While he’s gone, I scan the front page of the newspaper, open on a tablet on the kitchen table. There are pictures of a war somewhere, a headline about drought, stories about an American politician I don’t recognise and an interview with Harper Beckham about her new role as UN ambassador. Reading these headlines makes my skin prickle with some new fear, and I quickly close the screen and push the tablet away. My brain is having a hard enough time catching up on what I’ve missed in my own life, I’m not sure it’s ready to absorb what I’ve missed in the rest of the world. If I open those floodgates I might drown.
When Sam comes back, he shoots me a sympathetic, wary smile, as though he’s worried that if he says the wrong thing I might spontaneously combust, right here in the kitchen.
‘I feel fine, I’m not ill. Honestly, it’s as though I’ve time-travelled here. Did you ever see that movie The Time Traveler’s Wife? Maybe it’s like that.’
He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘Why don’t I make you a real breakfast?’
As soon as he says it, I realise I’m ravenous. I didn’t have a proper meal yesterday. The buttered toast has helped, but I could definitely eat something more substantial.
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
I watch as he busies himself cracking eggs and unwrapping pancetta from wax paper.
‘Poached eggs, just the way you like them,’ he says, putting a pan of water onto the stove. He’s right, poached eggs are my favourite. How strange that he knows. As I watch him getting plates from the cupboard, I realise he hasn’t asked me any questions about my story. If the situation were reversed, I think I would have plenty of questions.
The eggs are incredible, the best I’ve ever had – solid whites, with perfect runny yolks, sprinkled with a delicious spicy seasoning and flakes of crispy pancetta. Sam insists on doing all the washing-up, he won’t let me lift a finger. Maybe I could get used to having a husband, I think, just as the doorbell rings. Sam jumps up to get it and returns with a worried-looking Maria.
‘I asked Maria if she’d watch the kids for a few hours,’ Sam says, looking at me with those ‘please don’t spontaneously combust’ eyes again.
‘Hello, dear,’ Maria says, her face set in a sympathetic grimace. ‘How are you feeling?’
Sam must have told her I had a terrible hangover and wouldn’t be able to look after the children today.
‘Not too bad, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few hours.’
‘We’re going to nip out for a bit,’ Sam tells me. ‘I got us an emergency appointment with Dr Shepperd.’
‘A doctor?’ Oh. Sam and Maria exchange looks.
‘We need to get you checked out. Memory loss can be a symptom of something else.’
So much for Sam believing me. Maybe he’s planning on having me committed. Or he’ll make me live in the attic like Mrs Rochester, then get himself a new, younger, Jane Eyreier wife.
‘Better safe than sorry,’ says Maria, patting me on the arm.
Fine. I’ll go to the bloody doctor. But I’m not going to mention time travel or the wishing machine, or how much money I spent in Selfridges. Whatever’s going on here, I do not intend to get Mrs Rochestered.
Chapter 12
Sam opens the passenger door for me, then gets into the driver’s side.
‘Stan, please take us to the doctor’s surgery on Lodge Hill Road,’ Sam tells the car, as our seats adjust to our respective bodies.
‘Why is our car Stan?’ I ask him.
Sam looks across at me and laughs, as though I’ve made a joke. Then he sees in my face that I’m serious.
‘STAN stands for Self-Taught Auto-Navigation,’ he explains. ‘The car can learn your regular routes and drive you semi-autonomously.’
‘Oh, right, I thought it was called Stan because he sounds like Stanley Tucci.’
‘That’s what you said when we first got this car,’ Sam says. ‘You really don’t remember any of this?’
I shake my head and watch Sam’s face crease with concern, as though each new thing I don’t remember makes this all the more real to him. He catches me looking at him and forces a smile. ‘I take it you don’t remember this feature then,’ he says more brightly. ‘Stan, what can I cook for my gorgeous wife tonight?’
‘You have the ingredients for Thai soy salmon, which you and Lucy both rate FIVE. Grocery note – you are almost out of JAM and BABY WIPES.’
‘Can you order more of those, thanks, Stan,’ Sam tells the car, then glances across at me.
‘Wow. What else can it do?’ I ask, my curiosity piqued.
Sam demos the car’s ‘daily words of affirmation’ feature. Stanley Tucci telling me, ‘I am proud of you and all you do,’ might not solve my current predicament, but by the time we reach the doctor’s surgery, my mood does feel as though it’s lifted.
Dr Shepperd looks around Sam’s age, and the two men seem to know each other. From the small talk they exchange, I conclude they play sport together, maybe mountain biking or mud wrestling, something involving mud guards in any case.
After some extensive mud guard chat, I get to tell my story, again, this time leaving out any mention of time travel, wishing machines, magical Scottish ladies, or any other elements that belong in the ‘fantasy’ section at the library. I stick to the facts. I woke up and I don’t remember the last sixteen years of my life. Dr Shepperd says he wants to run some tests. He books me in for an MRI, a CTH and an FYD. I don’t know what any of those letters stand for, but it feels like a lot of letters.
‘This all sounds expensive,’ I say, trying to impress Sam with my money-conscious thinking after Suitgate. This is a private doctor’s surgery, and in a world where a coffee costs over a tenner, I can’t even imagine what a brain scan might set you back.
‘Don’t worry, your insurance will cover it,’ says Dr Shepperd.
‘Did they dismantle the NHS?’ I ask nervously. Please don’t tell me they dismantled the NHS. I’m not sure I could handle discovering anything too bleak about the future, like the end of universal healthcare, sea level rises covering half of Britain, or Piers Morgan being prime minister. If I’m going to get my head around being married with two children and missing a third of my life, I’m not sure I can handle a dystopian hellscape too.
‘No, but you get private cover through work,’ Sam explains.
‘Did they cure cancer yet?’ I ask Dr Shepperd.
‘I’m afraid not. Are you worried about cancer?’
‘No. I just hoped they might have cured it by now.’
Sam and the doctor exchange concerned looks.
By the end of the brain scans, reflex tests, blood tests, urine samples, an eye exam, plus some strange nostril swab, I feel like screaming because I know they’re not going to find anything, and sure enough, they don’t. A second doctor, a woman called Dr Flynn, is called in to look at my brain scan results.
‘We can’t see anything to worry about, Mrs Rutherford,’ she tells me. ‘There’s no signs of a bleed or any suspicious growths. You appear to be in excellent health.’