What Was Lost

by Jean Levy

  So Sarah scraped up the last of her dessert, pulled on her pashmina and agreed to coffee on the terrace. Then she agreed to a glass of champagne on the terrace and sat quietly alongside her agent, watched the stars and allowed herself to fall in love with Burgundy. Perhaps it was the silence that caused her, shamelessly, to make such a surprising statement.

  ‘I’ve often imagined what it would be like making love to you.’

  Matthew was caught off guard. He spoke with apprehension; or alternatively it might have been anticipation. ‘And does what you imagine usually go well?’

  She looked at him through a mild alcoholic haze. ‘It gets better every time.’ She picked up her glass, sipped the bubbles and failed to regret what she had just said.

  He said nothing. He did nothing. He just looked. Not frowning, not smiling, just looking.

  Sarah was unable to bear it. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

  Still he said nothing.

  ‘Jeff probably doesn’t even care when I’m getting back and …’ His silence was making her feel stupid. ‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit …’

  She watched him take her glass and place it on the table, felt his arm around her, his kiss so much more real than imagining can ever be.

  He placed his hand over hers. ‘I booked a room for tomorrow evening. Before we left Frankfurt. I confirmed it when we checked in.’

  She detached herself from his arm. She was instantly sober. Or almost sober.

  ‘You confirmed a room for an extra night after I’d said I wouldn’t sleep with you? Did you assume I was that much of a pushover?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I just thought that if you decide you wanted to stay, there might not have been a room available. And I didn’t want you to be disappointed.’

  His eyes looked so damn sincere! Sarah paused to consider the situation, then to reconsider the situation. She finally decided not to re-check her phone for messages but instead, to go with her instincts. ‘And do you think I’ll be disappointed, Matthew?’

  He picked up his glass and smirked at the champagne bubbles. Unstoppable. ‘Not a chance in Hell, gorgeous. Not a chance in Hell.’

  Episode Thirty-four

  I knelt on the floor of the lounge reorganising my case at the last-minute, removing a pencil tin I no longer needed. Matthew emerged from the bedroom, car keys in hand.

  ‘Sarah, what are you doing? There’s no time for that! I’m just going to fetch the car. If the wheels are missing we’ll take yours. Be ready in four minutes, OK?’ The front door closed behind him. I hurried into the kitchen to check everything was turned off. I wouldn’t touch anything. I’d just look. Things seemed to be OK. There were biscuits for Alfie. Peggy was going to feed him while we were away. The front door opened.

  ‘Are you ready? I’ll take your case. And I’ll close up behind you.’

  I grabbed my bag. Outside I was confronted by a very noisy car. Matthew opened the door. Upwards.

  ‘Why’s the door like that?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be like that.’

  ‘Did you want a red car?’

  ‘They’re usually red. Mind your head when you get in.’

  He waited for me to bend myself inside before carefully closing the door. I had managed to fasten my seatbelt by the time he climbed in beside me. I pointed to a small golden heart stuck on the dashboard. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘You put it there, to remind me not to go too fast.’

  ‘Have I been in here before?’

  ‘Several times. And you were wearing that same look of disapproval every time.’

  ‘There are only two seats.’

  ‘How many do you want to sit in?’

  *

  It was a sunny morning, with a sky that was fresh and blue, still teetering on the threshold of summer. I sat quiet and watched Matthew driving his shiny red car, fast and low and far away from the chaos of people and buildings that were too high and too close together. Far away from the chaos of freedom: back to ordered captivity. I watched the spaces between the concrete grow wider, out along the road that led to Wales. I knew that journey well, and I knew, when I saw the sign to Windsor, that we would soon be there. We pulled off the motorway. Matthew tried to chat about my apple stories but I felt too worried to do anything other than watch the road ahead. I felt Matthew touch my hand.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not worrying about the next few days, are you? We’ll be home before you know it. And then we can go visit our place in Hampstead. And if by this afternoon you’re not happy there, we’ll leave. And go to Gusto for supper, OK?’

  I allowed myself to smile for the first time since leaving Islington. ‘They won’t keep me there longer, will they?’

  ‘No.’ He indicated off the dual carriageway. ‘Shall we stop somewhere? We don’t have to be there for over half an hour.’

  I shook my head. ‘We could have left later.’

  ‘I was worried we’d get caught in traffic.’

  Silence. ‘Matthew, I’m sorry.’

  He flashed me a glance. ‘What?’

  ‘Before all this I probably was a person you’d want to be with. And share your house and car with …’

  ‘Matthew Parry shares his car with no one ever again!’

  ‘Matthew, listen! If, after this next few days, if it’s clear that I’m never going to be that person again, I don’t want you to waste your life with me.’

  ‘Sarah, don’t …’

  ‘Please! I won’t let it happen to you. I … What are you doing?’

  He pulled up on the side of the road, uncomfortably close to the hedgerow but not touching, cut the engine and put the hazard lights on. ‘Matthew, this is dangerous!’

  ‘So is driving and listening to you talking rubbish.’

