project Lucy was working on in New York. I hated to hear him being nice to her and I was devastated when he said, ‘You were looking good today’ and promised to buy her supper next time he was in Manhattan. ‘OK, Luce,’ he concluded, ‘take care … Of course I will. Bye.’
I continued to not look at the CDs. Matthew sat down beside me and eased one from my grasp.
‘I’m sorry, I had to make that call.’
‘When are you going to Manhattan?’
‘I’m not going to Manhattan.’
‘Did you think she looked good today?’
‘For a child of Satan, she looked bloody fantastic! Sarah, those are the things people say. The people they’re speaking to expect to hear them.’
I sighed. ‘I’ve forgotten how to behave, haven’t I?’
He stroked my cheek. Then he laughed. ‘I can’t say I notice the difference!’ He caught my fist as it arced towards him. ‘Hey, will you come and share my house with me?’
I smiled. ‘I might.’
Episode Thirty-one
We arrived at the Regent’s Park rooms with time to spare and had to wait while Bob Gray dealt with his previous patient. Denise brought refreshments and that came close to improving things, so I resigned myself to sipping coffee and ignoring Matthew’s relentless wisecracking. Eventually Denise showed us into a consulting room, waved us towards a long Chesterfield then left, closing the door behind her. After a few moments Bob Gray appeared.
‘Hello, Sarah, Matthew, I thought we’d meet in here today. I call this my lounge. Matthew stood up and shook hands. I remained seated. ‘And how have you been, Sarah?’
I moved slightly away from Matthew. ‘I’ve been fine.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dr Gray. ‘Now, before we go any further, I don’t want you worrying yourself about the next few days. There’ll be nothing very different from what you’re used to. A few cognitive tests.’ He sat down in the armchair near to me. ‘And I think that after such a rigorous assessment, if all’s well, we can consider reducing your hospital consultations to once a fortnight.’ He looked from me to Matthew. ‘Give you more time to get to know each other again.’
‘We’ve pretty much got that covered,�
�� said Matthew. I looked at my lap.
‘Jolly good! And how are you, Matthew. I realise how difficult this has been for you.’
‘I have apologised …’
‘Matthew,’ interrupted Dr Gray, ‘that whole episode with Detective Brown was regrettable.’ He looked straight at me. ‘Matthew has told me about the performance in the cafeteria. She had no right to encourage you to leave the hospital.’ He looked back at Matthew. ‘I gather Geraint has received a solicitor’s note.’
‘It was a shot across the bow,’ said Matthew. ‘I took advice regarding Sarah’s rights. It will go no further.’
Bob Gray nodded. He sat back and lowered his spectacles to the end of his nose. ‘Now, Sarah, do you have any concerns about your stay at the clinic?’
‘Mrs Parkin said I’d be sectioned if I didn’t agree to be admitted.’
Dr Gray’s smile disappeared. When he spoke it was with barely concealed anger. ‘Matthew did not tell me that. Sarah, that is most certainly NOT the case. I shall …’
I clasped my hands together. ‘Please don’t say anything to her!’
‘Right! Well, perhaps we should see about discontinuing home visits.’
I felt empowered. ‘Dr Grey, I’d like Matthew to attend some of the sessions during my stay at Greystone.’
‘I’m sure that will be possible. In fact, I look forward to Matthew’s input.’
Denise brought fresh coffee and Matthew asked Bob Gray about the purpose of these new investigations. He asked lots of questions and I got the impression there had been previous conversations. Conversations I knew nothing about. I listened in silence. Matthew’s interrogation of my physician was making me increasingly uneasy, until Dr Gray, obviously aware of my discomfort, assured me that, in cases such as this, he was very happy for a patient to have an accompanying advocate.
‘Are there cases such as this?’ I asked.
‘That is an insightful question. And I’ll try to give you a satisfactory answer.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘It became clear to us that yours was an unusual condition, firstly when you remained in a state of compromised consciousness, yet demonstrated no neurological damage, and secondly when we discovered your severe memory loss. We presumed that the circumstances under which you were found were implicated in your condition but, having ruled out any physical cause, we were forced to conclude that you were suffering some form of dissociation.’ He paused to take a mouthful of coffee. ‘Patients suffering dissociative or fugue states often demonstrate wandering. That might be the simple explanation as to why you were found where you were. Essentially, your memories have become curtailed due to some trauma that dislocated you from normal life, and your unconscious mind has chosen to deprive you of anything that might lead you to recalling the circumstances involved. Sarah, this is an involuntary process. And, whatever Detective Brown might have implied by her trickery, yours is an unequivocal case of memory repression.’
He glanced at Matthew. ‘Memory repression is regarded by some practitioners as not a true amnesia, although … and may the Lord protect us from yet another reclassification of dissociative disorders, Sarah does have dissociative amnesia.’
I let my hand stray towards Matthew’s, not at all confident about Dr Gray’s explanations. He sensed my confusion. ‘Your memories are deeply hidden. Early attempts at hypnosis proved unproductive. But we believe the memories are still there.’
