‘Neckie,’ I repeat. ‘Thank you, Felix.’ Amy starts chewing its ear.
‘She loves giraffes,’ he says with a shrug. This detail feels important somehow and I tuck it away in my list of what children need – food, fresh air, clean nappies, special toy giraffes called Neckie.
‘So, what are you making? Is this the project for school?’
‘A human heart,’ he says, biting his lip in concentration as he cuts out a piece of cardboard.
‘A human heart, out of loo roll? Wow.’
‘You can use anything,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Mummy’s usually great at craft stuff.’
Am I? I can’t help but feel proud. Then I remember he’s seven – his bar for what constitutes artistic skill is probably quite low. Sitting Amy and her giraffe in the high chair, I take a seat beside Felix.
‘So, how I can help? Shall I look up a picture of a heart on my phone? What do you need me to do?’
Felix is quiet for a moment. Then he bows his head and says, ‘I need you to find the portal. I need my mummy back.’
Chapter 13
When Sam gets home, he cooks the children’s dinner then takes them upstairs to bed. I offer to help, but Sam insists I ‘take it easy’ and ‘relax’。 It’s as though he thinks if I exert myself, I might start shedding more memories. Today has been exhausting, though, so I’m grateful for the chance to retreat to the living-room sofa and finally sit down.
I can’t find a remote for the enormous, wall-mounted television. I don’t want to bother Sam, so I occupy myself by perusing the shelves that line the living-room wall. On the lowest shelf I find a wedding album, our wedding album. It’s a curious feeling, seeing pictures of yourself doing something you don’t remember, especially when all your friends and family are in the photos too. The wedding looks like such a joyful, happy day. People are beaming in every shot, especially me. Ooh they had the ceremony outside, beneath a tree full of fairy lights – cute. I’ve never created a wedding mood board, but if I had, it would look just like this.
In one photo, Sam sits behind a piano, on a terrace, wearing a straw Panama. I am leaning on the piano looking down at him adoringly while he gazes up at me, hands on the keys. It’s an arresting image because it captures this look between us, a spark that fizzes out of the photograph. I always did have a thing for musical men. I haven’t seen a piano in the house though; I wonder if he still plays. Then I realise, that besides the fact that he’s devastatingly handsome, that we met in a karaoke bar, and that he cooks great eggs, I know next to nothing about this man I am apparently married to.
When Sam comes downstairs, he finds me looking through a holiday album, a trip to Portugal when Felix was a toddler.
‘This looks like a great trip,’ I say, almost guiltily, as though he’s caught me snooping though his things.
‘The album makes it look that way, doesn’t it?’ he says, running a hand through his thick, dishevelled hair. ‘You didn’t put any photos in of the two nights we spent in hos-pital because Felix picked up a vomiting bug, or you on hold with the airline for three hours because they lost your bag.’
‘I guess photo albums never show the whole picture,’ I say, closing the book and looking at the perfect little family on the front cover. ‘Is our wedding album a curated highlights reel too?’
‘Now that was a great day. No curation required.’ Fondness flashes in Sam’s eyes as he says it. ‘I’m going to make us something to eat. You hungry?’
I nod, then follow him into the kitchen, watching while he throws things into a pan. He’s soon whipped up a delicious-smelling bowl of Thai vegetables, chilli salmon, rice and soy sauce. So he can cook too.
‘Strange day, huh,’ I say as he hands me a bowl and we sit down at the table.
‘Yes,’ he says with a wry smile. ‘Though I’ve probably had stranger.’
‘Stranger than this?’ I ask, and he nods.
‘When I was fourteen, I was out walking, alone. I fell over and fractured my ankle in a peat bog, miles from anywhere. I couldn’t walk and it was eight hours until my dad came and found me.’
‘Ow,’ I say wincing in sympathy.
‘That was fine. It was when a grouse hen started talking to me that things got weird. Her name was Sheila. She told me at great length about all her family problems, her overprotective father and fear of guns. It went on and on.’ Sam bites back a smile. ‘I must have been hallucinating from dehydration, or exposure, but I’ve never looked at grouse hens the same way since.’
‘I have no idea if you’re joking or not,’ I say, laughing.
‘You’ve always said you can tell when I’m lying. I have an obvious tell, makes me a terrible poker player.’
‘You’re not going to tell me what it is?’ I ask, holding his gaze.
He leans over towards me and I’m not sure what he’s about to do, but then he taps me gently on the head. ‘I think it’s in there. I’m going to wait for you to remember that one.’
The gentle confidence of his voice is so reassuring.
‘What if I’m not fixed when I wake up tomorrow?’ I ask, my voice suddenly quiet and serious. Sam takes my hand, but I can’t read his expression. ‘I was thinking of calling my parents, but . . .’ I trail off, biting my lip. ‘I wanted to check, that they’re . . .’ I can’t even ask the question.
‘They’re fine,’ he says, moving his hand to stroke my cheek. He’s so tactile with me, his tone so familiar. This sort of quiet intimacy is something I haven’t been privy to before. Despite my earlier thoughts about sleeping with Sam, now, even an inconsequential cheek stroke puts me on edge. I am an impostor, taking cheek strokes that are not meant for me, cheek strokes I haven’t earned. Looking though all those albums hasn’t helped, it’s only made me feel more removed from this life I am occupying.
‘Your dad had some heart issues a few years ago,’ Sam tells me. ‘He had a pacemaker fitted. Your mum’s got cataracts. Other than that they’re both in good health.’ He pauses, then adds softly, ‘Call them if you want. Though your mum will be in the car on her way over here before you’ve even hung up the call.’
‘Maybe tomorrow then,’ I say, shifting back in my chair. ‘Yesterday, when I spoke to my old flatmate Emily, she said we weren’t friends, that we hadn’t stayed in touch.’
‘You’ve never mentioned her to me.’ Sam frowns. ‘I still can’t believe you went to London and tried to carry on as normal, Luce. What did you say to your colleagues?’
The memory of getting drunk and lunging the twenty-year-old runner flashes through my mind, making me physically cringe.
‘Who am I friends with now? Tell me I’m still close to my school gang – Faye, Zoya, Roisin?’ Sam’s eyes drop to his lap. ‘What?’
‘Let’s just see how you are tomorrow, the doctor said—’
‘The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong with me,’ I say, my voice cracking with emotion. ‘I went along with all those tests today because, well, it’s the only logical explanation, isn’t it, but nothing about this feels logical. Please, just tell me I have some friends left.’