What Was Lost

by Jean Levy

  ‘It’ll get dirty,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t care. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  I sat down on the scarf, slightly forward to avoid resting against his arm. We passed a moment in silence. I knew none of this could continue unless I offered some kind of explanation. So I turned to him and sighed. ‘I really like being with you, but …’

  ‘My God, are you dumping me? Before you’ve even given me a chance to prove what a fantastic boyfriend I can be?’

  ‘Matthew, I …’ I paused. ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Do you think I’m too old to be a boyfriend? Damn it, woman, I’m only forty-six. I’ve still got loads of life left in me!’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Can’t you be serious for five minutes?’ I sagged even further forward. ‘Look, I have problems …’

  ‘You should worry, my girlfriend’s just dumped me!’

  ‘Matthew! Will you please listen to me! I can’t remember anything!’

  ‘That happens to me all the time. Just wait ‘til you’re thirty!’

  I put my hands over my face: ‘I’m thirty-five and will you please stop joking and let me tell you something?’

  ‘Is this our first row?’ He was grinning.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Matthew, something happened to me, last December, I can’t remember what. And nobody else seems to know either. But, whatever it was, my mind doesn’t want me to remember, so it’s made my memories go away. All of them right back to when I was little. So, you see, I don’t know much more about myself than you do.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘I was unconscious. My arm was broken. They photographed my brain but it was OK.’

  I looked down at my lap, fiddled with the strap of my bag.

  ‘I was missing for two days, then a man walking his dog found me lying on a beach. I don’t remember any of it. All I can remember is waking up in the clinic, not knowing who I was, or who anybody was. I am Sarah Blake. It says so on my driving licence. And I think I remember that being my name when I was at school. But I don’t know anything else about myself. And there’s no one from before to tell me. So, it would be wrong to let you carry on thinking I’m normal.’

  I looked up at him. He was smiling.

  ‘What makes you think I thought you were normal?’

  ‘What?’ I half turned as I felt his arm across my shoulders.

  ‘Really, Sarah, you’re far too interesting to be normal. Besides, writers are never normal. When you told me you wrote children’s books I was smitten. Let’s give me a chance, shall we?’

  Good sense informed me this ought not happen, yet there was his arm preventing me from tumbling back into emptiness. I was fed up with being on my own. So I said nothing.

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  Still I said nothing. He patted my knee with his free hand.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to seem forward, but if you ever let me stay the night, probably years from now, will you remember who I am when we wake up together or will I have to start all over again? I don’t mind either way but you ought to warn me what to expect.’ He pulled me closer.

  Spend the night? I knew I ought to panic. But I didn’t.

  ‘I remembered you this morning,’ I whispered. ‘I have dissociative amnesia.’

  ‘And you’ve lost your memory on top of it. Life sucks, doesn’t it?’

  I laughed. Then I let myself lean against his jacket and it felt OK. In fact, it felt better than anything had felt for as long as I could remember.

  We walked back holding hands. The major part of my consciousness was taken up with this hand holding, so again Matthew did most of the talking. ‘Have you a preferred way of meeting other than the supermarket? Because if we carry on like this we’re going to be restricted to three-hour parking forever. And some things take longer than that.’

  I came to a halt. ‘What things?’

  He pulled me forward. ‘Going to the theatre, choosing curtains, dinner this Saturday. I could pick you up in a cab. If you don’t mind me knowing where you live.’

  I didn’t want him to know where I lived.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I want you to know where I live?’ I was aware that hysteria might be creeping into my voice.

  ‘I get the impression you’re a bit cautious about things like that.’ This time he came to a halt. ‘So, are you going to tell me where you live?’

  Trying to sound casual: ‘Farlington Close … 24.’

  ‘Just north of the Angel, then?’

  *

  Mrs Parkin arrived in a fluster just before noon. As we single-filed towards the kitchen, she apologised about having brought no biscuits. Her schedule was very full at the moment. I said not to worry, there were biscuits left over from Monday. Then I stopped short in the cramped dining area trying to remember whether there actually were any biscuits left over from Monday. Mrs Parkin frowned. ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  ‘Yes!’ I took a breath. ‘I was just wondering, since you’re so busy, perhaps you only need to visit me once a week. There are probably people who need you more than me.’

