A young waiter comes over and I’m about to give him my name, but he smiles and kisses me on both cheeks.
‘Mia!’ he says, with no trace of a French accent. I’m guessing he must be local. ‘We heard about your accident. I saw all about it on television. How are you? You look amazing as always. Piers is already here at your usual table.’
I push my sunglasses up onto my head and glance around, not sure where our ‘usual’ table would be.
‘Here,’ the waiter, says. ‘By the window.’
I turn back around to see Piers smiling up at me. I’m taken aback again by how handsome he is. He also looks friendlier than he did yesterday. Maybe he was just more worried yesterday. He could’ve been nervous, too. I think I might have been a little harsh on Piers. He’s my boyfriend, so I must like him. Maybe I even love him. I wonder what stage our relationship has reached. Are we serious? How long have we been going out? I need to ask him all these questions, and more. Surely, there has to be some connection or spark between us.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the waiter.
‘Cheers, mate,’ Piers says. ‘Can you bring Mia a glass of Prosecco?’
‘Sure.’
Piers stands and we kiss on the cheek. He didn’t even attempt the lips today, for which I’m grateful. Maybe he has some sensitivity after all.
‘How was the hospital?’ he asks, sitting back down. ‘You should have let me take you.’
I sit down and dump my bag on the window sill. ‘It was fine. I didn’t get lost once.’
‘You drove?’ He frowns and shakes his head. ‘I told you to take a cab.’
‘I’m fine, Piers. I’m not ill. Just a little . . . memory impaired.’
‘Okay, babe. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile, thinking how it’s nice to have someone worry about me.
‘So, what did the doctor say?’ he asks, taking a sip of wine.
‘It’s good news, I suppose. My brain scan came back negative. There’s nothing bad there. It’s just a case of amnesia, and hopefully, my memory will start returning soon.’
‘That’s amazing news. We should have a toast.’
The waiter returns with my drink. I take it from him and raise it in Piers’ direction.
‘To memories,’ he says.
I grin. ‘To memories.’ We clink glasses.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered for you. You always have the same thing anyway.’
‘What do I always have?’ I ask, curious.
‘Wait and see.’
‘That’s mean!’ I give him a fake glare. ‘Tell me.’
‘I see you’re still impatient,’ he says with an eye roll and a smirk.
‘Fine. I can wait. I am starving, though.’ I reach across to the basket in the centre of the table and break off a piece of warm crusty bread.
‘Hmm,’ Piers says. ‘That’s new.’
‘What?’ I say, popping the bread into my mouth.
‘Nothing. Just . . . you never used to eat bread.’
‘Why not? This stuff is heaven.’ I tear off another chunk.
Piers leans across the table. ‘You’ve got flour . . .’ he wipes the side of my mouth with his thumb. It’s an intimate gesture and I’m annoyed to feel myself blushing.
‘So,’ I say, wiping at imaginary crumbs on my dress. ‘What is it you do . . . for a living, I mean?’
‘I’m a property developer.’
‘Oh, okay. So, you like, do houses up, and sell them on?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘Have you got any properties at the moment?’ I ask.
‘I’m working on one. Early stages,’ he says, taking a healthy swig of his wine.
My drink has already gone straight to my head.
‘Do you like it?’ I ask. ‘Being a property developer? Have you done it for long?’ I tear off another chunk of bread and stuff it into my mouth in a half-hearted attempt to soak up the alcohol.
‘Not that long, no,’ he says, draining his glass. ‘It’s okay, yeah. Hard work, though.’
‘Do you do the actual . . . developing?’ I ask. I’m not even sure if I’m interested in what he’s saying, or if I’m merely trying to keep the conversation flowing. ‘Or do you pay people to work for you?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘And you said before that I don’t work?’
‘Not at the moment. You’re taking a break from teaching.’
‘Why would I take a break?’
‘I . . . Oh, here’s lunch.’
I look up to see our waiter returning. Piers has ordered the filet mignon with French fries, and I have a disappointing salad. I eye his steak hungrily.
‘Duck salad with asparagus,’ Piers says. ‘Your favourite.’
‘Lovely, thank you,’ I say, wishing he had let me order my own food.
He orders himself another glass of wine and we dig in. After my initial disappointment, I find the salad is actually delicious, and also quite filling. It would seem the old me knows what I like to eat.
‘I had a strange dream last night,’ I say, taking a sip of Prosecco. ‘But I’m wondering if it might have been a memory.’
‘What was it about?’
‘It’s silly really. I was standing outside a wooden building at night.’
‘A wooden building? What sort of building? A house? A shed?’
‘I don’t think it was either.’ I conjure up the image in my mind. ‘It looked like a massive garage. I guess it could have been a storage shed or something. But I think it had this huge overhanging balcony. It was by the river.’
‘Sounds like the rowing club,’ Piers says spearing a French fry.
‘Do you think so?’ My heart gives a leap as I realise I could have experienced a real memory.
‘I don’t know’ he says. ‘Maybe.’
The scary woman flashes into my mind. I stare at Piers’ face to try and block her out, push her away. ‘I’ll go there after lunch,’ I say, swallowing down a beat of fear. ‘See if I recognise it.’
