The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  She sighs – it’s a long sigh but not altogether a bad one. Is she leaning a little into me, or am I imagining it? ‘It’s OK,’ she says slowly, and I barely believe my ears. She looks solemnly at me, her eyes latching on to mine. ‘I’ve been thinking.’ She sighs. ‘Look – even if you did see Ness, the point is you’re mine. You made your choice, and you chose me.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I should remember that.’

  She’s being so understanding I feel like a complete louse. ‘You shouldn’t have to make yourself remember that!’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t put you in a position where you have to remind yourself that I chose you. It should be obvious to you every minute of every day.’

  She smiles at me and I can’t resist pulling her to me, hugging her to my chest and kissing her forehead.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not going to say it’s OK because it’s not,’ she says. ‘But promise me one thing?’

  ‘Yes?’ I’ll do anything. Anything!

  ‘Will you go and see Dr Grant? Just ask him what could be the cause of your blackouts? It might be something simple – something really simple that could be easily fixed. And I don’t want us to continue this…. this “roller coaster” of highs and lows when you don’t remember. I hate drama. You know that.’ Her voice softens. ‘I hate fighting with you.’

  ‘I will,’ I say. And I mean it.

  *

  When Ness replies to my message later that evening, I take my phone into the bathroom to read her reply but I needn’t have bothered. ‘No, we didn’t meet,’ she says, simply, and I have the sense that I’m edging across a rope bridge. I’m way out over a steep ravine, and someone’s cut the bridge behind me.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Stella

  Friday evening. George appears in the kitchen door and slings his jacket over the back of a chair. He’s dressed, ready to go, and is rolling up his shirtsleeves as he speaks. I catch a waft of his cologne and notice that he’s shaved, too. When did he last see Harry? I guess it’s been ages but, even so, George’s eagerness to see his big brother makes me pity him a little. Clearly the power balance in the relationship is a little skewed.

  ‘Come on! We need to leave in twenty minutes!’ George says.

  ‘Just a minute.’ I’m on the iPad. Not doing anything important, just flicking about on Facebook, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for the evening ahead.

  George looks pointedly at his watch. ‘Do you need a shower?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, please go and do it or we’re going to be late.’

  I sigh and close the iPad. ‘OK. Going, going. What shall I wear? I haven’t seen Harry for years.’

  ‘Something. Anything! Just be yourself.’

  ‘OK.’

  I take my time getting ready. I can hear George’s shoes pacing about on the concrete floor downstairs and his impatience amuses me.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ he yells up the stairs but he doesn’t wait for a reply; he bounds up them and appears in the bedroom as if to check I really am dressing. I see he has his jacket on.

  ‘Nearly done,’ I say. ‘Which earrings?’ I hold two different ones up by my ears. He barely looks at them; just says. ‘Left.’

  ‘My left or your left?’

  ‘Yours!’

  ‘This one? Oh, I was thinking it might be too “evening-y”. Although I suppose it is an evening…’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ George sounds strangled. ‘Please. They’re both nice. Just pick one.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ I fasten my earrings, slip on my shoes, grab a clutch. ‘Right. I’m done.’

  George turns of the lights and follows me out of the bedroom. I run down the stairs but, a couple of steps before the bottom, I fall, landing awkwardly on my ankle.

  ‘Ow!’ I clutch it and rock backwards and forwards, trying not to cry. ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’

  ‘Oh my God, Stell, are you all right?’ George is beside me in a flash. ‘What happened? Did you just miss the step? Here, here, let me look.’

  I let him gently ease my leg out in front of me. Already I can see there’s some swelling as the flesh is starting to bite into the delicate strap of my shoe. George undoes it and frees my foot, holding it tenderly.

  ‘Can you move it? Wiggle your toes.’

  I do. George then moves my ankle gently this way and that.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken. Probably just a sprain. Let me get some ice.’