  I was surprised to hear myself saying that. Mrs Parkin was clearly shocked. She placed her folder on the dining table. ‘Sarah, why don’t you go and start the tea? I just need to check my notes.’

  I hurried into the kitchen and was relieved to discover Monday’s carried-over bourbons in the biscuit tin. I made tea then stepped back into the lounge to say it was ready. Mrs Parkin was slipping her phone into her bag. Her wide mouth stretched into a smile.

  ‘Excellent! And, regarding your suggestion, Sarah, I’m sure the doctors would discourage reducing our meetings just yet. You’re really notready.’

  Episode Twelve

  Friday came round very quickly that week. Probably because crazy things had been happening and crazy things always make time go faster. As I sat at my desk, waiting for Mrs Dickson to arrive I agonised about whether I should tell her about Matthew. I realised that she would have to report something as significant as that back to Mrs Parkin. And that would mean … the doorbell rang. I hurried over to greet her, pulled open the front door and froze. A young woman was hovering on the threshold.

  ‘Hello, I’m Dawn. I’m standing in for Mrs Dickson.’

  Dawn? I was speechless. This person was too thin to stand in for Mrs Dickson. A distant siren fractured the silence.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Dickson?’

  ‘She can’t come today.’ She leaned forward and whispered above the noise of the traffic. ‘Can I come in, Sarah?’

  I was reluctant to let go of the door, but aware that I had no choice, so I stepped back to allow the thin woman into my home, watched her place her coat and handbag on the sofa, then followed her into the kitchen and watched her walk over to the sink and stoop to open the cupboard. I leapt forward.

  ‘Mrs Dickson doesn’t do cupboards!’

  She regarded me cautiously. ‘OK. I presumed the cleaning products were in here.’

  ‘Oh, yes, they are.’ I felt ridiculous: ‘Sorry, I get nervous. I’ll make tea.’

  ‘I’d prefer coffee, if that’s OK. Instant will do. I’ll start in the lounge, shall I? Where’s the vacuum cleaner?’

  I backed into the lounge and indicated the meter cupboard then hurried back to the kitchen to make coffee, which I hadn’t attempted since being coaxed through the procedure by Mrs Parkin. Weeks ago. Mrs Dickson never drank coffee. I fetched two china mugs, filled the kettle and waited. I would have to have coffee as well: it would be rude if I made myself tea. I turned as the cat flap sounded, watched the black and white cat pour through onto the doormat, sniff the air, walk over to rub itself against my jeans, then pause and re-sniff the air. I was aware that some kind of feline assessment was taking place and was reassured when the animal padded over and leapt up onto its usual chair.

  ‘Mrs Dickson can’t come today,’ I whispered.

  The cat ignored me, stretched out its claws and licked the freshly-exposed skin between its pads. The ket
tle flicked off. I added a flat teaspoonful of instant coffee to each mug and carried the kettle over and half-filled them. Mrs Dickson hadn’t mentioned anything about not coming. I topped the mugs up with milk and sighed: that didn’t look the right colour. I sprinkled a few more grains of coffee into one of the mugs. They floated to the edge and stuck to the china. That would have to be my one. Then, as I was arranging the tray, an unwelcome thought perforated my mind. I looked at the cat. What if Mrs Dickson had said she wasn’t coming and I’d forgotten? I didn’t think I forgot new things. But then how would I know I’d forgotten things if I couldn’t remember them? The cat’s ears flattened. I ran into the lounge and shouted above the noise of the vacuum:

  ‘Did Mrs Dickson tell me she wasn’t going to be here this week?’

  Dawn looked up, then extended her foot and turned off the cleaner. ‘Pardon?’

  I held my breath. Exhaled. ‘Did Mrs Dickson know she couldn’t come this week? Already? Did she tell me already?’

  Dawn looked apprehensive. ‘I don’t think so. It’s a tummy bug.’ She extended her arm as if to touch me. ‘Are you alright?’

  I edged away from her. ‘Yes, I … I’ll fetch the coffees.’

  *

  I set the tray down at one end of the coffee table. Dawn frowned slightly on catching sight of the mugs.

