by J. S. Monroe
“Where did you buy the bass, darling?” she asks.
“At the market, of course. Line caught from a single boat in Brixham. Only the best for you.”
I’m beginning to feel like a spare part at their not-so-white wedding.
“Going back to your memory,” Tony says, looking across at me. “Why don’t you come along to the quiz tonight? See if you know any of the answers.”
“I’d like that,” I find myself saying. I’m tired but I want to see Luke again, establish if he knows anything about who I am.
“Just remember to leave before the singing,” Laura says.
“I’ll sing now if you’re not careful,” Tony replies.
“Dr. Patterson said something might trigger my memory,” I say. “A familiar face. Maybe I’ll recognize someone at the pub—or they’ll recognize me.”
“Exactly,” Tony says.
“Doctor’s orders,” Laura says, smiling at me before turning to Tony. “And she’s agreed to call herself Jemma.”
“Good call,” he says.
“I thought it would be easier for everyone,” I say.
“Didn’t I tell you she was a Jemma?” he adds, but Laura is distracted by a text alert on her phone, which is lying flat on the table between us.
“Sorry, it’s from Susie Patterson,” she says, glancing at the screen.
“I’ve tried telling her about not using her cell phone at table,” Tony says with a mock sigh. “Will she listen?”
“I better read it,” she says, casually swiping the phone screen.
I’m desperate to read it too, after the weird way things ended at the surgery. I try to look down at the phone without being obvious about it. It’s a long message and all I can see is the beginning, but it’s enough to make my stomach ball.
Be careful around your new friend. I think I know who she is.
Laura picks up her phone and glances at me. I’ve already turned away.
“What’s up?” Tony asks.
I manage to smile at him, my mouth dry, and then at Laura. She doesn’t reciprocate. It’s as if someone has pulled a plug, draining all the kindness from her face, leaving only a cold hard stare.
CHAPTER 9
It’s a big mistake coming to the quiz. Laura’s text message from Dr. Patterson has left me feeling even more vulnerable than before. And I wasn’t expecting the pub to be so noisy or for us to be received with such fanfare. Tony senses my unease. As we work our way toward the bar, greeted by everyone, he checks regularly to see that I’m okay.
I wonder if the locals know about me yet. The pub is old, all bricks and wooden floors, a blackboard on the wall above an open fire with a handwritten menu of homemade pizzas and pies. Today’s special is “Abdul’s Pashtun lamb curry.” The only person I recognize is Luke, who catches my eye and turns away to another man at the bar.
Tony orders two Virgin Marys, one for me and one for himself, specifying the ingredients with forensic precision: three dashes of hot sauce, a pinch of celery salt, two squeezes of lemon.
“Is Laura okay tonight?” I ask, as he passes me my drink. My hand is shaking as I take it.
“Just tired,” he says. “And a bit rattled by your arrival.”
“What did Dr. Paterson have to say?” I ask, narrowly avoiding my drink being spilled by the crush of people. I need to get out of here. It’s too crowded. A flickering image of another crowded night, dancing with a thousand beautiful strangers, Fleur’s arms swaying above her head to the thumping beats.
“Nothing about me, I hope,” I add, my head spinning with the memory, which vanishes as quickly as it came.
I remind myself I couldn’t have stayed behind with Laura. After reading the text message, she had rushed upstairs. Tony followed but when he came back down again, it was as if nothing had happened. He was friendly and solicitous, keen to take me to the quiz, explaining that Laura just wanted an early night.
“Yoga wars,” Tony says. “A new teacher’s moved into the village. Laura being Laura, she’s trying to help her out—and about to lose clients, according to Susie Patterson.”
Is Tony just being kind? Protecting me? Maybe I read the text wrongly.
“So Tony talked you into the quiz,” Luke says, coming over to join us with his friend. “Sorry about earlier—at the surgery.”
Tony rests a hand on my shoulder. “Back in a minute,” he says, turning to talk to a group behind him.
“Not a problem,” I say to Luke, but my mouth has gone dry.
“I’m usually good with faces,” Luke replies.
“Happens to the best of us,” the other man says, raising his pint in my direction.
“This is my Irish friend Sean,” Luke says. “Screenwriter, collector of conspiracy theories and the best-read man in the village, which makes him annoyingly good at pub quizzes.”
Sean drinks deeply, lifting his head back until he’s staring at the bottom of his empty glass, which he then smacks down on the bar. “Sometimes I can’t even remember my own feckin’ name.”
I close my eyes and look away.
“That’s because you’re always in here,” Luke says, wincing an apology at me. He must know.
“As often as wallet and wife allow,” Sean says.
“You’re not even married,” Luke says.
“I’m sure she’ll be understanding.”
“My name’s Jemma, by the way,” I interrupt, trying in vain to sound upbeat.
“Jemma,” Luke repeats. His eyes linger on me for a second before he shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This is so weird, but you really do remind me of someone.”
“Who?” I ask nervously.
“His childhood sweetheart,” Sean chips in.
“It’s not how it sounds,” Luke says, apologizing again for his friend.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Freya,” Luke continues. “Her name was Freya Lal.”
“Not Jemma then,” I reply.
