The Good Part(29)

‘No, but you get private cover through work,’ Sam explains.

‘Did they cure cancer yet?’ I ask Dr Shepperd.

‘I’m afraid not. Are you worried about cancer?’

‘No. I just hoped they might have cured it by now.’

Sam and the doctor exchange concerned looks.

By the end of the brain scans, reflex tests, blood tests, urine samples, an eye exam, plus some strange nostril swab, I feel like screaming because I know they’re not going to find anything, and sure enough, they don’t. A second doctor, a woman called Dr Flynn, is called in to look at my brain scan results.

‘We can’t see anything to worry about, Mrs Rutherford,’ she tells me. ‘There’s no signs of a bleed or any suspicious growths. You appear to be in excellent health.’

Dr Shepperd nods sagely. ‘There are no signs of trauma, and given your otherwise clean bill of health, we can only assume transient global amnesia, a sudden, temporary loss of memory and inability to recall the recent past.’ Dr Shepperd looks to Dr Flynn, who nods in agreement at this diagnosis. I raise my hand.

‘Sixteen years doesn’t seem that recent though, does it?’ I say. ‘Maybe in the grand scheme of tectonic plates shifting and dinosaurs roaming the earth, but in the scale of my life, it feels distinctly un-recent.’

‘Every case is different. I’m afraid there’s still a huge amount we don’t know about the brain,’ Dr Flynn tells me, tapping a pen against my scan results. ‘The good news is, it’s probably not permanent.’

Probably?



What if they’re right and I do have amnesia? I wonder on the car journey home. It would be a more rational explanation, but then the timing of all this, with it happening straight after I made that wish . . . and something about the machine, that woman, her knowing eyes.

Sam reaches across from the driver’s seat and puts a hand on my knee. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you. I can’t believe how measured you’re being.’

‘Well, I did spend thousands of pounds in Selfridges and get so drunk I fell asleep on the train, so not that measured.’ Sam smiles. ‘Do you think my medical insurance will cover expensive suits bought while under the influence of memory loss?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he says, glancing across at me, his eyes warm with affection. It’s the same look my parents’ dog, Banana, used to give me whenever I walked through their front door, he was always so pleased to see me. It makes a weight in my stomach shift because I can’t remember ever being looked at like this by another human.

‘How did you and I meet?’ I ask Sam.

‘I’m sure it will come back to you,’ he says, returning his gaze to the road.

‘Maybe, but tell me anyway?’

He bites his lip, then runs a palm up his neck. ‘I could tell you anything and you wouldn’t know if it was true. I could tell you we met hiking Kilimanjaro, or that you were my pole dancing instructor.’

‘I don’t think I’ve had a personality transplant. I would never willingly climb Kilimanjaro; I hate hiking’ – And then in unison we both say – ‘unless there’s a pub at the end of it,’ which makes us both laugh.

‘We met in a karaoke bar off Shoreditch High Street on your thirty-first birthday. I was thirty-three, on a horrible stag do, and it was the only bar that would let a bunch of guys in matching T-shirts through the door.’

‘I was doing karaoke?’ I ask in surprise. ‘That feels almost as unbelievable as me climbing Kilimanjaro.’

‘Why? You have a beautiful voice. You were out with Zoya, Faye and Roisin, and you got up on the stage, wearing this incredible gold minidress, then you sang “The Promise of You” in this perfect, husky voice. It was love at first sight and first sound, on my part anyway.’

‘And for me?’ I ask, finding myself smiling at the story, trying to imagine the scene.

‘At first, you didn’t want to talk to me because you were out with your friends, but you gave me your number and I called the next day. We met for enchiladas at Borough Market. Eight months later, I asked you to marry me.’

‘That was a bit keen,’ I say, making a face of mock disapproval.

‘When you know, you know.’ He looks at me again, and in his eyes I feel the history between us, even if my mind doesn’t know it. A warm hum resonates within me. I wanted to get to the good part – is Sam the good part? From what I’ve seen, I’d be lucky to end up with someone like him. He’s handsome and kind, a hands-on father. Now, if I could just go back in time and tell twenty-six-year-old me that it’s all going to be fine and she just needs to chill the fuck out, delete all the apps, and wait for him to show.

At the house, we pause in the driveway for a moment, neither of us rushing to get out of the car. ‘Thank you,’ I say, not sure what I’m thanking him for – for taking me to the doctor? For being so understanding? For marrying me? All the above? Sam reaches for my hand, then looks down at it.

‘You’re not wearing your wedding ring,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say, following his gaze, seeing a lighter band of skin around the ring finger of my left hand.

‘You keep it on your bedside table at night,’ he says, turning away from me.