  He comes back with a pack of frozen peas and places it carefully on my ankle.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asks. ‘Shall I call a taxi?’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘George. I can’t come! I can’t walk like this. Look at it. I’m not hopping into central London.’

  I watch his face change as he realises we’re not going anywhere. He takes off his jacket.

  ‘You can still go,’ I say. ‘Please don’t ruin your evening on my account. Harry will be waiting.’

  George helps me to stand and support me as I take a step or two, but my ankle gives out. I lean against the wall, panting.

  ‘Ow. I can’t put any weight on it. But go. Go on, you’ll be late.’

  George passes a hand over his brow, smoothing out the frown that’s there.

  ‘No, sweetheart. It’s fine. I’ll stay with you. Let’s get you up and get that leg elevated.’

  I lean heavily on him as we shuffle to the living room. He settles me on the sofa, and fusses about, propping me up with cushions and asking what he can get me.

  ‘Is it feeling any better?’ he asks. ‘We might have some bandage. I think we should strap it up tonight.’

  ‘Stop fussing,’ I say. ‘I’m a big girl. Fussing isn’t going to salve your conscience.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ He honestly looks baffled. I stare at him and he stares back. ‘What do you mean?’

  I look down. ‘Well, if you hadn’t been in such a hurry…’

  ‘If you hadn’t been so slow! We were late!’

  ‘Five minutes, maybe, but you didn’t need to shove me down the stairs.’

  ‘Shove you?’ George’s mouth hangs open.

  ‘OK, not shove, but you were on top of me. Your foot hit the back of mine. That’s what knocked it out from under me.’

  ‘No!’

  I nod. ‘Yes. But, look, let’s not hash over what happened. I’m fine.’

  George shakes his head. ‘No. I was three steps behind you.’

  ‘Maybe. I wasn’t counting. But you were coming down faster than I was. And you have big feet! You didn’t even feel it, did you? But I felt you whack my foot out from under me. Anyway, look, there’s no point in going over it now. As you say, it’s not broken so all’s well that ends well. Why don’t you go and see Harry? I’ll be fine here.’

  George stays.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  George

  It’s not difficult to get an appointment with Dr Grant. He takes private patients and, thankfully, my health insurance is still valid. The waiting room is small and a little shabbier than I would have expected – the chairs a little worn, the magazines well thumbed – but I’m not there long before the receptionist calls me in. Dr Grant’s writing something when I knock on the door and enter the consulting room, and he doesn’t look up so I choose one of the two chairs adjacent to his desk and sit down. While I wait, I look at my hands. My ring finger looks bare without my wedding ring. I cross my arms so it’s out of sight.

  After a minute or two, Dr Grant looks up.

  ‘So. George. What can I do for you today?’ he asks, raising his eyes over the line of his glasses. No pleasantries. It seems abrupt but I’m kind of glad about that. It’s good to keep personal and business matters separate.

  ‘There are a few things.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘The main one is my memory. There are things I just can’t remember.’

  The doctor laughs. ‘It happens to the best of us.’

  This
wrong-foots me a little. ‘I’ve started having blackouts. That’s not normal, is it? If it was just forgetting things, I wouldn’t be here. Trust me – I never go to the doctor!’ I laugh. ‘Avoid them like the plague!’

  ‘OK, OK. Can you give me any examples?’

  ‘Well, several times I’ve come home after a night out and I can remember a certain portion of the evening but nothing after that. Nothing at all. It’s as if I was unconscious. Stella tells me things that have happened and I have no memory.’

  ‘Hmm. Would you typically have been drinking when these episodes occur?’

  ‘Not more than usual.’

  ‘Would you say you’re a heavy drinker?’

  ‘All due respect, doctor, but it’s not to do with alcohol. I know my limits.’

  Dr Grant looks at me over his glasses.

  ‘There’s general memory loss, too, when I haven’t been anywhere near a drink. Losing things. Not remembering text messages and emails that I sent to my wife.’