  ‘It’s not rubbish. This is still my life and I can decide whether …’

  ‘Are you still angry with me?’

  ‘Yes … no!’ I ought to have been angry, but the whole hopeless situation was somehow dulling the anger. ‘Matthew, I know you loved me but I’m not that person anymore and I don’t think I ever will be again.’ I had meant to say this all unemotionally, but there I was crying.

  ‘Sarah, don’t say such stupid things.’ He unfastened his seat belt and took my hand. ‘It’s my decision as well and, if you want me, I stay. I spent too long waiting for you to be free of that bastard to give up on you now.’

  ‘What bast…?’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Matthew’s attention was suddenly on the road ahead. ‘Here come the cops!’

  A patrol car was pulling in just ahead of us. Matthew refastened his seat belt and lowered the window ready for confrontation. A policeman was ambling towards us putting on his hat. His partner seemed to be marooned, his door too close to the hedgerow to open. I scrabbled in my bag for a tissue.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, officer. We’ve just had a bit of bad news and my partner’s a little upset. I pulled in for a couple of minutes to make sure she was OK.’

  The officer leaned low to look at me then his head disappeared from view. ‘Bit dangerous stopping here,’ he said. ‘Some of the bikers use this bit of road as a speed track. If one of them comes round the corner and sees this parked here, he might go a bit unnecessary.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll move. Sarah’s fine now.’

  ‘OK, sir. Hope things sort themselves out. They usually do, one way or another.’ He stepped away and looked along the road. ‘Don’t get a lot of opportunity to talk to someone in one of these. Very nice. You be careful when you pull away.’ He touched the peak of his hat and walked off, back to his car.

  Matthew closed the window. ‘We’d better get going.’ He pulled away behind the patrol car. ‘And I don’t want to hear another word about wasted lives. This is my life and I choose it with you, whatever happens over the next few days.’

  *

  The Greystone Park drive was long and lined with r
hododendrons and chestnut trees. Matthew parked his car and carried our bags into reception, where the only evidence of the building’s purpose was a slight smell of disinfectant wafting in from beyond the carpeted lounge. Passers-by, straying in from the manicured grounds, might have imagined that they had stumbled upon a tucked-away country-house hotel dedicated to an ascetic lifestyle. It was the way wealthy addicts and celebrity alcoholics expected to be dealt with. Celebrities not at all like me.

  A woman wearing navy blue and pearls greeted us, called for our bags to be taken to our rooms and then escorted us to wait in the seating area overlooking the golf course.

  Matthew walked over to appreciate the view. ‘Should have bought my clubs.’

  I smiled at the back of his head. ‘I thought you sold them to pay off Lucy.’

  He turned. ‘You’ve remembered that have you? Actually, that was a fib. I’ve still got them. But I never play.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hate being beaten. Even you can hit the ball further than me and you’re a girl.’

  I laughed. It might have been hysteria, but then again, it might have been really funny.

  ‘Was your house OK when you went to collect your car?’

  ‘Yes, not a toy boy in sight.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘I remember the food’s OK. Although, don’t have the scrambled eggs.’

  We glanced round as another woman in navy blue and pearls approached and introduced herself. Her lapel badge read ‘LYNNE BARR: ATTENDANT’ and that is who and what she declared herself to be. She escorted us into the lift and up to the third floor, where we stepped out into a corridor I recognised from over two months ago. However, the suite we were taken to was an immense improvement on my previous room. I was now clearly worthy of two bedrooms, each en-suite, and a small, bright lounge with a seating area, a dining table and chairs, potted plants, numerous objets d’art, a bowl of perfect fruit and no TV.

  ‘My God,’ said Matthew, as soon as we were alone. ‘This is nicer than your flat. Although it would benefit from a kitchen.’

  I turned away from the laughter I knew wasn’t there and caught sight of the tray: tea, coffee, hot chocolate and gingerbread men. ‘Matthew, they’ve thought of everything!’

  He was investigating the contents of the small minibar in the corner. ‘Evian, coke, apple juice. Almost everything!’

  Our bags had all been placed in the main bedroom, although the bed was not even big enough for occasional sharing. The bed in the adjoining room was smaller. ‘Looks like Mrs Parkin was in charge of beds,’ said Matthew. ‘Why don’t you unpack? I’ll pour.’

  Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. Matthew opened it. Bob Gray came in and shook his hand.

  ‘Hello, Sarah, Matthew. I hope you’re pleased with your rooms. They’re the best we have. Usually reserved for royalty … foreign of course.’ He looked at Matthew and then looked more closely, pulling his spectacles to the end of his nose.

  ‘I walked into a door,’ said Matthew, covering his lip.

  Dr Gray seemed satisfied with that.

  ‘Now, Sarah, we have a whole programme of things for you to take part in. Sam has put together some exciting cognitive tests.’ He lowered himself into a chair. ‘First session is one thirty. Mrs Barr will collect you. Just myself and Sam to start with. Drs Williams and Mustafa will join us later, together with a guest practitioner from the United States.’

