Livvy let the news sink in. Along with Christian, Aisha had been one of the founders of the think tank fifteen years ago and had been its Policy Director ever since. She’d been Livvy’s boss for the past six years and the thought of her leaving just as Livvy was returning from maternity leave was disconcerting. ‘When are you going? And who’ll replace you? Not that you are replaceable, as far as I’m concerned.’ In the buggy beside her, Leo stirred, snuffled, rolled his head from one side to the other, and Livvy silently implored him to stay sleeping for another twenty minutes, just long enough for her to finish the meeting.
‘Well, that’s the reason I’m pleased you’re coming back. Christian and I have been talking, and we think you should step up into my role, if you’re keen. I’m leaving in three months, but Christian’s agreed to have a short hiatus until you return. It’ll only leave him without a Policy Director for a month, and he agrees that’s manageable.’
The words swam in Livvy’s head like darting minnows. She’d always imagined that if she ever wanted to get promoted, she’d have to leave this organisation, find a role elsewhere, start again with a new set of colleagues. She’d always assumed Aisha would be in post until she retired.
‘What do you think? Can I tell Christian you’re interested? You don’t have to decide for certain right now. It’s a lot to take in, I know.’
‘Of course I’m interested. It’s just . . . I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation. And the thought of you leaving . . .’ Livvy took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, it’s just a bit of a shock. You’ve been such an incredible mentor to me. I can’t imagine this place without you.’
Aisha reached across the table, placed a hand on Livvy’s arm. ‘That’s kind of you to say. I’m going to miss working with you too. But I’ll still be on the board, so you don’t get rid of me altogether. And I do think it’s the right time for you. You’d be brilliant.’
Livvy allowed herself a moment’s pause, thought about her feelings arriving here today, worrying whether she would still be perceived as ambitious and committed now that she was a mother.
‘So, shall I tell Christian you’re interested? Being completely honest with you, he was initially a bit sceptical about being without a Policy Director for a month. You know how closely he and I work, and he’ll have to take on a fair amount more in the interim. But we talked it through and he knows you’re perfect for the role, so he’s prepared to suck it up for a few weeks. It would be good to let him know soonest if you’re keen. Why don’t the three of us have lunch next week and we can talk it through?’
Livvy nodded, tried to catch her breath. ‘That would be great. I’m definitely interested. Thank you, so much.’
In the buggy beside her, Leo awoke, and Livvy lifted him out, held him in her arms, resolved to call the nursery as soon as she got home. Because it was only now, being back in the office, that she realised quite how much she had missed it, and how keen she was to return.
ANNA
LONDON
The house is preternaturally quiet. Since Stephen left for work this morning, I have realised how his voice has filled the space between us since I arrived home yesterday lunchtime.
Popping two painkillers from their foil pouch, I pour a glass of water and gulp down the tablets as though the ferocity with which I take them might expedite their effect. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I rub in concentric circles, try to prise the throbbing pain from my head, but the persistent hammering continues.
Propped up against the kettle is a piece of paper on which Stephen has written his mobile number, told me to call any time I need him. There is a landline telephone in the sitting room, a black handset standing upright in its cradle like a sentry on duty, but I cannot think what circumstances would cause me to interrupt his day. I already feel enough of a burden, and he has phoned twice so far today, to check I am okay.
Last night, I lay awake in bed next to Stephen, listening to him sleep, trying to hypnotise myself with the steady rhythm of his breaths. But the intimacy felt so unnatural – the heat of his limbs under the shared duvet, the breeze of his exhalation on my cheek – that I watched the digits on the bedside alarm clock click by with unforgiving lethargy. The last time I looked, it had just gone four a.m., and when the alarm on Stephen’s phone vibrated three hours later, my head felt sluggish with fatigue.
Lowering myself into one of the armchairs in the sitting room, I curl my feet beneath me. On the coffee table is a trio of paperbacks Stephen has left out for me to read: Dickens, Hardy, Charlotte Bront? – my favourite authors, he has told me, though I remember nothing about the plots of their books. Picking up the copy of Jane Eyre, I scan the synopsis, try to ignore the feeling that my brain is trapped in a vice. Turning to the first page, I begin to read the opening lines, but pain smarts behind my eyes. The language feels arcane and I cannot immerse myself in the rhythm of the prose. I put the book down, stare at its cover, try to locate the version of myself for whom it is a favourite novel, but she is elusive, hiding, and I do not know how to entice her out.
Since I got home yesterday, Stephen has been trying to help reconstruct my sense of identity. It is only three days since the crash and yet already there is a clearly delineated before and after, a then and now. A past I cannot remember and a present that feels out of reach. It is as though my life has been fractured in two and I have no way of knowing whether they will ever fuse together again.
I have learnt that I used to be a librarian in a university library but was made redundant last year and have not been able to find another job since. Stephen told me that I was ‘brilliant’ at my job: ‘One day soon you’ll be able to remember the speech your boss gave at your leaving party.’ He reassured me that it isn’t my fault I haven’t yet found another role, that cuts to local services and financial pressures in academia mean that good opportunities are rare. I asked him what I’ve been doing since – how I’ve been filling my days – and he replied that I always seemed to be busy doing something, though it wasn’t clear exactly what. He told me about my love of cooking, about our shared passion for independent cinema, and about how, most weekends, we head to Hampstead Heath or venture outside London for a long walk. He told me about the galleries we love – the V&A my favourite, Tate Britain his – and the classical concerts we regularly attend at Wigmore Hall, the Southbank Centre, the Barbican. And all the time he talked – with every question he answered, every new piece of information he offered – I felt as though I was drifting further away from myself.
On the bookshelf next to me are tucked the leaflets the doctor gave me at the hospital. Picking one up, I read the first page, learn that memory loss can have a number of different causes, from head injuries and fever to shock and post-traumatic stress. I discover that people with post-concussion amnesia need to be patient during the recovery phase and expect a range of additional symptoms, from mood swings and anxiety to sleep disturbances, fatigue and difficulty concentrating.
Closing the leaflet, I tuck it back into the bookshelf because I know it can’t give me the answer to the only question I really need: the question of when I will start remembering again.