  ‘That’s yours,’ I said, pointing to the mug without the clots.

  Dawn picked up her coffee and sat down on the large sofa. ‘You have a lovely home,’ she said, swallowing a mouthful and requiring a moment to recover. ‘Do you have nice neighbours?’

  I carried my mug over to the smaller sofa. ‘The lady next door usually says hello, but I don’t know about the rest of the street.’ I noticed her glance up at the ceiling. ‘It’s been empty since I came home. I was … Did Mrs Parkin tell you about me?’

  ‘She said you write children’s books.’ She took another mouthful of coffee then got to her feet. ‘I’d best be getting on or we’ll never get finished.’

  As she set her mug back on the tray I noticed her perfect long nails, all the same length, thick, cloudy white tips then nail-coloured further down: very different from the nails on Mrs Dickson’s stumpy fingers. I sipped my coffee. It was disgusting but I drank it all the same, and watched Dawn slide the vacuum backwards and forwards with her slim hands and her magazine nails, watched her manoeuvre her way over to the bookcase, cut the power and make a display of pulling a duster from her waistband.

  ‘Gracious, are these your books!’ she said. ‘May I take a look?’

  ‘If you like.’ I had absolutely no intention of discussing my writing with this interloper, so I picked up the tray, complete with Dawn’s half-full mug, carried it into the kitchen and pushed the door as closed as I could without appearing to be rude. Then I sat down beside the cat and re-read my magazine.

  That Friday’s two hours took a long time to pass, and Dawn did not make the bed half as well as Mrs Dickson, nor did she do the laundry. I thanked her when she left but I was careful not to give her the impression I ever wanted to meet her again. I really hoped that, whatever was wrong with Mrs Dickson, it would be over with by the following Friday. Alone at last, I made tea and toast and banana, threw the banana skin into the organic waste and recoiled at the smell that escaped before the flap fell back. As I ate my lunch I worried about forgetting new things. Then I worried about Dawn being a cleaner. Did she have ambitions of being something else: a hairdresser or a secretary, perhaps a writer of children’s books? I wondered when I had started writing children’s books. The earliest LOST story was dated four years ago, so I must have started writing before that, perhaps a long time before that. But then it didn’t matter how long ago it was because, if I couldn’t write now, it was all meaningless. I had to do something about it. I walked through to my desk and sat staring at a blank sheet. Glanced across at my books. Perhaps when they were being published at J.D. Hillier Publishing I had met the person who went to lunch with Matthew. I fetched my wallet, pulled out the business card he had given me and read the words, written bold across the middle of the card:

  Parry & Ashdown Literary Agency

  *

  By late afternoon I was desperate to think of something or someone other than Matthew Parry. The prospect of an evening waiting for his phone call was making me crazy. So I fetched my magazine and forced myself to read. I came across a full-page spread: a woman in a bath full of bubbles, her hair perfect and dry: ‘relax and stay young’. Staying young was not one of my immediate concerns, but relaxing in a bath full of bubbles, perhaps that would help. I went to investigate the bathroom cabinet. It was crammed with unopened bottles: more of the shampoo I used; conditioner; a mass of different bath and shower gels. I wanted bubbles. One of the bottles claimed to be a relaxing foaming bath experience. It was a striking shade of purple. Lavender and bergamot. I remembered a sneezy lavender bush in Granny Clark’s garden, always covered in butterflies. But what on earth was bergamot? I read the instructions barely visible against the contents. They did not instruct adequately regarding the amount of the purple liquid that was necessary to provide bubbles and relaxation, so I turned on the bath taps, tipped purple into the gushing water and started to undress.

  As the bath filled and the bubbles mounted, I experienced a half-remembered childhood excitement, scooped up great handfuls of foam and blew them into the air, imagining pixies so light that they could leap between bubbles without bursting them. I inhaled the approximation of lavender and something else that was possibly bergamot and imagined a giant with a magic pipe, imprisoning fairies in bubbles of daydream, unfastened my bra, stepped out of my knickers and surrendered myself to the bathwater. As my shoulders disappeared beneath the bubbles, I realised that I’d forgotten to tie up my hair, so now it was wet. I didn’t care. I dunked my head backwards and came up laughing and covered in foam. Then I lay back and relaxed and let my thoughts stray again to Matthew Parry.

