My phone pings. It’s a text from Piers asking what I’m doing today. I’ll reply to it later. I can’t go on like this, dreading his calls and visits. However good we were before the accident, we’re certainly not right for each other any longer. I’ve given it a week, and I can’t stand it anymore.
I finally finish my breakfast, defeated by half a slice of fried bread.
‘Lightweight,’ Jack teases.
He offers to pay for breakfast, but I won’t let him, so we agree to split the bill, leaving a large tip. Back outside, the traffic has eased, but the pavements are heaving with impatient shoppers and slow-moving tourists.
‘Turn right,’ Jack says.
I do as he says and we wind our way, single file through the crowds. We turn right again at the roundabout, and here, at last, the crowds thin out. I recognise the French restaurant where I had lunch with Piers last week. That day seems like months ago. Jack guides me down a little pathway where I’m surprised to see some wooden stocks.
‘Are those real?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. I was put in them as a kid. Had rotten fruit thrown at me all afternoon. Scarred me for life.’
‘No!’ I turn to him in disbelief.
‘No,’ he confirms.
I give him a light shove. ‘I actually believed you for a second.’
‘They’re just a replica of the real thing,’ he says. ‘Must have been uncomfortable and humiliating to be stuck in there all day. And that was the whipping post.’ He points further along to an unremarkable looking wooden post.
I shudder at the thought of such barbaric medieval punishments.
We continue on along the shady lane. To our left is an immaculate bowling green. Then, straight ahead, I see the grassy hill we saw from the café. It doesn’t look quite as astonishing from this angle, but it’s still impressive. And at its summit sit the castle ruins.
‘Can we go up?’ I ask.
Jack nods and I follow him up the steep, curving stone steps which have been carved into the hillside. It only takes us a minute to reach the top. The castle walls are of thick, grey stone, mossy in parts. The roof is missing and most of the walls are crumbling, but there’s a pretty view of The Priory and the surrounding houses. I can also see the courtyard where we had breakfast only moments ago. A young family is seated there now, studying menus.
‘I wonder who destroyed the castle,’ I say.
‘Cromwell,’ Jack replies. ‘What a vandal.’
‘How old is it? The castle.’
‘Early twelfth century. Almost a thousand years old. Amazing really.’
‘Are you into history?’ I ask.
‘My wife’s a History teacher,’ he says. ‘She loves all this stuff.’
I feel an irrational twinge of envy.
‘Does she like to row, too?’ I ask.
‘She loves it,’ he says. ‘Because of her work, she doesn’t get to go out as often as she’d like.’ But there’s something in his voice I can’t place. Like he’s distracted by something. ‘You ready to go back down?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply. But I’m not. I feel like I could stay up here with him for the rest of the day. I don’t want to go back down. Not at all.
Chapter Eighteen
It’s lunchtime but I’m not hungry. Probably something to do with the insanely huge breakfast I had this morning with Jack. But my lack of appetite is also down to worry. I’m out on the balcony trying to relax, but I can’t settle. It’s as though I’m riding a never-ending rollercoaster, my stomach constantly swooping and rising. There are too many things to think about, and I don’t know what to do about any of them.
This morning, out on the river, was perfect. If I could do that every day, and nothing else, I think I could be content, even if my memories never returned. But there are too many other concerns tugging at me. It feels like there’s someone tapping on my forehead, slowly and steadily wearing on my nerves. I shift my legs and bottom, trying to get comfortable on the lounger, but the sun is too hot, my brain is racing, my body on edge. It still feels like I’m living in someone else’s house, inhabiting someone else’s life.
This is no good. I’m not going to be able to lie here. I need to do something. I sit up, swing my legs off the lounger, and sit for a moment, resting my chin on the heel of my hand. Finally, I stand, rolling my neck and shoulders from side to side. They’re stiffening up a little after this morning’s rowing session. I pad inside, pulling the balcony doors closed behind me. As I do so, I get a momentary flashback of the woman from my nightmare. Her anger. Her slow walk towards me. I push the image away and swallow down a spark of fear.