He shakes his head slowly.
“It’s just a name I’ve been given,” I say. “By Tony. I don’t know how much he’s told you.”
“Laura rang me. After we met in the surgery. If there’s anything I can do...?”
“I’m hoping I’ll feel better in the morning.”
I watch Luke try to take it all in, process the implications.
“So it’s not so daft, me thinking I recognize you,” he says, glancing at the tattoo on my wrist. “I mean, perhaps you could be related to Freya in some way?”
He studies my face again, more serious now, still searching for a likeness. And then he looks briefly at my wrist again. “Nobody’s heard of her since we all left school,” he adds. “Vanished into thin air.”
“Amelia Earhart—take two,” Sean says under his breath, gesturing to be served.
“And you’re trying to find her?” I ask, ignoring the suspicious look that Sean gives me.
“I haven’t thought about her for years.” He seems uneasy, glancing at Sean, now deep in conversation with the barman. “Actually, that’s not true,” he adds, his voice quieter. “I broke up with my girlfriend last month.” He pauses. “I’m not really sure why I’m telling you this. It sounds silly, but I’ve started to look for Freya online. You know, since the split.”
“Doesn’t sound silly at all,” I say. I like Luke. His openness.
“Reconnecting with my roots or something, my childhood. Trying to get some stability back into my life. I’ve been feeling adrift recently.”
“Know the feeling.”
“Of course you do. Much more than me. I’m sorry. This must all be so disorientating for you.”
“Hate to interrupt, guys,” Tony says, returning to our group, “but the quiz is about to start.”
I follow Tony, Luke and Sean over to a large ta
ble in the bay window, where we are roundly heckled by our neighbors. It’s all good-natured banter—Tony laps it up, gives as good as he gets—but it does nothing for my already fragile confidence.
“The local cricket team,” Luke says, sensing my discomfort. “Tony plays for them—at least he tries to. More of a baseball swing than a cover drive. But they’ve been winning every match since the Afghans joined them.”
“The Afghans?” I ask.
“Two brothers have been settled here in the village,” Luke says, taking a sheet of paper from the landlord, who is marching around the tables like a leafleting politician.
“The picture round,” Tony interrupts, taking the sheet from Luke.
“Both work in the kitchen,” Luke adds. “Best Pashtun curries this side of Kabul.”
“Demon spinners too,” Sean adds. “You should see their googlies.”
Luke gives his friend a disapproving look. I have no idea what they’re talking about and resist another urge to leave, run off into the night. I feel like an impostor, wasting kind people’s time.
“Where do you think this one is?” Tony asks me, pointing at a picture. “It’s palaces around the world.”
I recognize the sloping, fortress-like walls immediately, which is a relief. I was worried that I might not be able to contribute anything tonight.
“The Potala Palace,” I say. “Lhasa in Tibet.”
He turns to me, pursing his lips in approval. “Your semantic memory’s working well enough.”
“How’s your Russian history?” Luke asks. “It’s tonight’s bonus round.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph help us,” Sean says.
“Lhasa, you say?” Tony asks. “Impressive.”
I’m not sure if he means my powers of recall or the Tibetan architecture.
To everyone’s surprise, including mine, I’m able to answer other questions too, particularly in the final, bonus round about Russia.
“Right spelling?” Luke asks me, as he writes down “Dzerzhinsky Square.”
I glance at the sheet of paper, watched intently by Sean.
“Looks good to me.”
After the quiz is over, Luke checks through our answers with Tony and swaps them with another table for marking. Our team triumphs again—by a single point over the cricketers.
Luke and Sean head for the bar to celebrate, leaving me on my own with Tony.
I’m not sure I can cope with the attention. I want Tony to like me, but it’s a fine balance.
“You remind me of someone,” he says, fixing me straight in the eye. I’m unable to cope with much more of this. “I just can’t remember who.”
“It must be catching,” I reply, managing a laugh before I have to turn away. I don’t want to be here with Tony. In this pub. This village.
“It’s not like me,” he continues. “I don’t forget a face. Don’t forget anything.”
The next moment he has pulled out a small camera, a Canon PowerShot, and takes a picture of me. I reel back at the flash and press my fingers hard into my tattoo under the table. I hadn’t seen that coming.
“Ask me in ten years’ time about that picture, and I’ll be able to tell you everything about tonight. Who was here, who won the quiz tonight and by how much.”
“I don’t like my picture being taken,” I say quietly, struggling to regain my composure. I remember Laura’s words, her theory about Tony’s fear of Alzheimer’s.
“I’m sorry,” he says, a hand on my shoulder. “Shall I delete it?”
I shake my head. It’s too late now.
“I hope it’s helped, coming along tonight,” he continues, looking around the bar.
“It’s been useful,” I lie.
“Are you worried you might forget everything’s that happened today?”
“It terrifies me, why?” He has no idea how scared I am. No one does.
“Maybe you should write it all down. Leave a note to yourself.”
“I was going to tonight. Just in case.”
I look up at the bar, where the landlord is adjusting a mic stand. Once it’s fixed, he raises a hand in our direction.
“Your big moment,” I say.
