by Dani Atkins
Even the doctor had been unexpected: female, when I had been expecting male, and far more maternal and warm than the Freudian-like physician I’d been anticipating. She had been professional enough to get me to open up completely about my bizarre misconception of the past five years, and kind enough to make me feel that nothing I said was even remotely weird enough for her to press the panic alarm, which must surely be hidden somewhere in her office.
What I hadn’t been expecting was that this would only be the first of many sessions we would have to share in order to piece together my lost past. Medically, I had already undergone all the tests and procedures that were necessary to diagnose any physiological problem, but I was still crushingly disappointed that there would be no quick-fix solution. I suppose I had secretly been harbouring hopes that some form of medication or treatment could be offered to dispel my illusions and make my new reality feel… well, feel real. Dr Andrews had been kind but firm when clearing up that particular delusion.
And when I asked the final question, the one whose response followed me now like a shadow on the busy London pavements, she had at least been honest.
‘Rachel, I cannot tell you when your memory will return. It could be tomorrow, or next week, or indeed it may take a good deal longer. And, although it is rare, I do have to be honest and tell you that in some very exceptional cases, the lost period of time remains just that, for ever lost.’
For ever lost. The words haunted me as I walked, echoing hollowly as my feet trod the glistening thoroughfares of the capital.
Not that the entire consultation session had been all doom and gloom. Dr Andrews had at least made me feel slightly better about the weird imagined sensations that I had been experiencing. Apparently auditory and olfactory hallucinations were by no means uncommon for those who had undergone head trauma, and when I questioned why the things I could smell and hear were so specific, she even had a reasonable theory for that too. The fragrance of my father’s aftershave would have very specific connotations of safety and security for me, and as the sense of smell is particularly evocative in taking us back to somewhere in our past, the doctor guessed that the hallucination probably mirrored feelings of physical safety I had felt as a child, when held by my parent. Her reasoning about the imagined sirens was even more prosaic – for she guessed that when I was taken to hospital after the mugging, I had not been entirely unconscious and the ambulance’s siren had somehow implanted itself into my memory, and was now being arbitrarily replayed as my confused mind struggled for a foothold in reality.
She was a little less sure of why I was also hearing alarms that were not there, but assured me that in time we would uncover all of the mysteries. In time. And there it was in a nutshell. I would have to be patient and let the truth uncover itself one fact at a time, and she assured me that with each emerging element I would then be able to let go of a comparable piece of my imagined history, until at last only the real past would remain.
It sounded like a very slow business to me, and I still couldn’t help but think it would have been so much better if I could have been given some short sharp treatment – however horrible – to make it all happen much more speedily.
The one thing I did like very much about Dr Andrews was the way she hadn’t laughed when I’d answered her question of why I thought I had two entirely different past lives. Her reaction was nothing like Jimmy’s had been when I offered up my earlier theory of parallel worlds. At least she didn’t laugh out loud and blame it all on my somewhat fantastical literary choices. I hastily slammed the door shut on that line of thought. I had resolutely not allowed myself to think of Jimmy all week, and now, in the offices of a psychiatrist who was skilled at probing out a person’s innermost secrets, was definitely not the time to journey down that path again.
And even though I hadn’t spoken to Jimmy myself, I did know he had been in daily contact with my dad, for I’d overheard several whispered conversations behind doors which hadn’t been as securely closed as my secretive parent thought they’d been. So, despite the fact that he clearly wasn’t anxious to speak to me, Jimmy still wanted to know how I was on a daily basis. And while part of me was pleased to know he cared enough to call, the other part was becoming increasingly angry that it was my father he chose to speak to and not me. It confirmed my worst suspicions: that he was still so uncomfortable with what had happened between us at the hotel that he could neither face nor forgive me. I wondered if he would ever be able to do either again.
Tired of being buffeted by the determined holiday shoppers, I slipped inside a small coffee shop and found an empty table. At the last moment my doctor’s appointment had been rescheduled from late in the afternoon to early morning. I hadn’t minded having to get the early fast train into London, but it did leave me now with many hours to kill before the time I was supposed to meet up with Matt for dinner and a lift back home to Great Bishopsford. It had been too late to reach Matt the previous day to let him know of the change of plans, and while I had thought the extra time in London could be spent Christmas shopping, the doctor’s appointment had taken more out of me mentally than I’d expected, and I’d now lost any appetite for pushing and shoving through hoards of people in the department stores.
I glanced at my watch. It was only late morning but there was a possibility that Matt might be free for an early lunch. It would be good to explain to him some of the things Dr Andrews had said while they were still fresh in my mind. Perhaps it would help him to understand why I was finding it so hard to fall straight back into my role as his fiancée, as I know he had been expecting. Acting on impulse, I pulled out my mobile phone and scrolled down the address book until I reached Matt Office.
His secretary answered the call on the second ring, her cool professional tone warming considerably as she recognised my voice. Which was more than I did for hers.