My mouth is dry, so I head over to the kitchen and turn on the tap, waiting a few moments until it runs cold. I reach up to one of the cupboards to get a glass. No, that’s where the plates are kept. I still don’t know my way around my own kitchen. I open another cupboard where a few packets and tins rest forlornly on the shelves. Anger wells up inside me, tears forming behind my eyes. This is ridiculous. I can’t cry simply because I forgot which cupboard I keep the glasses in. I yank open another cupboard door. The glasses sit there, glinting, mocking. The urge to smash them rushes through me. But I don’t. Instead, I take one out and hold it under the gushing water. Fill it to the top and then gulp the whole lot down. My hand is shaking, but I will not give into my anger and sadness. I turn off the tap, place the glass carefully on the drainer, and curl my hands into fists to stop them trembling.
I must distract myself with something. Something useful. I leave the lounge and go downstairs. As I descend to the ground floor, the air becomes pleasantly cooler. I push open the door to the office, cross the room and fire up my laptop. I tap in a search for PC repair shops. After a few minutes scrolling and clicking, I find a place not too far away. I consider giving them a call first, but then change my mind. I need to get out of the house.
Glancing around the office, I soon see what I’m looking for on the floor, propped up next to the filing cabinet – a grey neoprene laptop bag. I close the machine, unplug it and slide it into the bag, along with the power cable.
Twenty minutes later, I park up outside a tiny shop imaginatively named The PC Repair Shop, squashed in between a sandwich place and a key cutters. It’s a no-parking zone, but I won’t be long. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and leave the Mini’s cool interior for the blazing midday heat. Two steps later and I push open the door to the shop, setting a bell jangling above my head. It’s warm and musty in here, the faint scent of electrical wires and circuits in my nostrils.
‘Coming!’ a man calls out from a back room somewhere. He appears moments later through a half-open frosted glass door. ‘Mm, sorry,’ he says, wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘Just grabbing some lunch.’ He’s in his forties, greying hair, friendly looking. ‘Can you believe this summer we’re having?’
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘It’s like the Mediterranean out there.’
‘Too hot to be working,’ he says. ‘Anyway, how can I help?’
‘Just wondering if you’re able to retrieve deleted emails?’
‘From your laptop?’ he asks, inclining his head at my bag.
I nod.
‘Depends on your email provider . . . and other things. Best thing is to leave it with me. I’ll take a look and see if it’s possible. Is it one particular email you’re missing?’
‘No. All of them. I’ve only got the ones that were sent to me this week. The rest have all been deleted somehow and I need to get them back. The “sent” ones, too.’
‘Okay. Well, as I said, leave it with me and I’ll do my best to find them for you.’
‘Thanks. Do you know how long it might take?’
‘Hard to say. Give me your number and I’ll give you a call as soon as I know one way or the other.’
‘Do you think you can do it?’ I ask. ‘What are my chances?’
‘Truthfully, you’ve only got a ten to twenty percent chance of getting them back. You could be
lucky – I might snag a few of them.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
I spend the next five minutes filling out paperwork, and he gives me a receipt which I stuff in my purse. I leave the shop just in time, by the look of it, as I spy a traffic warden up ahead, walking purposefully towards my car. I hop in, start up the engine and pull away. The warden wags her finger at me with a smile, as I drive past. I smile back and shrug my shoulders.
That’s one chore out of the way. But now I have something far more unpleasant to do.
I hear him coming up the stairs. I grit my teeth, waiting, sitting on one of the kitchen stools dipping a carrot baton into a tub of hummus. He smiles as he walks over to me, a bouquet of pink roses in his arms. Too late for flowers, I think, shoving the carrot in my mouth and chewing hastily.
‘Hey, babe.’ He leans in to kiss me on the lips, then presses the bouquet into my hands. His aftershave masks their scent.
