Three months later, she had been attending a conference on sustainable construction, representing the environmental think tank where she worked, when a man – tall, silver streaks in his hair, a slightly weather-beaten face – had struck up a conversation with her. His name was Dominic, he was a structural engineer, and over the course of the weekend he had repeatedly stopped to engage her in conversation.
On the final evening of the conference, he had sought her out, asked if she’d like to have dinner with him the following week. Their first date had been at a Michelin-starred tapas restaurant, Dominic having remembered Livvy mentioning her love of Spanish food.
Everything with Dominic had been uncomplicated from the outset. There had never been any fears about whether he was going to call, whether or not she would see him again. He had worn his heart on his sleeve, made it abundantly clear how much he liked her. His attentiveness was unlike anything she’d experienced before. He’d listened intently to everything she’d had to say and asked questions in order to hear her opinions, not – like so many other men she knew – so that he could glaze over until it was his turn to speak again. His genuine interest in her thoughts and feelings had been almost revelatory.
By their third date, they had begun to confide in one another with an intimacy that belied the length of their acquaintance. Dominic was charming, funny and emotionally honest, and the ten-year age gap between them was barely noticeable.
But discovering she was pregnant twelve weeks into their relationship had not been part of the plan. It had been Bea to whom Livvy had first turned, arriving at her flat one morning, panic-stricken and bleary-eyed. And it had been Bea who had advised caution. ‘I know you’ve always wanted a child, but is this really the best way? Do you really want to tie yourself for the rest of your life to a man you hardly know? You could be co-parenting with him for the next eighteen years. That seems like a pretty big risk given you’ve only known him a few months.’
That evening, Livvy had arrived at Dominic’s two-bedroom Georgian house in Clifton, mouth dry, hands shaking, and delivered the news, fearing rejection. Instead, Dominic had wrapped his arms around her, reminded her that he loved her, and asked her to marry him.
Now, just over a year later, and with a six-month-old son, Livvy sometimes felt that she had packed more into the past eighteen months of her life than the previous eighteen years.
‘Bea mentioned that you’re going to be working away for a while, Dominic. How are you both going to manage that with a young baby?’
Dominic shrugged. ‘It’s not ideal, obviously, and I’m going to miss them both. But it’s not forever. And we’ll still have weekends together.’ Dominic’s smile was wide, encouraging, and Livvy tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow, Dominic would begin a new job that would take him away from her and Leo every week for the next four months.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. As you say, it’s only temporary, and you’re such a solid couple.’ Sara took the napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. ‘And Leo’s still so young, he’ll be fine.’
As if in Pavlovian response, Livvy glanced down at the screen of her phone, checked that there were no messages from her mum. It was the first time she’d ever left Leo for an evening. A few times recently, Bea had suggested that she and Livvy go out for dinner, but Livvy had wavered, wondered if it was too soon, and Dominic had reassured her there was no rush. She couldn’t have missed tonight though; she hadn’t missed a single one of Bea’s birthday celebrations since they were children. And yet, even though she knew Leo would be fine with her parents, the experience of being apart from him was like having twine wrapped around her heart and tugged with gentle persistence.
Next to her, Dominic pushed back his chair, got to his feet, chimed his knife against his glass.
He smiled broadly, looked down one end of the table and then the other. ‘I know you’ve all known Bea a lot longer than I have, but I just wanted to say that it’s a real pleasure to be here tonight, celebrating my sister-in-law’s birthday with you all. So please join me in raising a glass and wishing Bea the happiest of birthdays, and many more to come.’
Dominic raised his glass to a chorus of well-wishing. Livvy glanced across the table in time to see a tight smile stiffen the corners of her sister’s lips. Disappointment twisted in Livvy’s stomach. She didn’t understand the tension between Dominic and Bea, wished they could like each other as much as she loved them both. But ever since Livvy had first introduced them sixteen months ago, she had been aware of an underlying friction between them, valiantly shrouded beneath exaggerated politeness.
Dominic sat back down, tilted his head towards Livvy. ‘What do you think about heading off soon?’
‘We can’t leave before dessert.’
‘Straight after then?’ He kissed her cheek, skimmed a thumb across her bare knee. ‘I’m sure Bea will understand, given the circumstances.’
Livvy felt a knot pull taut inside her chest at the thought of Dominic’s departure the next day. ‘Soon after, I promise.’
ANNA
LONDON
The man looks at me, and I cannot tell whether he is angry or sad.
‘Take a deep breath, my love. Don’t get upset. Everything’s going to be fine.’
I try to breathe but it is as though something is pressing down hard on my windpipe and I cannot get sufficient air into my lungs. There is a part of me that does not want to be instructed what to do by this man who claims to be my husband but whom I do not recall ever having seen before. I just want someone to explain why I am here and what is going on.
The curtain is pulled back and a young woman enters, hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck, stethoscope slung around the shoulders of her white coat.
‘Mrs Bradshaw? My name’s Dr Okonjo. I understand you’ve had a sustained period of concussion. How are you feeling now?’
The words reverberate in my ears, and my eyes dart towards the man who says he is my husband.
‘My wife’s very confused. She doesn’t seem to know who I am. I’m not sure she remembers anything about what happened.’
Dr Okonjo turns towards the man. ‘Mr Bradshaw?’
The man nods.
‘It’s very common for there to be some level of confusion after a head injury. Do you want to stand back and I can take a closer look?’
The man steps away from the bed, his back brushing against the curtain, a ripple undulating across its pleats. From somewhere outside the cubicle, a woman calls out for a nurse, her voice loud and aggressive, and something inside me cowers from the sound.
The doctor picks up the clipboard hanging at the end of my bed, reads whatever observations have been written about me, eyes darting across the page. Then she looks up, smiles, tucks the clipboard beneath her arm.
‘Mrs Bradshaw, can you tell me what happened to you?’
The question crouches in my ears as if waiting to see what I will do with it. I understand its meaning but cannot get the part of my brain that needs to answer it – the part of me that must surely know the answer – to open up and let me in. It is as though there is an impenetrable black box in my head, like the flight recorder of a crashed plane, but it is locked and tightly sealed and there is no way for me to access it. ‘The nurse told me I’d been in a car accident, but other than that . . . I don’t know.’