‘Sounds about right,’ Piers says, swallowing a mouthful of food followed by another swig of wine.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean, it sounds about right that you’ve only been out of hospital for one day, and you’re going back to the bloody rowing club already.’ He twists his lip into an irritated smile.
‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘If that’s my first memory, of course I have to go there. I have to see if it triggers anything else.’
‘Sure,’ he replies, draining his glass and signalling the waiter for yet another.
‘You do understand that, don’t you?’ I say, annoyed that he doesn’t seem to get it. That he’s letting past issues cloud my current predicament.
‘I understand,’ he grunts.
‘What’s the issue with me and the rowing club, anyway?’ I lay my knife and fork down, suddenly not hungry anymore.
‘Nothing. Forget it.’
‘Well, I can’t forget it. It’s obviously something that’s causing a problem between us.’
He glances around. ‘Where’s that bloody waiter with my wine? I should’ve ordered a bottle.’
‘Piers?’ I try to get his attention back. ‘Tell me, what the problem is with the rowing club?’
‘You just spend a lot of time on the water, that’s all.’
‘Okay. Sorry, I guess. But you do understand why I have to go there today, don’t you. If it could help me get my memory back, then . . .’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He scowls.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ I say, trying to revive his mood.
‘Too much going on with the flat this afternoon. I’ve got the bathroom suite being delivered and I’m the only one on site today.’
‘Oh. Okay,’ I say, half-relieved he won’t be coming with me. It’s something I should probably do alone. If Piers is there, I won’t be able to think properly. I won’t be
able to concentrate on remembering.
‘I’ll come over to your place later, though,’ he says, brightening a little.
‘Could we make it tomorrow instead?’ I ask. ‘I really want an early night. I’m so tired, still.’
‘Just for an hour or two?’ he says, wheedling. ‘I won’t stay long.’
It would be easier to give into him. He looks like he doesn’t want to take no for an answer. But I know I’d regret it later. ‘Not tonight,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I won’t be good company.’
‘Mia,’ Piers says, pushing his empty plate away, and wiping his mouth with his napkin. ‘Do you know how weird this all is for me?’
Weird for him? ‘Um, yeah. Of course.’
‘I mean, one day you’re my girlfriend. You love me and we have a great relationship. The next day you don’t even know who I am, and you don’t want me coming over. It’s weird, right?’
‘Of course it’s weird, Piers.’ I try to keep my voice level, not quite believing that he could think his situation is any stranger than my own. ‘I get that it’s hard for you. But it’s not something I’ve chosen. I didn’t want to lose my memory. I don’t know anything about myself. I don’t know what I like to eat, what clothes I like to wear. I didn’t even recognise my face in the mirror, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Whoa,’ he says, raising his hands in submission. ‘Easy there, tiger. I’m just trying to have a conversation about everything. Trying to work out what we should do.’ He runs his fingers up and down the back of his head, massaging his scalp.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. Didn’t mean to swear.’ I exhale and stare through the window at a middle-aged couple browsing the menu outside. Piers must think I’m a total cow, losing my temper like that. ‘I don’t even know how old I am,’ I murmur.
‘You’re twenty-five,’ Piers says with a sigh.
‘Oh.’ I guess twenty-five seems like an okay age to be. I look across at him. He’s staring down at his empty plate. I can’t tell if he’s upset, or angry, or what. ‘If it’s awkward for you,’ I begin. ‘Do you want . . . I mean, should we . . . I don’t know . . . take a break. Split up or something?’
‘What? Jesus, no, Mia. That’s the last thing I want.’ He reaches across the table and takes both my hands. ‘You may not know me anymore, but I know you, Mia James. And I love you. We’re great together, and I’m going to make sure you know it.’
I suddenly realise that of course it must be awful for Piers. To have the person you love stare at you blankly, like you mean nothing. What a kick in the guts. I give his hands a squeeze, and smile weakly.
‘Thank you,’ is all I manage to say.
Chapter Nine
After my lunch with Piers, I’m all antsy and keyed-up. I’m walking back home, and feel like I want to go for a run or something, but it’s far too hot. It must be 35 degrees out. Unless my memory returns, I really don’t see how Piers and I are going to make it work. I don’t feel any connection between us. There’s no spark. Not for me, anyway.
A mobile phone shop catches my eye and I decide to go inside and pick out a new phone. Not that I know many people to call, but I guess I’ll need one eventually. I spend an hour or so in there, and finally leave with a phone that’s made the sales guy far happier than me. I step back out onto the pavement feeling hot and bothered, unable to relax. I’m still walking back in the direction of home, but I don’t want to go back yet. Instead, I think I’m going to head straight to the rowing club. I’m not sure where it is, but maybe I can ask someone.
I walk quickly despite the heat, and now I’m almost back at the quay. There’s some kind of sailing club near my house. Maybe the rowing club is part of it. As I walk back through the car park, I’m grateful for the shade provided by all the trees here, along with the hint of breeze coming off the river. I leave the cool of the car park and cross the cobbled road, walking over the stone bridge and heading towards the boats. There are quite a few people milling about. I approach a family who are loading supplies into a dinghy.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the woman, who’s chastising her young sons for mucking about instead of helping. She turns to me with an irritated expression, but it transforms into a smile when she realises I’m not a misbehaving child.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You going out on the water this afternoon? Isn’t it just the most perfect day.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I agree. ‘I’m actually looking for the rowing club.’
