Everything Has Changed

by kendra Smith

  Everything Has Changed

  Kendra Smith

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

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  Copyright © Kendra Smith, 2021

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  The moral right of Kendra Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  E ISBN 9781789541892

  PB ISBN 9781800246256

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  Cover design © Leah Jacobs Gordon

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  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

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  Print editions of this book are printed on FSC® paper

  Contents

  1. Victoria

  2. Lulu

  3. Lulu

  4. Victoria

  5. Lulu

  6. Victoria

  7. Lulu

  8. Victoria

  9. Lulu

  10. Victoria

  11. Victoria

  12. Victoria

  13. Victoria

  14. Victoria

  15. Lulu

  16. Victoria

  17. Lulu

  18. Victoria

  19. Victoria

  20. Lulu

  21. Victoria

  22. Lulu

  23. Victoria

  24. Lulu

  25. Victoria

  26. Victoria

  27. Victoria

  28. Victoria

  29. Victoria

  30. Lulu

  31. Lulu

  32. Victoria

  33. Lulu

  34. Victoria

  35. Victoria

  36. Lulu

  37. Victoria

  38. Victoria

  39. Victoria

  40. Lulu

  41. Victoria

  42. Victoria

  43. Victoria

  44. Victoria

  45. Victoria

  46. Lulu

  47. Victoria

  48. Lulu

  49. Victoria

  50. Victoria

  51. Lulu

  Acknowledgments

  By Kendra Smith

  About the Author

  All we are given is possibilities – to make ourselves one thing or another.

  José Ortega y Gasset

  1 Victoria

  At the precise moment Victoria’s finger found the sticky liquid at the back of her head she wondered if she was dreaming. The one where her husband James was in the car with her, and they were both usually naked – stress someone said once – and he’d be shouting at her. Asking her why. Always ‘why’. It was the look on his face that normally woke her up. She touched the back of her head and winced. No, this wasn’t a dream.

  There was a voice talking to her. ‘Victoria? Victoria? Can you move?’

  A memory: lights dazzling her, the terror. She glanced quickly in the passenger seat. Empty. Her heart lurched. A voice was telling her it was alright.

  ‘Where’s Lulu?’

  ‘She’s with us. She’s in the ambulance and they are checking her over. It’s OK.’

  It was not OK. ‘Is my little sister alright?’ Victoria sounded croaky. She couldn’t stop shivering.

  ‘She’s going to be fine, her injuries are minor, but we’re doing some tests.’ The voice belonged to a paramedic who was reaching over her to unclip the seatbelt. Both airbags had deployed. Victoria sat, frozen with fear, looking at the scene unfolding. She glanced at the bonnet; smoke. She felt a lurch of terror. Was the car going to burst into flames?

  The paramedic reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll get you out of here,’ he said warmly, releasing her seatbelt gently and, painstakingly slowly, eased her out of the car. The blue flashing lights of the police cars lit up the sky and were reflected in the sheen on the road. Victoria could just about make out an ambulance; the firm grip of the paramedic holding her was real and solid as she leant on him. She tried to take a deep breath, but felt a stab of agony in her chest. ‘Steady now.’ He helped her limp to the ambulance where she collapsed onto the bench and passed out.

  When she woke up she was in a bright room with a doctor leaning over her and a nurse fussing by the trolley. Her head was pounding, and, she thought, the doctor could do with a shave.

  ‘Victoria, Mrs Allen, you’ve been in a collision, we’re taking you for a scan. There’s a morphine drip attached to you, just squeeze this button here,’ the nurse pressed a cold plastic tube into her hand. ‘Like this,’ she guided Victoria’s fingers around it then heard a click. ‘For the pain. Good girl.’

  She felt herself moving on the bed and being wheeled out of the room, down a long bright corridor with yellow-painted walls. Busy people rushed past her and then suddenly she was in a much dimmer room with the scanner. People with kind smiles were telling her to stay calm, clips were put on her clothing and she was told to lie still as she was placed on the scanner bed – the scanner looked like a giant plastic donut on its side.

  ‘My sister?’

  ‘Victoria, don’t worry.’ A doctor leant across her, adjusting her positioning.

  ‘People keep telling me not to worry,’ her head was throbbing with the effort of explaining everything to these people, ‘but I know she was in the car with me, I just can’t remember, well, much at all.’

  ‘That’s perfectly normal. Your sister is being checked over in A&E too. She escaped with very little damage, a broken finger, some scratches. Now lie still.’

  Victoria didn’t argue as the machine made a noise and she slid into the mouth of the donut.