‘Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago for his flat, but you’re meeting him there for lunch anyway, aren’t you?’
‘Umm…’ I never knew why I didn’t immediately correct her assumption but some small warning voice told me not to. And I listened to it.
‘He should be back there really soon, traffic permitting. And could you let him know I’ve managed to cancel those meetings he had this afternoon, like he asked?’
‘Oh… good. I’ll tell him.’
‘It was nice speaking to you again. I do hope you enjoy your lunch today. We’re all so glad to hear you’re getting better.’
‘Thank you…’ I struggled for her name, but obviously nothing was forthcoming, so I just repeated again, ‘Thank you.’
I sat looking at my phone for a long time before finally flipping the lid back into position and replacing it in my handbag. I don’t recall finishing my coffee, or paying the bill, but as no one ran after me yelling ‘thief’ as I left the coffee shop, I guessed I must have taken care of it.
There were a hundred different reasons why Matt’s secretary could have misunderstood what he’d told her about his plans. We had, after all, been intending to meet for dinner that night, and when he asked her to cancel his appointments this afternoon, she might have become confused and believed we were meeting instead for lunch. And yet she had sounded so positive he was on his way to meet me at his flat. How could she possibly have misinterpreted that?
But perhaps I was ignoring the even bigger question. What was so pressing that it was enough to make a workaholic like Matt cancel his entire schedule in the middle of the day? Because it certainly wasn’t to have lunch with his fiancée.
It was easy enough to hail a cab, although I did have to consult my address book for the precise location of Matt’s flat. As the taxi crawled through the midday traffic I tried to keep my mind deliberately blank and completely refused to listen to the voice in my head that was screaming out a prediction of the outcome of this surprise visit. I kept reminding myself that I knew so little of Matt’s working practices that disappearing like this
in the middle of the day might be perfectly usual behaviour on his part. Yeah right, said the voice.
Eventually, the cab pulled up in front of an exclusive-looking apartment block.
‘Here you are, love, Hanbury Mansions.’
I tried a smile that felt a little too stiff to be natural and reached into my wallet to extract a note for the driver. I saw then that my hand had begun to tremble, ever so slightly. This is ridiculous, I chided myself. Why was I getting so worked up about something that no doubt would have the simplest of explanations? I was seeing mysteries where there were none, and surely I had enough real drama going on in my life that I didn’t need to be inventing a whole new episode?
I almost told the cabbie then that I’d changed my mind, but that was before I looked out through the rain-speckled window and saw Matt’s car discreetly parked to one side of the forecourt in a private bay. OK, so he was here. That still meant absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, my hand, which had been hesitating over the door latch, pressed down on the lever and I climbed out of the cab.
My resolve wavered slightly as I looked up at the tall, red-brick and glass building. How stupid was I going to look when all this turned out to be nothing more than a wild goose chase? Not to mention paranoid. No doubt this would give me something else to have to work on with Dr Andrews at our next session.
Yet still my feet continued to walk towards the building. Even knowing that Matt could have any one of a hundred valid reasons for going home in the middle of the day, reasons he chose not to share with his secretary, I still couldn’t ignore the impulse that had set me off on this journey after that phone call to his office.
But for the first time it occurred to me to question if I really wanted to go through with this. Even though I had tried not to listen to the warning voice in my head, I wasn’t completely stupid. I knew that whatever was about to follow from this point on could very well end badly. But the secretary’s words had planted a question in my mind, which screamed out now for an answer. The taxi gunned into life behind me and sped quickly away from the forecourt, eliminating my last chance of escape. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked up to the building.
The large glass-fronted entrance was manned by a uniformed doorman, who politely held open the plate-glass doors to allow me to enter the building. It wasn’t until I was inside that it occurred to me that I didn’t have the slightest idea which flat was Matt’s. The only details I had were the address of the building. The bank of locked mailboxes to the left of the foyer showed that there were twenty or so flats in this block: Matt could live in any one of them. The obvious solution would be to ask the uniformed concierge at the reception desk which apartment was Mr Matt Randall’s. But if I did that, the protocol would probably be to call up to the apartment and let the owner know they had a visitor; it stands to reason that you don’t have this kind of security on the ground and let any old person simply walk in off the street. Clearly, if I went via the doorman I would lose the element of surprise, so the only solution was to somehow get past him and then try to locate which flat was Matt’s.
In a flash of inspiration I pulled a blank piece of paper from my bag and pretended to consult it as though it was confirming my validity to be there at that time. If I just walked past the security man with confidence, perhaps I could pull this off. Luckily, the telephone on the reception desk rang at that moment, and as he busied himself in answering the call, I seized my opportunity. Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the bank of lifts at the rear of the foyer, I strode purposefully past the desk. I was quick, but not quick enough.
‘Excuse me.’
I ignored the voice. Walk with purpose, as though you have every right to be here, I told myself, not allowing my stride to falter.