‘There have been similar cases, haven’t there?’ said Matthew. ‘I’m sure I’ve read about amnesia after psychological trauma.’
‘It’s interesting that you should phrase your statement in that way. Indeed, a corpus of case histories has been built up, involving psychogenic memory loss, but the majority of them exist within the pages of fiction. Retrograde amnesia following psychological shock has often been used as a plot device. Sam Clegg has compiled an extensive list. But actual documented cases are few and far between in the real world. Their authenticity has often been challenged. In fact, the whole idea of memory repression is controversial. So, Sarah, your condition is of enormous interest to clinicians and researchers alike.’
He pulled out a handkerchief and proceeded to clean his spectacles. ‘One thing we are all trying to ascertain is the dynamic nature of your condition. Do you have anything to report?’
I shook my head. ‘I haven’t been able to recall anything.’ I felt the colour rise in my cheeks. ‘But I knew I’d made love to Matthew before. I knew it wasn’t for the first time.’
Dr Gray smiled. ‘I must admit, the sensory and emotional aspects of memory… is a bit of a minefield. Is there anything else?’
‘Well, things I do automatically are OK. And now I can write sentences not just words.’
Dr Gray explained that my procedural memory, concerned with skills, was unaffected by my condition as was much of my semantic memory that dealt with language.
‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘How many kinds of memory are there?’
Bob Gray laughed. ‘That depends upon who’s drawing the diagram. In your case we’re interested in that part of your memory that stores your own personal record. But we’ll need to tell Sam and Shoumi about the sentences. They’ll be interviewing over the next few days.’
‘Will Dr Williams be interviewing me?’
‘He’ll attend some sessions. His interest will be in preparing for any further MRI investigations.’
‘Will Matthew be able to attend the MRI appointments with me?’
‘I think it might be advisable for Matthew to avoid the National for the time being. But Greystone Park is my territory. Obviously, there might be instances where a session requires isolation from surrounding influences but, other than that, if you want Matthew there, then he will be welcome.’
Camberford Terrace, Regent’s Park
Clouds were gathering over the Park, casting their shadows over one of the largest collections of displaced animals in the United Kingdom and spreading gloom inside the well-appointed consulting rooms of Robert Gray, MD, MRCPsych., FRCPsych., and his colleague, Geraint Williams, BSc., PhD., MRCPsych., MClinPsychol..
‘Geraint, I can understand that this last few days have been distressing for you, but this is a situation that might well have been avoided if you had taken my advice. It’s regrettable that things have been allowed to get so badly out of hand.’ Bob Gray indicated the chair on the opposite side of his desk. ‘Please, do sit down, Geraint!’
Geraint Williams remained standing. ‘I never imagined I would find myself exposed to physical violence in this way. And now to be threatened with litigation!’
Bob Gray raised his hands. ‘No, no, surely you’re not letting that distract you, Geraint, you of all people. You’ve practised all those years in the United States where litigation is the normal state of affairs. I’m sure this is not your first encounter with the legal profession. And, besides, Matthew Parry has no intention of encouraging further action. I spoke with them both this morning, about last week’s crisis and about the mendacious presence of Detective Brown. Mr Parry has assured me that he has only sought to be Sarah’s advocate during these stressful circumstances. His discovery that the police were still regarding Sarah with suspicion, and that we, her physicians, appeared to be complicit, was more than he could accommodate.’
He opened the file in front of him and turned a few pages. ‘I’ve received a copy of his formal apology to you. It obviously remains your choice as to how you proceed, but I advise you that the accusation of duplicity would not be easy to dismiss. And such an accusation would not be good for any of us.’
Geraint Williams said nothing.
‘And I’d also like to assure you that I hold myself at least partly responsible for endorsing the unnatural separation of these two people.’
‘Neither of whom can be proven guiltless,’ interrupted Dr Williams.
Bob Gray considered this observation for a long moment. Then he leaned back into his chair. He spoke slowly, authoritatively. ‘Culpability is not our im
mediate concern here, Geraint. Sarah Blake is a patient under our care. Our primary aim is to assist her in a full recovery, after such a terrible sequence of tragedies.’
Again he indicated for his younger colleague to take a seat and this time he watched him do so. ‘This is a singular case, particularly if we consider the possibility of earlier manifestations of the same repressive strategy, but we must be cautious. Some observers might regard Sarah’s isolation as being geared more towards obtaining research results than as a successful therapy.’ He watched Geraint Williams’ eyes narrow. ‘Obviously, any research findings will be important, but they are not as important as the well-being of Sarah herself.’
‘Bob, I do hope I am not being accused of being unethical here!’
‘Good Lord, no, Geraint, not unethical. But we may have all allowed our enthusiasms to run away with us. As I said, I hold myself equally responsible for Sarah’s isolation; an isolation which, in retrospect, was doomed from the start.’