  A nurse was wrapping a Velcro bandage around her arm.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’re at the Royal Brighton Hospital, I’m just taking your blood pressure.’

  ‘Royal Brighton? The new one? That was quick! But they’re still building it, surely?’

  The nurse patted her arm. ‘It’s been here for six years now, not really new, love.’

  Victoria’s head throbbed. Visions were coming and going from her brain, a flash of a headlight, the terrible sound of scraping metal: what happened just before the accident? Why did that car come into their lane? She wondered again how Lulu was. She was just a baby – only twenty-four, her little sister. These things can scar you for life.

  ‘Can I have my phone?’

  The nurse pulled a chair up next to her and placed a strange bag on it. It was one of those bags that organised women had. Neat. Tidy. Navy. With a large gold clip. It didn’t have tissues spilling out of it, and biro marks on the outside and there were probably no half-eaten Hob Nobs in the side pocket. ‘Here’s your bag, I think your phone’s in there.’ Victoria looked in the bag and saw a phone she did not recognise; and it was out of charge. Someone must have given her the wrong bag. She felt dizzy again.

  ‘Has anyone told my husband?’ She gripped the sheet on the bed.

  The nurse turned to her. ‘Yes, but he’s abroad, with your childre
n; they’re coming back soon.’ She patted Victoria’s arm again. Pat, pat, pat. ‘Don’t worry. It’s half term, remember?’ she offered by way of explanation, brows furrowed.

  Half term? Where was James? He’d never go away without her! And the kids! How on earth would he manage with ten-year-old twins for goodness sake? He’d been going for a three-day interview the other day, she remembered, in the Lake District, something about Helvellyn and management skills. He had been pacing the floor because he was up for promotion. And if he had got the promotion, why on earth had he just upped and gone skiing? ‘You’ll be fine darling,’ she remembered saying that morning and had reached up and given him a kiss, then, as she’d backed away he’d grabbed her wrist gently, glanced at his watch, said he still had half an hour to kill and knew what would be good for his nerves. She blushed. It was as if they were still newly-wed sometimes. She tried to recall a memory of her wedding in her head… wedding, wedding? Any memory would do. Where had it gone? She must be able to remember her wedding! The most important day of her whole life. She tried to replay it. It was all a bit foggy. She could see James’s face – but was that memory from their wedding or some other time? Why hadn’t he called? What had her dress been like? Oh heavens, what was wrong with her? How in God Almighty could she not remember her wedding dress? It seemed to really matter somehow. She leant back on the crunchy hospital pillow with a thump. Bridesmaids? Had she had bridesmaids? And flowers? Was Lulu there? She certainly hoped Lulu had been there. What’s the point in having a fantastic wedding with the love of your life if you couldn’t remember it?

  Twins, she knew she had twins. Focus on what you know. Ten years old and adorable. Izzy and Jake. She loved them more than the centre of a Creme Egg. They hadn’t got to the awful stage that some of her friends’ older children had. The grungy teenagers, the nose rings, the greasy hair, faces constantly in their phones. No, her kids were still angels. Annoying sometimes, especially if they left the lid off the milk in the mornings – this was a very strong memory – but she could still suggest what they wore, organise playdates and make sure they only watched PG films. Only the other day they’d snuggled up with her on the sofa to watch Mary Poppins. Popcorn. Messy house, yes it was all coming back to her. Thank God! Piles of ironing. Yes, nothing wrong with her memory – some bits anyway.

  ‘The weather’s meant to be lovely there,’ the nurse offered, tucking in the sheet at the end of her bed.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where your husband is! And your kids. He called late last night and the Duty Nurse updated him on your status.’

  My status. What is my status? But why hadn’t he called again? Spoken to her? Perhaps he had and they’d told him she was resting. She’d seen that in TV shows. She could see his face: the fair freckles that splattered across his nose, the relaxed smile, the one he’d give her after they’d have sex, when he’d lie with his head leaning on his hand; warm grey eyes as he smiled fondly at her. She could just about touch that memory. She could almost smell him: Soap. He would be very worried.

  ‘Did he say where they were?’

  The nurse was straightening her blanket. ‘Verbier. Something about black runs.’

  Victoria leant back into her pillow and stared at the nurse. Her children had never been skiing in their lives.

  A man in his late forties with greying hair at the temples pulled back the curtain as Victoria had just managed to doze off. But it was a miracle that she had. Machines were bleeping, people coughing, and that poor lady next to her; she’d heard the word ‘terminal’ and had clutched the bedsheet. Good grief, Victoria was just grateful to be alive! She vowed she would turn over a new leaf, she’d really sort out that to-do list, join that new gym place that had opened in the village and get in shape, she’d stop snapping at the twins about their rooms, they were tiny after all. Stop watching all that daytime TV. She would go to more of those parent tutorials on algebra, yes she would, and she’d also lose that pesky stone she’d put on after having the twins. Get fit for her kids! Life was for living! She loved her family!