‘Hi. Thanks, they’re beautiful.’ I lay them on the counter.
‘So are you.’
He’s not making this easy.
‘Piers . . .’
‘Want a drink? It’s not too early is it?’ He looks at his watch. ‘Four thirty. I think we can crack open a bottle of something cold. Got any white in the fridge?’
‘Rosé.’
‘That’ll do.’
Maybe I will have a glass. It might make this less difficult.
‘You should put those flowers in water,’ he says. ‘They’ll die in this heat.’
‘In a minute.’
As he strides round to the fridge, I watch him. His outfit is immaculate as usual – one of his many pairs of beige shorts and pale blue shirts. It’s one of the things that irritates me about him. I feel bad for what I’m about to do. He’s obviously trying to make things up with me after our crappy weekend, even if he hasn’t actually apologised. I get the feeling he doesn’t realise he’s done anything wrong. He thinks he’s been supportive – coming round here all the time, organising the party. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’m the one with the problem. Either way, it’s not working and I have to end it. I’ll have a glass of wine first. Dutch courage.
Piers locates the wine glasses without any of the problems I had earlier. Opens the right cupboard first time. Well done, Piers. I’m being a bitch in my head. I need to stop it. He fills each glass to the brim, half emptying the bottle.
‘Got anything else to dip in the hummus?’ he asks.
‘Celery? More carrots?’
‘Yeah, okay,’ he says without much enthusiasm.
I go to the fridge and take out a packet of ready-prepared veggies, slide them onto a plate, grab the hummus, and follow him out to the balcony. But then I stop. Things might get heated in a minute, and I don’t want the neighbours to hear.
‘Can we sit inside?’ I say.
‘I’ve been inside all day,’ he says. I hear the scrape of furniture as he repositions the chairs to face the sun.
‘Okay.’ I acquiesce.
He takes a gulp of wine. ‘Ah, that’s better. How was your day? You look good. Been out in the sun? You’ve got a few freckles, babe.’ He touches the tip of my nose with his finger. ‘Cute.’
My nerves return, but I can’t chicken out of this. We’re not right for each other. I know it, even if he doesn’t. I take a sip of wine. It’s cold and crisp with a hint of sweetness, but I’m not enjoying it. I set my glass back on the table.
‘Piers,’ I begin.
He smiles across at me, a look of lazy lust in his eyes.
‘Piers, this past week has been . . . difficult.’
‘You can say that again. You’re feeling better, though, aren’t you? Apart from the whole memory loss thing.’
‘Kind of,’ I say. ‘But, the thing is, losing my memory has meant that I’m starting all over again. With everything. I don’t know any of the people in my life. I don’t remember our history, or what drew us together.’
‘You’re talking about us, right?’ he says, putting his glass on the table. ‘You and me?’
‘You, me, my family, my friends.’
He leans forward. ‘I’ll help you through it, Mia. I can tell you everything you need to know. I love you, babe. I’m here for you.’
‘But that’s just it,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I want to be told. I think I want to rediscover it all for myself. Start again, if you like.’
‘Why don’t I move in here?’ he says, not taking the hint. ‘It’ll be easier. We can rediscover everything together . . . if you know what I mean.’ He grins.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I think . . . I need to be on my own.’
‘Okay. Well, I don’t have to move in.’ His smile disappears. He’s offended.
‘Piers, you’re not listening.’ I look into his eyes with the most serious expression I can muster. ‘I want to be on my own.’
He stares back, finally understanding. ‘Without me, you mean.’ He tilts his head and chews his lower lip.
I don’t reply.
‘What happens when you get your memory back and you realise you’ve made a mistake?’ he says. His voice isn’t pleading. It’s hard.
‘I guess I’ll have to take that chance.’