  He helped himself to a gingerbread man and asked me if I had any questions. I asked whether the other doctors were aware that Matthew was attending the sessions. Bob Gray glanced at Matthew.

  ‘As I said before, I am very happy for Matthew to observe, although fisticuffs will be strictly forbidden.’

  Matthew folded his arms.

  ‘Lunch begins at noon. I’ve arranged for a vegetarian selection to be served in here, but if you’d prefer to mingle in the restaurant, just let reception know. I gather there’s pistachio soufflé or banana cheesecake for pudding today: always a difficult choice, so I advised them to bring double helpings of both.’ He checked his watch. ‘Now, you have a good half hour before lunch, and it’s a lovely day for a stroll in the grounds. Sarah knows the way. If you need anything, just call reception.’

  Bloomsbury

  Sarah was maintaining her most intransigent frown. ‘But, Poppy,’ she insisted, ‘Jenny Berry has to visit Raggedy Lyme to save it from disaster!’

  ‘Sarah, Raggedy Lyme was made up by Jenny’s grandma. It’s not real.’

  ‘What makes you say that? I’ve never at any point suggested that Raggedy Lyme is not real.’ She slapped her file shut. ‘And, anyway, what is real?’

  ‘Pretty much the frustration that Poppy’s wearing on his face at this very moment,’ said Matthew. He turned to his exasperated editor. ‘Poppy, mate, Raggedy Lyme is real inside Sarah’s head. And if she wants to take her small protagonist there, to save the place that helps pay your gym membership, then I’m sure she’ll find a way.’ He glanced back at Sarah. ‘But, you’ll never do it in thirty-two illustrated pages.’

  ‘I don’t intend to. I’ll finish my LOST series and then I’ll start on Grandma’s apple stories. And then I’m going to bring Jenny Berry back for a full-length adventure of twenty-five thousand words.’

  ‘Full-length adventure?’ said Poppy.

  ‘Apple stories?’ said Matthew.

  Sarah folded her arms with satisfaction. ‘Yes and yes. And you’re both gaping.’

  ‘I never gape,’ said Matthew. He got to his feet. ‘Take me to lunch, madwoman, and pitch your idea to me. And I can look uncompromising and professional while considering your proposal. And we can pretend, for a tiny while, that I actually make the decisions around here.’

  She laughed. ‘OK. You coming too, Poppy?’

  ‘No, Poppy’s tidying his desk for the rest of the day.’

  Sarah looked from Matthew to Poppy then back to Matthew. ‘What?’

  Poppy snatched up his things and headed for the door, pausing briefly to turn to Sarah. ‘The philandering pig just wants to get you on your own again. But this time there are no perks in it for me. He’s just pulling rank!’ The door closed behind him.

  Sarah refolded her arms and waited. Matthew ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Sarah, we had two days of unforgettable passion, which I am unable to be calm about, yet for the last two weeks you have behaved as if nothing happened.’

  She continued to say nothing.

  ‘And, I have to say, I’m feeling crushed by your casual disregard for my emotional turmoil. I’m exhausted with trying to read where I stand with you! We need to talk about where you want us to go from here, yet ever since we’ve been back, you’ve avoided being on your own with me.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did those two days mean nothing to you? Sarah, will you please say something?’

  ‘Where shall we go for lunch?’

  Episode Thirty-five

  Our walk had left us both feeling strangely elated and very hungry, so it was fortunate that, no sooner had we arrived back in our rooms, than lunch arrived. Matthew was impressed with the food and, during our meal, I managed a rare moment of relaxation. However, by the time we were on to coffee I was becoming anxious, and when Mrs Barr called in to escort us to the first session, I was feeling very ill at ease. Matthew stayed close beside me as we were led down to the second floor. With every set of double doors we passed, the atmosphere progressed from hotel to hospital corridor. The penultimate turn took us past numbered doors with the names of their inmates displayed in steel frames, presumably those whose stay was likely to be longer than two days. I felt that this might have been the corridor where I was first kept. The final double doors opened into a waiting area surrounded by consulting rooms. Dr Gray ushered us inside one of them and Sam Clegg rose to greet us.

  We settled into a semi-circle of bucket chairs, stylish grey leather, myself between Drs Gray and Clegg, and separated from Matthew by the younger man. I was still feelin
g apprehensive, although Sam Clegg’s relaxed friendliness did a lot to calm me and I felt even calmer when Bob Gray sat back and asked him to start the session.

  Sam briefly declared his interest in my forgotten time then smiled. ‘Sarah, you’re an accomplished storyteller and when you write you do so according to some very basic rules that have been obvious to storytellers since time began. Aristotle … Do you remember Aristotle?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘OK, Aristotle said that every good story has to have a plot with a beginning, a middle and an end and, if you take one of those things away, the story’s no longer complete and your storyteller’s mind tells you something’s wrong.’

  I was intrigued.

  ‘OK. Now, let’s try a couple of tests. They’re very simple. Even Dr Gray managed them first time.’