The Good Part(34)

We share a look and then I laugh, because that does sound like something I would do. ‘I want to hear it, this song – the reason we met. Will you sing it for me?’

He pulls out his phone and searches for something. ‘Better you hear it sung by a professional.’ After a few taps, music spills out of unseen speakers that must be built into the walls. I’m about to object, to insist I want to hear him sing it, but the beat captivates me, and I pause to listen. A deep, soulful male voice is accompanied by an electronic beat and the rousing swell of classical strings – it’s a unique combination.

‘When did you write this?’

‘Years ago. I haven’t written anything as good since.’

The chorus kicks in:



Like an imprint on a slept-in bed,

Like words that are felt but never said,

Somehow I always sensed, I always knew,

That I had the promise of you.



My skin prickles with goosebumps, as the words get straight beneath my skin. Then the beat kicks back in and the violins swell, lending an ethereal, almost religious quality to the song.

‘I love it,’ I say, and when my eyes meet his I get goosebumps again. There’s something in his gaze I can’t translate; sadness that I don’t remember, pride that I like his song, something else intangible that makes me prickle with desire.

‘Was it a huge hit? Did it make you rich?’

‘It was a hit for the singer, Lex.’ Sam shakes his head. ‘I was young and naive, I signed a contract I shouldn’t have signed, so sadly no, not rich.’

‘Did you write more songs when you were older and wiser?’

He stops the music with a tap to his watch. ‘I don’t write that kind of music any more.’ He stands up, reaching to take my empty bowl. I was enjoying our conversation, but I sense I’ve said something wrong, because then he says, ‘It’s been a long day. Shall we go to bed?’

Go to bed? Does he mean together? Talking to Sam this evening has felt like a perfect first date, and I haven’t had one of those in a long time. I like Sam, I know I’m attracted to him, but now the thought of sleeping with him, even beside him, feels more complicated than I’m ready for.

‘Um, do you have a spare room?’ I ask tentatively.

‘Sure,’ he says. His voice is kind, but I see the injury of rejection in his eyes. ‘I can sleep in the spare room.’

‘I’m happy to. I just, I need to get my bearings, a good night’s sleep. This is all so . . . different.’

‘Of course. The doctors said you need to rest, avoid stress.’ He shoots me a smile, but now there’s an awkwardness between us, the playful, flirty energy gone. Until now he was treating me like his wife, a wife who’s lost her memory. Now, it’s as though he’s finally understood the possibility that I am not her.

We go upstairs, and Sam follows me into our shared bedroom to collect his toothbrush and book. Then he gives me a tentative kiss on the cheek. As he leans in, I inhale the oaky warm smell of him and my hands lift, almost in reflex, as though they’re used to wrapping themselves around his back. But I catch them just in time, pulling my hands tight behind me.

‘Goodnight then, Sam,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat.

‘Goodnight,’ he says, heading out onto the landing and closing the door softly behind him.

Finally, I’m alone. Falling back on the bed, I stare up at the clean, white, dry ceiling and remember what the old lady from the newsagent’s said, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Nothing in this life feels like mine – the nice clothes, the clean house, the attractive husband, and sweet children, they all belong to someone else. I know, metaphorically, that walking in someone else’s shoes is meant to be a good thing, but in reality it feels a bit icky, like chewing someone else’s gum. Isn’t this what I asked for? But I can’t shake the feeling that I have been tricked somehow, that this is poetic justice for all my complaining. Despite the many comforts of this life, right now, all I want is to wake up back in my old bed, with my old, manageable problems. Lying alone in the dark I find myself whispering a prayer to whoever might be listening.

‘I get it, I’ve learnt my lesson. If I could go back now, please, that would be great.’





Chapter 14


Whoever is up there doesn’t listen, because I wake to the sound of Amy crying. Stumbling out of bed, I go to her room to comfort her. She needs her mother, and for now, I guess that’s going to have to be me. However clueless I am about children I need to learn how to do this because the look on Felix’s face yesterday when he said he wanted his mummy back cracked something inside me. Opening the door to Amy’s room, I find Sam already there. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, cuddling Amy over one shoulder and singing to her quietly.

‘Oh hi, I . . .’

‘I’ve got this. You go back to bed,’ he whispers.

Turning to go, I pause in the doorway to watch them for a moment. Sam is whispering a song, his Scottish lilt more pronounced when he sings. His strong, tanned arms so gentle around her tiny body, the rhythmic dip of his chest as he bobs her up and down. He instinctively knows how to soothe her in a way that I wouldn’t. ‘Go back to bed, it’s fine, she’s almost asleep,’ he says again.