‘Oh, okay. You’re at the wrong end.’ She points west. ‘It’s about a ten-minute walk in that direction. You can’t miss it. It’s just past the kids’ playground.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘Hot work, though,’ she says, ‘rowing in this heat. You must be fit.’
I smile. ‘Thanks again.’
I leave the bustle of the sailing club behind, and walk along the gently curving river, passing overfed ducks and swans, admiring the silvery reed beds on the opposite bank, and a pretty wooden house which sits alone amid the long grass. I pass elderly couples relaxing on wooden benches, and families playing ball games on the field. Dogs trot lazily in the heat and children squeal with delight in the playground and water park up ahead. I’m alert for anything which might look familiar to me, but it’s all fresh, new and interesting. Nothing to suggest I’ve been here before.
As I pass the playground and come around a sharp bend, I spot four teens at the river’s edge, gathering up their blades ready to climb into their boat. Wellington boots lie discarded on the shingle, and their instructor is sliding a launch into the water.
I jog towards her, hoping to have a word before their session gets underway. I wonder if she might recognise me. But as I draw closer, I glance to my right and catch my breath.
It’s the building. The one from my dream. Piers was right. Sitting close to the river bank, it’s ultra-modern, clad in wood, with a floor-to-ceiling window on the upper level, leading onto a huge wrap-around balcony. It seems slightly different to how I remember it – bigger and more imposing somehow – but maybe that’s because now it’s a bright sunny day, rather than a lonely dark night, like in my dream. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the same building, though. My heart rate accelerates, and I stare ahead to the path along the river, expecting to see the woman from my dream coming for me. Of course, there is no woman there, just a family throwing a ball into the river for their collie dog to retrieve. My pulse slows and I attempt to get my breathing back under control.
Apart from the coach and her students at the water’s edge, the club itself appears deserted.
‘Excuse me,’ I call out.
The coach turns and frowns. I don’t recognise her. Her students are already in their scull, and she’s seconds from following them. I step down onto the shingle slipway and smile at her, but she doesn’t say anything or return my smile.
‘Is there anyone in the clubhouse?’ I ask. ‘Can I go in?’
‘Are you a member?’
‘I think so.’ As I say the words, I realise how dodgy they sound, and I don’t blame her for the look she gives me. But I can’t start telling a total stranger about my amnesia; she’ll think I’m even weirder. ‘I used to be a member,’ I say, saving my faux pas.
‘Oh, right. Well, if you want to renew your membership, you’re best off giving them a call. They can talk you through it. You can find the details online.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘No problem.’ She hops up onto the launch and motors off after her students who have already pulled away upstream. I stare after them for a moment, envious. Feeling as though I’d like to be out there, too.
I guess that’s it for now. I should go back home. Thank goodness I managed to put Piers off coming round tonight. It’s too much like hard work trying to figure out how our relationship should be. I’ll have to try harder. I guess I owe him that much. Just . . . not tonight.
I should be pleased with how things have gone this afternoon. At least I know this
building is definitely the one from my memory, so there’s every chance more memories will start returning. That’s got to be good news. But I get a strange vibe from the place. It’s comfortable here, and kind of familiar, but it’s also making my stomach flutter with nerves.
‘Mia!’
I turn at the mention of my name, already becoming used to the sound of it. A man dressed in shorts, t-shirt and trainers comes out of a door in the side of the clubhouse. He brings a hand up to shade his eyes and takes a step towards me.
‘Mia? It is you isn’t it?’
‘Hello?’ I say, taking a step towards him.
‘It’s me, Jack.’
‘Sorry, do I know you?’ I hunch my shoulders and flush at the thought of not recognising a possible friend or acquaintance. He must think I’m so rude. I’ll have to explain my amnesia.
He gives me a smile, his head tipped to the side in a gesture of sympathy. ‘I heard what happened, Mia. The police have been here, and we saw it on the news. The beach and your amnesia. How terrible.’ He’s standing right in front of me now. Tall, with a rower’s body, dark hair and blue-green eyes.
‘I . . . Yeah.’ God, what an idiot. I literally can’t think of anything to say. At least he knows what happened, saving me having to explain everything.
His smile broadens. ‘I’m Jack Harrington, club coach and fellow rower.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it. ‘I’m guessing you can’t remember me?’ he says.
‘Sorry, no.’
He puts his hand on his heart, steps back and pretends to be offended.
‘But if it’s any consolation,’ I say with a hesitant smile, ‘I can’t remember anyone, or anything, so it’s not just you.’
‘Okay, I’ll let you off. Do you want a cuppa? I was just locking up, but we can go back upstairs and sit on the deck for a while if you like?’
‘No, that’s okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the offer but I’d better get back.’ I don’t know why I turned him down. A chat and a cuppa with a former-friend sounds like it could be just what I need, but I’m a little tired and off-balance.
The Girl From the Sea Page 5
