I pick up my bag from the floor, empty save for a packet of tissues and the phone Zahira gave me, retrieve the folded piece of paper that has Stephen’s number on it, and dial.
ANNA
LONDON
I press a finger down on the speaker button, do not feel I have the fortitude to manage this call alone.
It takes four rings for him to answer. ‘Hello?’ His voice is suspicious, guarded, and I realise he will not recognise the number.
‘It’s me.’ The words catch in my throat. It’s only in saying them aloud that I understand I do not know who ‘me’ really is.
‘Anna? Where are you? I’ve been calling home for ages and you haven’t been answering.’
I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. ‘What time will you be home?’
There is a pause at the other end of the line and I hear the click of an indicator, realise he must already be driving.
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call. I managed to get away early. I’ll be home in half an hour.’
An involuntary gasp escapes my lips and Zahira catches my eye, mouths silently at me. It’s okay.
‘Anna, where are you? What’s this number you’re calling me from?’
Zahira shakes her head, forms a silent ‘no’ with her lips.
‘Can you meet me in the park when you get back?’ My heart pounds in my chest and I have a sense that Stephen will not appreciate my evasion of his questions.
‘What’s going on?’
There is concern in his voice, and for a second I feel myself falter, think of all the kindness and patience he has shown me since the accident. But then I glance at the laptop, see the photo of Stephen with a different name, think about the photo of me with my parents and my son. ‘I just need to talk to you. Can you come straight to the park?’
The line goes quiet and I wonder, if I were watching his face right now, what expression I would see: whether it would be forbearance, irritation or something else entirely.
‘This is ridiculous. I’ve had a hectic couple of days at this conference and I’ve managed to leave early to see you. I just want to get home. I’ll see you there in half an hour, okay?’
This conference. I have no idea whether it is real, can no longer locate the dividing line between Stephen’s truths and his lies. ‘I won’t be at home. I’ll be in the park, on the benches near the playground. If you want to see me, that’s where I’ll be.’ I don’t know where this assertiveness is coming from, just that this is what I need to do.
Zahira smiles, nods, gives me a thumbs up.
There is a sigh on the other end of the line, filled with barely contained frustration. ‘Okay. But I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.’
Across the table, Zahira shakes her head, gesticulates for me to say no more. My fingers ache from gripping the phone so tightly, and I steel myself to reply. ‘I’ll see you in about half an hour.’
‘Fine.’ He hangs up before either of us has a chance to say anything more.
‘Well done. You did really well. Are you okay?’
I nod in spite of the thrumming in my chest.
Zahira stands up. ‘Right, I’d better get Elyas up from his nap.’
As Zahira leaves the room, I sit at her kitchen table, trying to imagine meeting Stephen in half an hour’s time. I think about everything I’ve uncovered and I do not know how, when I come to face him, I will know where to begin.
ANNA
LONDON
My heart hammers against my ribs. On a bench a few yards away, Zahira blows bubbles through a plastic stick for Elyas, who runs after them, trying to catch them between his palms. Her eyes flit towards me and I wonder if I would have the courage to do this without her. Above my head, streaks of sunlight vein the sky, punctuated by thin shreds of cloud like cigarette smoke.
I pivot my gaze, look towards the entrance, scan the road encircling the park. For a moment I think perhaps he is not going to come, but then I spy Stephen’s Toyota Prius reversing into a parking space that is only just big enough, watch him inch back and forth as he squeezes into the spot.
I watch him get out of the car, close the door, thrust an arm behind him to activate the alarm. I keep watch of him as he strides through the black metal gates and into the park, my fingers curling into tight fists, nails digging into my palms. I realise I am scared of him – of who he is, who he might be – and I have no idea where the feeling comes from, only that it is coiling in my stomach like a threatened snake.
And then he is there, standing next to the bench, towering over me.
‘Are you okay? You’ve had me seriously worried for the past half an hour.’
He sits down, takes hold of my hand, and I snatch it free.
‘Anna, what’s the matter?’
I turn to him, my throat burning. ‘Don’t you mean Livvy? What’s the matter, Livvy?’
My eyes do not leave his face as I search for any sign of derailment. But his expression is impassive, no flicker of unease. ‘What do you mean?’
I breathe slowly, in and then out, remind myself of the photographs. ‘I’ve seen the Facebook profile. My Facebook profile. I’ve seen your page on the university website. I know your real name is Dominic.’ My voice is steady, unwavering, and I do not know where my confidence is coming from.
‘Listen, whatever you think you’ve seen, it sounds like you’ve got the wrong end of the stick—’
‘So you can explain the photograph of me with my parents and my son, posted nine months ago, can you? Parents and a child that you told me were dead.’ A crack opens up in my voice, a fault line between conflicting versions of my past, and I swallow it down, will not capitulate to it.
‘My love, I think you must be confused. I don’t know what you’re imagining, but you’re still very fragile—’
‘I’m not fragile. I’m not imagining anything. I saw the photos on Facebook.’
Stephens sighs as though corralling every ounce of patience. ‘Social media has all sorts of fake nonsense on it. That’s why we never use it. Come on, let’s go home, where we can talk in private—’
‘I’m not going anywhere with you. I found the letters in the loft. All the letters from Livvy, declaring her love for you. Either you’re having an affair, or you’ve been lying to me about who I really am. Which is it?’
Stephen holds my gaze, eyebrows raised. ‘Please, Anna, I can see you’re upset, but you know how unstable you’ve been since the accident. You can’t let your imagination run away with you.’
He reaches out, places a hand on my arm, but I shake him off, do not want him touching me.
He sighs. ‘Please don’t make a scene. You know how erratic your emotions have been. Think about how you overreacted when you couldn’t find the piece of paper with the therapist’s number on it.’
‘You mean the appointment with the therapist that you cancelled and then lied about?’ I stare at him, will not be intimidated.
Stephen frowns. ‘What are you talking about? The appointment was cancelled. Has she been in touch to arrange a new one?’
There is such nonchalance in his voice that for a second I’m destabilised, as though I’m in a parallel reality where everything is distorted and I cannot trust what I know to be true. But then I think about my call with Carla, about the letters in the loft, about the Facebook page, and I know these doubts aren’t just figments of my imagination. ‘Stop lying, Stephen. I just want the truth. All I care about are my parents and my son. Just tell me where they are.’