As we wait for our food to arrive, I wonder what it was like before, when we came out for dinner: whether we talked non-stop, gossiped about people we knew, discussed politics and world affairs. Whether we speculated about the lives of other diners, held hands romantically across the table. Whether we made each other laugh. Or whether, like now, we sat in slightly awkward silence, feeling conspicuous for our lack of conversation.
I look around the restaurant, in search of something – a smell, a sound, a sight, a word – to give some insight into our marriage as it was before, but nothing materialises.
At a nearby table, two men are scrolling and tapping on their phones, and it reminds me of my conversation with Zahira. ‘Where’s my mobile phone?’
Stephen looks up from the wine list he is studying even though the glass in front of him is still half full. ‘What?’
‘My mobile phone. I must have had one, before the crash. I wondered where it is.’
Stephen slots the wine list back into its plastic stand. ‘It got broken in the accident. We need to get you a new one.’
‘But what if there are people trying to contact me? Friends and . . . other people.’ I don’t know who I mean, cannot recall the name or face of anyone specific who may be trying to get in touch.
‘They can always call the house phone, or me. I suspect the only calls you’ll be missing are people trying to sell you PPE.’ He rolls his eyes as if I am having a lucky escape.
I think about Zahira in the park today, about her surprise when I said I didn’t have a phone. ‘When can we get me a new one?’
‘I can order one tomorrow. It’ll probably take a few days to arrive. But what’s the rush? You’ve always got the house phone.’
I think about my walks to the park, about my fear that I might not be able to find my way home even with my handwritten map. ‘It would make me feel safer if I had one. At least if I go out I could call you if anything happened.’
Stephen eyes me with concern. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go out without me.’
I feel myself hesitate. I haven’t told Stephen about my trips to the park last Friday and today, or about my conversations with Zahira. It seemed better not to. But now I’ve made two successful trips, I feel more confident in telling him the truth. ‘I went to the park, but it was fine. I made a map on my way there, and I found my way home without any problems.’
Stephen looks startled. ‘Oh, my love, I wish you hadn’t. What if you’d got lost again? I know it must be tedious, being at home all day. But going out by yourself . . . It’s such a risk when you’re still recovering.’
He stops abruptly as the waitress places our food in front of us. I look at the grilled chicken strips arranged on a bed of leaves, glance enviously at the steaming plate of pasta and meatballs Stephen has ordered. We both remain silent as the waitress heaps spoonfuls of Parmesan onto Stephen’s food, watch as it begins to melt, and I thank the waitress as she leaves.
‘If you do go out, just please don’t stray too far from home.’ Stephen takes in a long, deep breath. ‘We love living in London but . . . it’s not always a safe city if you haven’t got your wits about you.’
A phone pings and Stephen picks up the mobile lying face down on the table, looks at it, puts it back again. He hesitates before reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket and taking out a second phone, one I haven’t seen before, its transparent cover stained with the clear impression of fingerprints. He glances at me before swiping a finger across its screen, reading a message.
‘Why have you got two phones?’
He looks up at me, distracted. ‘It’s my work phone. I should have left it at home. I’m sorry.’ He sighs, slips it back into his pocket.
‘What’s wrong?’
Stephen shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘It doesn’t seem like nothing.’
He hesitates, rests his fork against the edge of his plate. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to tell you at some point. I’ve got to go away this weekend, to an academic conference. I know it’s appalling timing. I told my Head of Department it wasn’t fair to expect me to go but she’s . . . well, she’s not the most sympathetic of women.’
The words sink in, panic churning in my stomach. The thought of an entire weekend at home alone when I will have already spent all week by myself presses down on my chest.
‘I’m really sorry. It’s just one night – just Saturday to Sunday. You’ll be okay. I’ll phone every few hours, and I’ll make sure you’ve got a fridge full of food. If we keep you busy with books and movies the time will fly by.’
I hear the supreme effort in his voice to reassure me, and I know it is not his fault, my dread at being left alone overnight. I understand that his entire life – his whole career – cannot be put on hold just because I can’t remember anything beyond the last ten days. I force my lips into a smile, swallow against the narrowing in my throat. ‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s not fine. It’s infuriating. But next week I’ll do my best to get home early every day so we can go for a walk before dinner.’
I find myself nodding even as the prospect of yet more lonely days yawns before me like a series of uncertain question marks.
He reaches out a hand, places it on mine. ‘I really am sorry. I don’t have to go away for work very often. If I could get out of it, I would. But Veronica – my boss – she’s such a . . .’ His face stiffens like a jammed door, and then he lets out a long stream of air, rearranges his features into something more benign. ‘It’s just really unfortunate timing. I know how vulnerable you are at the moment, and I hate the thought of leaving you. But it’s only a couple of days. I’ll get back as early as I can on Sunday.’
I try to feel the reassurance in Stephen’s explanation, but there is something else on my mind, a question that has been haunting me all day. It whispers in my ear and I cannot ignore it. ‘Why don’t we have any children?’
Stephen’s fork halts in mid-air, hovering as if uncertain whether to continue its journey or retreat back to the plate. The white noise of other diners is loud in my ears.
He lowers his fork, stares down at his pasta for what seems an inordinate length of time. When he finally raises his head, I see it immediately: the apology in his eyes even before he begins to speak. ‘We tried, really hard, but it just never happened for us.’
I hear his words, wait for them to accrue some meaning, but they are like hard pebbles sinking into quicksand: gone before my fingers can grab hold of them.
I am aware of picking up a tumbler of water, taking a sip, the cool liquid slipping down my throat. I am aware of the waitress gliding past, plates balanced along her arm, of the couple sitting behind Stephen, laughing. I am aware of all these things and yet there is a sense that I am somewhere outside myself, unable to inhabit my body. ‘Why couldn’t we? What was wrong?’ My voice is small, shrunken, as though it fears what may greet it if it ventures beyond the shadows.
Stephen shakes his head. ‘We don’t know. The hospital did endless tests, but they never identified what the problem was. We just couldn’t seem to conceive.’