The Good Part(66)

What would Future Me say? What’s the mature response? Maybe the truth. Now, suddenly I do know what to say.

‘No, I’m glad you told me, I needed to know.’ I pause. ‘And I understand why you said that I wasn’t your wife, but that didn’t make me feel great. It’s made me feel even more like an impostor than I already do.’

He stops rubbing my foot and reaches to tilt my chin so that I’m looking him in the eye. ‘I know, I’m sorry, that came out horribly. You are my wife, of course you are. I love you, I will always love you, whatever happens, whatever you do or don’t remember.’

Sam leans in, his warm, oaky smell so new and yet so familiar. Is he going to kiss me? There’s a moment that feels electrically charged, before he gently presses his lips to mine, so soft, and then suddenly firmer, deeper. I comb a hand through his messy hair and pull him closer, giddy with the feel of him, relief pulsing through every particle of my body. As I stroke my hand around his back, I have a sudden image of the shirt he’s wearing. Breakfast on a beach, him spilling orange juice down it. Is that a memory? That can’t be a photo. I pull away.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘Nothing.’ Less a memory, I reason, more a glimpse, a fragment, maybe something I saw in a video. ‘You don’t need to apologise for feeling weird about all this. I feel weird about it too. I guess I don’t feel like your wife either.’

Sam pulls back, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re going to remember. You will.’

‘But what if I don’t?’

His hand moves back to my leg and he starts slowly massaging my calf. ‘Then I will try to fill in the gaps for you.’

As we lie on the sofa, he tells me about our life together, the beginning of our story. Our first date to Borough Market, where I bought so much cheese he had to lend me his backpack so I could carry it home; our first weekend away to the Lake District where he tried to show off his boating prowess but left us becalmed at the wrong end of Lake Windermere. That prompted our first argument. He tells me about the dinner I hosted to introduce him to my friends, how he was so nervous that he spilt gravy all over Roisin’s immaculate tablecloth. He tells me about a trip we took to Greece with Zoya and her fiancé Tarek, where Zoya was painting a mural for a restaurant and thought it was hilarious that she gave Zeus Sam’s face. He paints each memory with such vivid details: the colour of the sky, the food we ate, my reaction to things, how I laughed at the mural so hard red wine came out of my nose. I’m not sure when I drift off, but his words feel like a balm soothing me to sleep, the details of our life together like brushstrokes, painting their way into my dreams.





Chapter 25


The next morning, I wake with a new sense of purpose. It’s as though falling asleep in Sam’s arms has built a new cocoon around me, reminding me of the need to metamorphose. So I’ve not had instant success. Did I really think I was going to come up with the perfect idea in one evening of research? That I was going to learn how to be a parent in a single day? That I could slot into an eleven-year relationship without any difficulty at all?

Now, as I make breakfast for the children, I pledge I will be more patient. At work, I will try to listen and learn. At home, I will be more empathetic to Sam, give him time to adapt. I will be a calm, composed, ethereal mother. There will be no swearing in front of the children. I will start saying, ‘Yes, my child,’ to all questions, like a nun in olden times.

‘You have a new message on the forum,’ says Felix excitedly, holding up my phone at the breakfast table.

‘Felix! Don’t look at that!’ I say, snatching it back, my ethereal, nun-like mothering lasting less than a minute.

‘Read it, read it!’

Opening the message cautiously, I check it’s nothing pornographic, then, once I’m sure it’s not, I show the message to Felix.


To: WishingFor26

From: Crock Pouch

There’s a depot under the arches at Battersea Bridge. Guy called Arcade Dave who restores all these vintage machines. Brown door next to the flower stall. If anyone knows about your wishing machine, he will. He’s off-grid, no phone, so you’d need to go down there. Tell him Crock Pouch sent you and he’ll be more amenable. He can be a bit of a funny fella. CP



Then beneath his sign off, there’s a quote: ‘I’m not a player, I’m a gamer.’

‘We have to go!’ says Felix. ‘It’s like a real-life quest, with passwords and everything. Let’s go now!’

‘We can’t go now, I have work, you have school.’

‘So?’

‘So we’re not skipping school to go to some random depot to meet a guy called “Arcade Dave”.’

Felix glares up at me, then turns his attention back to his cereal bowl, filling the air with disgruntled munching.

‘Sorry, Felix, I just have a lot of work to do. No one liked any of the ideas I pitched.’

‘Did you pitch helicopters and conger eels?’ he asks.

‘Surprisingly, yes.’ I sigh.

‘Did you tell them the conger eels would be in the helicopters?’ Felix asks.

‘Maybe that’s where I went wrong.’

‘What are you two plotting?’ Sam asks. He’s in a suit, on his way to a recording session in Reading.