‘So that’s it then? We’re finished?’ he says, shaking his head, disbelieving.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, that’s just fucking great isn’t it.’ He stands up and downs his wine. ‘That knock on the head really screwed up your brain, Mia. You’ve been weird ever since the accident. I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and you’re chucking it all down the drain. I was going to ask you to . . . Oh, what’s the point. You’re going to regret this.’ He shoves past my chair and walks back inside. I stand up and follow him, trying to ignore my trembling body, and keep it together. I knew this would be hard, but it’s awful seeing him so bitter and angry.
‘I’m sorry, Piers. I didn’t want to hurt you. I . . . It’s just not right between us.’
‘And what about the business?’ he says. ‘The new apartment’s in both our names. What about all the work I’ve put into it?’ He runs both hands through his hair.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘We’ll work something out. You can buy me out or something.’
‘Yeah, like you need the money,’ he mutters. His face twists. ‘For someone so loaded, you’re a tight cow.’
‘Charming,’ I say, taken aback by his vitriol.
He’s standing at the top of the stairs, his face red, his perfect hair messed up for once. ‘God, Mia,’ he says with disgust. ‘You really are a complete bitch.’
He turns away, his footsteps recede, the front door slams. Through the French windows, I hear his car start up, the engine revving hard. The squeal of tyres as he leaves.
I’m shaking, but it’s done.
Chapter Nineteen
Another early morning, and I’m on my way to the rowing club again. Excited to get back out on the water and – if I’m honest – to see Jack. I can hardly believe I’m finally free of Piers. That he won’t be coming around anymore. But my relief is tinged with guilt. I hadn’t wanted to hurt him.
As I round the bend, my heart lifts as the clubhouse comes into view, along with the sight of Jack setting up the boat stands. He glances up and smiles.
‘Hey. You coming out again?’ he says.
‘If that’s okay?’ I reply.
‘Course it’s okay.’
‘Look, I’ve got a baseball cap, and my own water bottle today,’ I wave it around for him to see. ‘I reckon one more session out there with you, and then I’ll be good to go out on my own. I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
‘Mia, it’s fine. I’m happy to go out on the water with you whenever you want.’
‘Thanks.’ I feel heat in my face and hope he hasn’t noticed.
We stay out for an hour or so, until Jack says he has to get back for a training session with some of the juniors. It’s been another heavenly morning. Peaceful. Nothing but the hi
ss and splash of the blades, and the occasional quacking of ducks. I suddenly realise that I’m dreading going back home. Panic bubbles up inside me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do for the rest of the day. There’s nowhere I have to be. Nothing I have to do. Nobody who needs me. I am completely on my own. I wish I could just keep rowing. But that won’t solve anything. I need to go back and face my fears. Start living my life. But how? I don’t know where to begin.
We reach the bank and begin lifting our boats out onto their stands. It’s even hotter off the water and I’m glad I remembered a hat today. No one else is around, just the odd dog walker along the footpath. Jack’s juniors will be here soon, but for now, it’s just us. He heads up to the clubhouse, brings the hosepipe down and throws me a cloth.
‘I’ll hose the boats, you clean,’ he says, as water spurts out of the pipe.
I do as he asks and start wiping down my boat.
‘Want to go out for a drink later?’ Jack asks. ‘Nothing funny.’ He grins. ‘Just friends. I don’t want Piers to beat me up.’
It scares me how much I would like to go out for a drink with Jack. But he’s married. Wouldn’t it be inviting trouble? Maybe. But I’m lonely, and I could really do with the company of someone I actually like. I’ve only known Jack for a day or two, but he’s the closest to a friend I’ve got. ‘Actually, Piers and I broke up yesterday,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ he says.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We weren’t really getting on.’
I look up and catch his eye. He looks taken aback, like he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he only asked me out for a drink because he knew I was already with someone, and his wife wouldn’t mind. Being suddenly single now might now make it awkward. I should let him off the hook.
‘Won’t your wife mind us going out?’ I say. ‘Maybe she could come, too.’ Why the hell did I just say that? The last thing I want is to go out for a drink with a loved-up couple, especially when one of them is a complete stranger.
The Girl From the Sea Page 11