‘Miss, excuse me.’ His voice was louder that time, and despite myself I hesitated. There was no one else in the foyer. His comment was clearly directed at me. I considered proceeding regardless but it was impossible to ignore the sudden unwanted image of me being frogmarched from the building between two burly security guards. I turned towards the desk with what I hoped was an innocent-looking smile. A second security guard, who I hadn’t even noticed until then, looked up with interest from the pile of paperwork that was before him: the forthcoming interlude clearly promising to be more diverting than his current task.
The first man, the one who had hailed me, made a small beckoning motion with his finger for me to approach the desk. Oh, this was beyond embarrassing. I gave a quick glance towards the entranceway, still being securely guarded by doorman number three. The possibility of making a run for it was clearly not an option. Feeling guilty, and hoping I looked anything but that, I tried to keep smiling as I walked towards the reception desk on legs that felt like jelly. As I got closer I could see that what I had taken for an angry glower was actually a fairly pleasant smile.
‘Yes?’ I enquired, hoping no one but me could hear the wobble in my voice.
‘Have you forgotten something?’ the man prompted.
I blinked back at him stupidly. Forgotten what exactly? Forgotten to report to reception? Forgotten that I don’t live in this building? Hell, I could do way better than that: I’d actually forgotten the last five years.
‘Your key?’ the man continued, as though coaxing the answer out of a child in class.
‘Um, oh, of course, my key,’ I replied, and opened my bag to pretend to look for a key I didn’t have.
The guard’s smile widened a little as he reached across the desk and handed me a front door key, attached to which was a large silver fob. His voice was kindly as he continued, ‘You always ask us to keep your key to Mr Randall’s apartment for you at reception, Miss Wiltshire,’ he explained, in a gentle paternal tone. ‘You say it saves you having to carry it around with you all the time.’
I reached out to take the proffered key, noting thankfully there was a number engraved in the silver-plated fob.
The guard hesitated as though unsure as to whether his next comment was entirely appropriate. ‘We all hope you’re feeling better now, Miss Wiltshire. We’ve missed seeing you around here recently.’
‘Umm, thank you. That’s very kind of you.’
My fingers fastened around the key and I smiled at both men, realising for the first time that the younger of the two appeared somewhat agitated. His eyes kept darting from me to the key and then back towards his older colleague. Something was bothering him about letting me have the key but I didn’t intend to hang around long enough for him to voice his concern.
I turned and began to head back towards the lifts once more, hearing as I did some hurriedly whispered comment and responding exclamation from the men at the desk.
I pressed the call button on the lift.
More urgent whispering; they were clearly in a quandary about something. An instruction was given, followed swiftly by the sound of a telephone keypad being sharply punched. Another exclamation and a quickly heated muttering between the two.
Where was the damn lift? I heard them try the phone again at the precise moment that the carriage pinged to announce its arrival. I just caught the words ‘still engaged’ as the doors slid open and I entered the lift.
‘Miss Wiltshire,’ hailed the older man, getting up from his seat and beginning to leave his desk. But he wasn’t fast enough and the doors glided to a close before he was even halfway across the foyer.
Matt’s flat turned out to be on the top floor, and I could only hope that his phone line had remained engaged throughout the time it took me to reach his doorway. I think I knew by then what had been worrying the security men in reception and why they had not wanted me to reach his flat without alerting him first.
Luck was clearly with me, for when I reached the front door there was no sign that my visit had been announced. From within the apartment I could hear the vague strains of music, but no voices at all in conversation.
I drew in a deep breath to steady my nerves, momentarily deafened by the loud beatin
g of my heart, and slid the key into the lock. The door opened onto a vast, wooden-floored loft-style apartment, elegantly decorated in black and white leather. The source of the music lay to my left; the slow seductive strains of jazz emitting from an expensive hi-fi system.
On a large, low, rectangular glass table stood an open bottle of wine, beside which were two half-empty glasses. To one side of the huge leather settee was the telephone, lying off the hook beside its base. Good luck with making that warning call, guys, I thought wryly, surprised at the bitter taste suddenly in my throat. The room was empty of all occupants.
For several moments I stood rooted to the spot, then from far away at the rear of the apartment I heard a voice, followed by what sounded like a soft peel of laughter. I didn’t move. I knew the answer to the question now. Knew it from the evidence before me in the room. Had known it, if I were being completely honest, even before I left the café and hailed the cab. Did I really need to pursue it further to its inevitable and ugly conclusion?
My feet began to take me in the direction of the voices. Apparently I did.
The door was open, well, why wouldn’t it be? They thought they had the place to themselves. I entered the room silently, seeing more than I wanted to of their entwined bodies, before some latent sense alerted them both to my presence. Their reactions were completely different: Matt jerked back as though electrocuted, immediately disengaging his hold on the woman in his arms. Cathy, on the other hand, moved with precise deliberation, her eyes unreadable as she slowly reached down to pull up a sheet to cover her naked breasts.
We remained motionless in that way for what could only have been a second or two, but it felt like an eternity, frozen in a hideously tawdry tableau.