  The car crash had made her lie awake last night thinking about her life. She’d listened to the orchestra of hospital noises, buzzing machines, the clip of shoes, the swish of next door’s curtain and realised she was grateful, so grateful for all of it, for the daffodils that came up every year in the garden, for the squirrels that pranced in the grass, for her darling twins, for her gorgeous, successful husband. She tried to imagine their next holiday. Camping in France – she hated camping, but never mind; a coastal walking holiday in Wales – they’d cross off how many miles they’d covered each day, find places to buy ice-cream; or perhaps they’d go to Cornwall and visit award-winning beaches. Perhaps a farm experience? The ones where the kids milk the cows, collect eggs from the chickens, that kind of thing. Life was for making memories – well, in her case, she needed to hurry up and make some more memories. She wanted to grasp the holy grail of her beautiful family with both hands and enjoy it – not many people were as lucky as her. She felt, despite the agony of her broken ribs, evangelical. She wanted to shout from the rooftops. People died in car crashes. She hadn’t.

  ‘Mrs Allen?’ He took his glasses off and wiped them with his tie.

  ‘I just need to take a look at your chest, where you’ve broken your ribs. The scan is showing a slightly complex fracture. You’re lucky you didn’t puncture your lungs. But first if you’d let me take a look.’

  Victoria let the doctor lift up her hospital gown. She was beyond being modest, especially after the ordeal with the twins, my goodness. First one twin was born, and then she had to go through the whole rigmarole all over again. She loved her twins with a passion, but honestly, the whole of the hospital had practically seen all her private places; she really wasn’t bothered. He lifted up her gown and was gently pressing the tissue under her breasts.

  ‘Ah, looks like some scarring here. When did you have the breast implants?’

  Victoria sat bolt upright, then put her hand across her chest and winced in pain. Breast implants! Was he joking?

  ‘I don’t have breast implants!’ She almost wanted to laugh. Was this some kind of sick YouTube hospital joke doing the rounds? She hated breast implants, used to snigger at one of the school mums who everybody knew had been to somewhere in Europe last summer to get ‘work’ done. What was her name? Began with a Z? Why interfere with what nature had given you?

  He looked up at her and frowned. ‘You most certainly do, Mrs Allen, there is still some mild scarring and um, from the look of your breasts, they have certainly had some enhancement.’

  Victoria whipped up the gown and stared at her protruding breasts which sat, quite pertly of their own volition, requiring no support whatsoever.

  ‘Good God. I don’t think they’re mine.’

  ‘Right.’ The doctor scratched his head then changed tack. ‘Well, from your CT scan that you had we can see you have fractured two ribs. I’d like you to focus on breathing deeply please and rest.’

  What was happening to her? Why did she not feel like her normal self? Where was James? All the air had left Victoria’s lungs anyway, she realised, as for some unknown reason she was walking around with someone else’s breasts.

  2 Lulu

  Do you love him?

  I’m not going there. It’s the last thing I remember before the awful screaming, the lights, the noise, the black. A nurse is sashaying up to me. Her rubber shoes squeak.

  ‘How you feeling?’

  I have been in a car crash with my sister and I feel like shit.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Right, well, we’ll just give these grazes a wipe and then you can go see your sister,’ she puts a strong hand on my forearm, produces a wipe with her other hand and says ‘this-wont-hurt-a-bit’ but of course it does.

  Simon’s in a state. I don’t blame him. Imagine your first wife dying in an accident. When he told me, my heart went out to him. They had been living in a rented flat, and she was
poisoned by carbon monoxide; he broke down when he told me and I didn’t want to ask any more questions. I suppose if your new fiancée has a crash, you would go to pieces. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, to lose one partner would be unfortunate, but to lose two looks like carelessness. It’s not funny, I know. He was beside himself when I called. Said he’d get the next plane down from Manchester, leave the company’s annual accounts conference which he was heading, but I persuaded him to stay and to catch a flight tomorrow morning. I pointed out that I would be groggy, and just wanted to rest in my own flat. ‘Wish you weren’t going back to that poky little flat,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s Victoria I’m worried about; the doctors have mentioned amnesia,’ I said to him on the phone.

  ‘Right, that’s you.’ The nurse smiles at me and I look down at my patched-up arm.

  ‘I’ll get a porter to wheel you up to your sister.’