  ‘I see. And this causes a problem between you, presumably?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I’m here. She asked me to see you, to be honest. She’s worried.’

  ‘So you’ve forgotten about text messages you’ve sent? Is there anything else?’

  ‘Not remembering where things are kept at home – it’s like living in a stranger’s house sometimes.’ It sounds feeble when I say it out loud and I half expect him to make a joke about it. ‘It’s very disorientating.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping a diary.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Often what I remember happening doesn’t match what I’ve written in the diary.’

  ‘I see. And Stella asked you to come and see me?’ Dr Grant is nodding as if he finds this point particularly interesting.

  ‘Yes.’ I try to keep the impatience out of my voice. ‘So, is there any sort of test you can do to see what’s causing it? I’ve ruled out epilepsy, alcohol and drug use, which leaves brain damage. Do you think it could be a tumour? Do I need a brain scan?’

  Dr Grant tuts. ‘First, let me get a little more background. On a scale of one to ten how would you rate your current stress level?’

  ‘Mmm. About an eight.’

  ‘You’re not currently working, are you?’

  ‘No. That’s part of the stress.’ I cross my legs and uncross them. What I say to a doctor is confidential, isn’t it? I shift on the seat. ‘I’ve been suspended from work for the time being, pending an investigation.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. A “misunderstanding”.’ I shift on the seat. ‘Look. I took some money in good faith – a really short-term loan to tide me over. I was going to pay it back with interest. I shouldn’t have taken it. But I didn’t steal it.’

  ‘I see. And how do you feel about this?’

  ‘Pissed off.’

  ‘Well. I’m sure if you acted in good faith then your name shall be cleared,’ says Dr Grant rather dismissively. ‘But, in the meantime: you say you feel…’ he pauses ‘…annoyed?’

  ‘Yes. Annoyed.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Let down. Disappointed. Anxious. Actually—’ and I don’t know why this hasn’t occurred to me before ‘—could that cause my heart to thump? It’s been thudding a lot lately. Almost feels like it’s going to jump out of my throat.’ I smile. ‘I thought I was going to have a heart attack, too. As well as the brain tumour.’ I give a laugh to show I’m not entirely serious.

  ‘It’s quite possible that the pounding is caused by anxiety,’ says Dr Grant. ‘I can arrange for you to have an ECG. But, I’d like to go back to these negative feelings you’re experiencing: would you say there’s anger there?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I guess so. Towards the company and the way they’ve shafted me. They know I wouldn’t do something like this.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dr Grant looks at his notes and then back up at me. ‘So how do you deal with this anger that you feel?’

  I sit back in my seat and cross my arms. ‘What do you mean how do I “deal” with it?’

  ‘Well, do you have some sort of release for your anger?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Some people go running, or take up some sort of sport. Go for long walks.’

  ‘I run. Always have.’ Even as I say it, I realise I haven’t been running since we moved to the village.

  ‘OK, good. Anything else? Do you have any hobbies that get you out of the house?’

  ‘I have a bike. A Ducati.’ I can’t say it without smiling. ‘I ride that.’

  ‘Hmm. Anything else?’

  I shrug. ‘Not really. I don’t usually have any spare time for hobbies.’

  ‘So no golf or anything like that? Pool? I don’t know what games you youngsters play these days. Foosball?’ He twiddles his hands as if playing table football. I shake my head.

  ‘Yoga? Meditation?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘OK. And friends. Do you have many close friends? Who you see regularly?’

  ‘Well, I had my work colleagues till recently. We were a close team. Work hard, play hard – you know how it is.’

  ‘But you don’t see them at the moment.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Well, I had friends where I lived before: my MC – motorcycle club.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Dr Grant lapses into silence and I fidget on the chair. I’m aware that the picture he’s painted of me is very negative: no job, no hobbies, no friends, angry and frustrated and a bit of a drinker. Am I really that pathetic a figure? Where did George the golden boy go? I remember how I used to leap out of bed in the mornings, ready for another day at work; how ideas used to bombard me day and night. What happened?