  It was just after five-thirty when I heard my mobile. I sat up straight, causing a tidal wave of bathwater to pour over on to the floor. I hauled myself out of the bath, dripping wet and covered in foam, grabbed my towel, hurried through into the kitchen and snatched up my mobile. I pressed the red telephone. The ringing stopped. I placed it to my ear. Nothing. The ringing started again. I pressed the green phone:

  ‘Sarah, is that you? I’m sorry I think I lost signal. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Damn, this is a terrible line, I can hardly hear you. It’s Matthew.’

  I moved my mouth nearer. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh, that’s better. I hope it’s OK phoning this early but I’ve got caught up in some bloody publishing thing this evening. I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’

  ‘No! I was writing.’ I pushed back my hair to prevent my phone being covered in bathwater.

  ‘Great. So, if we’re still on for tomorrow, I could pick you up at around six. Is that OK? I’ve managed to get a cancellation at Gusto. In Primrose Hill. We can have a drink beforehand. There’s a wine bar next door.’ He paused. ‘Is six o’clock too early?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence. Which he interrupted. ‘So, have you had a good day?’

  ‘Yes.’ Another silence. ‘Was your meeting OK?’

  ‘Not bad. I don’t think I can retire on this one, but it will help pay the rent.’ He laughed. ‘So, what are you doing this evening?’

  ‘More writing probably.’

  ‘OK. Would you like me to ring you again tomorrow?’

  ‘No!’

  Pause. ‘OK, ring me if you want to chat. OK?’

  ‘Yes … bye.’ I heard him laugh.

  ‘Bye, Sarah.’

  I put my phone down on the worktop and stared at it for a moment, exhausted. Wet. Then I pulled my towel around myself and followed the trail of wet footprints that lead back to the soapy flood alongside the bath. There was a squeegee mop propped up next to the hand basin. Dawn had failed to put it back
into the meter cupboard. I started to transfer the water from the floor back into the bath, squeeze at a time. It proved to be a Herculean task, not easily carried out while swathed in a bath towel. As I squashed out a heavy spongeful of water, my towel slithered down to the floor. I snatched it back up but it was already drenched, so I threw it in the corner and continued naked and cold, until the floodwater was gone. I pulled out the bathplug and walked into the bedroom to retrieve my dressing gown from the other side of the door. It was then that I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror.

  Myself naked: a sight I was not familiar with. In fact it was a sight I had been avoiding, yet I was unable to turn away. I watched myself approach, my arms at my sides, my step apologetic, as if I were creeping up on an embarrassed stranger, caught naked and unable to escape. I came to a standstill about two feet away from my reflected self, far enough away to be sure of staying separate. And looked. She was thin, this other me, too thin; her hipbones were too prominent. And her shoulder blades, full of grey shadow, really did look like blades. Her image was made worse by wet strands of hair that were dripping little rivulets of water down her breasts, her stomach, accumulating in the hair between her legs, then escaping down her thighs. I hoped I didn’t look like that. I hoped that this other me had somehow suffered the worst of an unequal deal. But I could feel those streams of bathwater running down my own thighs. This was me, and this was the too-thin body that I was going to cover up and take to dinner tomorrow evening. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to do anything that would end up with anybody seeing this bony thing. Because that’s what happened when men asked women to dinner. Perhaps not straight away. But eventually it would be expected: nakedness, touching, feeling. My magazine was all about encouraging such things. I lifted my hand and wiped the water from my breast, my thumb brushing across my cold nipple. I repeated it, once, twice, then caught my breath. I couldn’t remember feeling anything like that before. But I must have … I looked at my flat abdomen, ran my hand from my hip down the inside of my thigh and let it come to rest a little above my knee. How could I know? Just looking at myself? How would I know what sensations that body might have experienced, what ecstasy, what disappointment? Because those things leave no outward trace. And right now all that I had left were outward traces. I turned away, grabbed my dressing gown from the door and hurried to the airing cupboard to find a warm towel for my hair.