‘Don’t apologise. It’s your mum’s fault for turning up unannounced. I didn’t know whether I should even tell you, but I didn’t think I could keep something like that from you.’
Dominic squeezed her hand. ‘Of course you were right to tell me. But can you promise me one thing?’ He paused. ‘The stuff I’ve just told you, about how my parents treated me. Can you promise to keep that to yourself?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean, don’t tell anyone, not even your parents, or your sister.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve never told anyone those stories before. And the thought of people talking about them behind my back . . . I honestly can’t imagine ever telling anyone other than you.’
‘I won’t say a word, I promise. I’m just so sorry you had to go through all that.’
A faint murmur emerged from the baby monitor and Livvy glanced at the screen, watched Leo turn his head from one side to the other.
‘So what do you want to do about your mum? Just ignore her and hope she doesn’t come back?’
‘I think so. I don’t want to give her the oxygenation of contact – it’s what she wants, having me enmeshed in her life again. If she doesn’t get a response, she’s more likely to leave us alone.’
Leo cried out through the monitor. Livvy looked apologetically at Dominic. ‘I should go and see to him. He’s clearly not going to self-settle. Will you be okay?’
Dominic nodded and Livvy headed upstairs, lifted Leo out of his cot. As she held her son in her arms and rocked him back to sleep, she thought about the events Dominic had just described – like scenes from a horror film which, once viewed, could never be forgotten – trying and failing to understand how any parent could enact such cruelty on their child.
ANNA
LONDON
I stand in the centre of the sitting room, waiting for memories to emerge. I sense Stephen watching me, but I do not turn to look at him, am not yet ready to confront the weight of his expectation.
The sitting room of our house is small, slightly gloomy, despite a bay window at one end and a second window onto a small patio garden at the other. The floors are wooden, somewhat scuffed. Neatly packed bookcases fill the alcoves. A sofa and two armchairs are arranged around a cast-iron fireplace as if in preparation for a cold winter’s night, but they seem too big for the room somehow, as though they have fantasies of belonging to a much larger house. And there’s something austere about the room, unhomely almost, though I cannot put my finger on what it is.
‘Anna?’
I shake my head. There is nothing I remember about this room. No spark of memory. The house I have stepped into might as well be the home of a stranger.
‘Come through to the kitchen.’ Stephen’s voice hovers in a hinterland between encouragement and disappointment. He cups a hand around my elbow, guides me towards the door like I am an elderly relative unsteady on her feet.
The kitchen is a sea of white: white cupboards, white work surfaces, white tiles. Even the floorboards have been painted white. Only the oak table pushed against one wall breaks up the visual monotony. Every inch of the room is sparkling clean and the effect is almost dazzling, like stepping off an aeroplane into the glare of foreign sun. It strikes me that I cannot imagine cooking in here, cannot imagine daring to chop tomatoes or slice a loaf of bread for fear of creating a mess. And then the thought springs to mind that I do not know whether I am a competent cook, whether it is something I enjoy doing or if it is a daily chore. Whether, in fact, it is Stephen who takes responsibility for our meals.
‘How do you feel?’
My breath quickens and I wish I were able to respond truthfully without disappointing him. ‘A bit . . . strange.’ It is an understatement, but I do not know how to describe this sense of disorientation.
‘Shall I show you upstairs? Perhaps you’ll remember something up there?’ His voice is hesitant and I sense his optimism dwindling.
I nod, and he leads me up the stairs, highlighting the narrowness of the tread and the extra lights in the hallway to mitigate against falls in the dark, as if he is an estate agent and I a potential buyer.
At the top of the stairs, a square hatch looms above our heads.
‘The loft ladder’s pretty treacherous – I need to get someone to come and fix it – so don’t venture up there if I’m not here.’ He ushers me into the bathroom directly ahead, another room all in white: a toilet, a sink, a shower over the bath. Functional, compact.
Next door is a tiny bedroom – the second bedroom, Stephen tells me – with a window overlooking the patio garden. The houses that back onto ours are so close that I can see a family photograph – a man, a woman, a babe in arms – hanging on a neighbour’s wall. Our second bedroom is full of cardboard boxes, each sealed with parcel tape.
‘I know, you don’t have to say it. How have we still not got around to unpacking all these boxes despite having lived here for over a year?’ There is a smile in Stephen’s voice and I feel a sudden rush of reassurance that he is here, by my side, that I am not having to manage this alone. ‘Every weekend we promise ourselves that we’ll finally tackle all this’ – he swoops an arm across the room – ‘and every weekend we somehow manage to find something more interesting to do. We could probably just throw the lot away – we clearly don’t need it.’ He laughs and I find myself smiling in spite of the worry churning in my stomach.
‘Let’s look next door and then the tour’s complete.’ He takes hold of my hand, squeezes my fingers, and I hope he knows how grateful I am for his patience. How sorry I am that he is having to guide me around our home as if I am viewing it for the first time.
The walls in our bedroom are painted pale blue and it would be tranquil were it not for the bed taking up most of the floor space. It seems that a lot of our furniture has delusions of grandeur.
The room smells of fresh linen and I am touched that Stephen has been so thoughtful, putting on new sheets for my return. And yet, at the sight of the bed, with its high wooden headboard and crisp white duvet cover, I am aware of something pulling taut across my chest.
I realise with a sudden jolt that tonight – in less than ten hours’ time – I will be climbing into bed with the man currently standing next to me. We will spend the night side by side, on the same mattress, beneath the same duvet, in almost unimaginable intimacy. And the thought of it – the thought of sharing a bed with a man whom I can no more remember than if I’d met him for the first time two days ago – fills me with such overwhelming panic that my lungs seem to shrink, my chest contracting, the walls of my throat narrowing until I am struggling to breathe.
‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’
Stephen wraps an arm around my shoulders, guides me towards the edge of the mattress, and I sit down, try to slow my racing heart.
‘There was always a chance that coming back home was going to be difficult. I know how much you’d hoped it would help you remember. But you’ve got to let things take their course. Like the doctor said, it may just take time. But I’m here for you. We’ll get through this together.’
Stephen’s words swim in my ears and I know he is being kind, but his kindness exacerbates my sense of failure.