Tony acknowledges the landlord and reaches down for his keyboard case. A cheer goes up.
“Fame beckons,” he says.
CHAPTER 10
Laura walks upstairs, pushes open the spare bedroom door and stares at Jemma’s suitcase. For a moment she thinks about going over to it, emptying the contents, but they went through it together earlier and there was nothing suspicious. She glances at the bed, where there’s a trace of Jemma’s figure on the duvet cover. She must have had a lie down before dinner. The poor woman’s tired, stressed out. Who wouldn’t be after what she’s been through today? Jemma needs sympathy not her paranoia. Susie Patterson might have it all wrong.
Laura reaches out to the duvet but before her fingers touch she hears something downstairs. Was it a click? The front door? She strains to hear another noise, but there’s only silence. On the landing she stops to listen again. Nothing. She goes downstairs, satisfied that she must have imagined the sound, but the kitchen feels cooler, as if the front door has been left open, or a window, sluicing fresh air into the small house. She walks into the sitting room, opens the front door and looks either way down the street. Empty.
Back inside, she goes through to the kitchen again, telling herself to relax, and then stops in her tracks, staring at the maple knife block on the sideboard. One of the knives is missing. It’s the biggest one—the “man knife,” as Tony calls it.
She turns to the wooden drying rack, looking for it. Calm, calm. She’s overreacting. Be careful around your new friend. I think I know who she is. She breathes in and out deeply, trying to fog up an imaginary mirror. Slow Ujjayi breathing is her go-to technique for anxiety, one of the reasons she took up yoga in the first place. She pulls open the kitchen drawers, one by one, searching for the knife with mounting desperation. It’s not in any of them. Breathing in deeply again, she rests her hands on the sideboard, head bowed between outstretched arms.
“Is everything okay?” a voice asks.
Laura spins around. “Jesus, you scared me,” she says, looking up at Jemma, who has emerged from the downstairs bathroom.
“I’m sorry. Tony gave me the key, told me to let myself in, said you might be asleep already.”
“Asleep?” Laura repeats, unable to disguise a dry laugh. Nothing could be further from her mind.
“Have you lost something?” Jemma asks.
“I was just putting the washing up away,” Laura says, keeping her back to the sideboard. She watches Jemma step into the room. The woman’s movements are slow, hesitant. Both her hands are visible, but she might have hidden the knife somewhere. Instinctively, Laura glances across at the block, in case she needs to protect herself with another knife.
“Are you all right?” Jemma asks.
There’s a look in her eyes that Laura hasn’t seen before. A cold detachment, as if she’s not fully present. She should just come out with it, ask her directly.
“Actually, I’m not okay,” Laura says, still watching Jemma like a hawk.
“What’s the matter?”
“Jemma Huish,” she says.
“Jemma Huish?” Jemma repeats back at her.
“Is that who you are?”
“I’ve no idea, Laura. I don’t even know if I’m called Jemma.”
“Susie, Dr. Patterson, that’s who she thinks you might be.”
“And if I am?”
“She used to live here, in this house. A long time ago.”
Jemma nods slowly. Is she recalling something? Is it all coming back to her?
“Can you imagine what it’s like?” Jemma says. “Not knowing who you are? So far today I’ve been told that I might
be related to Freya Lal, a long-lost school friend of some posh bloke called Luke I met in the surgery. Tony says I remind him of someone, but he can’t remember who. And now I’m supposed to be Jemma Huish, a name I’ve never heard before. I don’t even know if my name is really Jemma. I have no idea who any of these people are, Laura.”
Jemma looks unsteady on her feet and slumps down at the kitchen table, holding her head in her hands.
“I’m sorry for coming here today, for walking into your life like this, your house, and I apologize if I’ve somehow upset you tonight.”
“It’s me who should be sorry,” Laura says, spotting the missing knife on the other sideboard, where the letters are kept. She’s been a fool. Tony must have used it to open this morning’s post. She looks at Jemma again, her red-sore eyes. On impulse, she goes over and puts an arm around her shoulder. She can’t help herself, despite Susie’s warning, what she’s read tonight about Jemma Huish. Too much empathy—isn’t that what Tony is always teasing her about?
“I’ve left a towel out for you,” Laura says, standing back, a little awkwardly. “In the bathroom—you know where it is.” She manages a laugh, which prompts a small smile from Jemma.
“Thank you,” she says.
“How was the quiz?” Laura asks.
“We won.”
“Yay,” Laura says quietly, raising both fists in faux celebration. Neither of them is convinced. “Could you answer any of the questions?”
Jemma nods, wiping her nose. “I seem to know a lot about Russia.”
“Who else was there? Luke? Sean?”
“Both of them. Does Sean always stare like that?”
“Always. Strange but harmless. Sizing up characters for his next screenplay.”
“Can I ask a favor? Another one?”
“Sure.” Laura wonders what she’s going to say. I always like to sleep with a knife under my pillow.
“Do you have any paper?” Jemma asks. “Tony suggested I should write down what’s happened today. You know—”
“Of course. There’s some over there.” She nods at the small sideboard, where there’s a pad of lined paper beside the letter rack, and regrets it immediately.