  ‘Hmm,’ says Dr Grant again. He’s looking at me thoughtfully. ‘Let’s just do a quick check of your memory. Can you tell me the months of the year in reverse order?’

  I rattle them off.

  ‘And count backwards from twenty to zero?’

  Again, I manage without stumbling.

  ‘OK, look,’ says Dr Grant, ‘I’m not concerned about your memory loss at this stage. I think the stress you’re under is taking its toll. And we’ll book you in for an ECG if that gives you some peace of mind. But I am concerned about the impact your anger and frustration are having on your home life.’ He glowers at me as he says this and I get the feeling he’s trying to imply something. ‘You need to find an outlet. Take up a hobby, even if it’s just while you’re out of work. See friends outside of your work circle. Try to reduce your stress levels.’

  ‘So I don’t have a brain tumour?’

  The doctor leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. ‘I sincerely doubt it. But, if you’re concerned about what you’re forgetting, I’d keep up with the diary. Try to spot any patterns – if memory loss occurs only after drinking, for example, or when you’re feeling stressed. And come and see me again and we can take it from there. In the meantime, my advice is to get yourself a hobby.’ He stands up and holds out his hand and I realise my appointment is over.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Stella

  Given I’m stuck at home with my sore ankle for a few days, it seems a good time to really make a start on the novel I’ve been meaning to write since I scaled back my office work. I settle myself on the sofa with the foot elevated, stare blankly at my notebook and wait for the ideas to come.

  They don’t.

  I drum my fingers on the sofa and look around the room. Why can’t I do this? Why can’t I write a novel? I was brought up to believe I could do anything and the lack of progress annoys me; it irritates me like a tiny stone lodged in my shoe. Not hurting; just annoying. Giving me jaggedy edges where things should be smooth. I know what the book’s going to be about but, in all the time we’ve been in the village, I haven’t got down a single word, not even a title.

  I’ve been procrastinating, of
course. Everyone wants to write a book – and I’ve realised, since moving house, why it is that most people never actually start. It’s because it’s difficult. A bit like ice-skating, maybe – it looks effortless enough but when you actually get those things under your feet for the first time you realise how much strength and balance goes into making it look quite so easy. But this is where that stone irritates me: I’m not used to finding things difficult. And with a book, even if you have the idea and the time, it’s still unbelievably hard to get that first chapter written down. Every time George has been out – which hasn’t been a lot, to be fair – I’ve Googled how to start writing a novel. And an inspirational sentence I’ve come upon today – ‘Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can’ – has given me a bit of an epiphany. Now, sitting here in the sunny living room with the patio doors open and the sound of birdsong drowning out the radio, it’s made me realise that all I have to do is begin. I take a deep breath, pick up my pen and write on the first page.

  ‘Diary.’

  I stop as soon as I’ve written that because I can’t think what to write next. Diary of an Abused Wife? I cringe. Diary of Domestic Violence. Too dull. Diary of a Marriage. Also dull. Diary of Doom. Oh God, this is hard.

  What would make someone want to pick it up and read it? It’s quite a dark story I plan to write, about a woman who’s trapped in her house by her husband. I got the idea after Dr Grant started talking about the Taylor conviction at the party. I couldn’t stop thinking about how the husband must have deliberately set about to erode all of his wife’s self-confidence and self-belief until she truly believed that she shouldn’t leave the house. How can that happen? How can two people live in such a warped version of reality?

  I decide to finish the title later. I enter the date, and then I start to write: ‘He’s angry all the time. So angry, I’m afraid for my life.’ I bite my lip. It’s going to be good.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  George

  I get a job. Stell comes in one day, her face glowing. She looks so happy she’s practically walking on air as she bounces into the kitchen.