‘Right.’
She hears an exhalation that could be a soft laugh. ‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Of course not.’
Maybe she is.
‘We should get blood results in the next week or so,’ Joe is saying. ‘In the meantime, I wonder if we can increase the number of sessions? After what happened on Tuesday I feel as though we have a lot to explore.’ A short pause. ‘If there’s a problem with payment, most companies have insurance schemes that can cover it.’
‘There’s no problem.’ She isn’t short of money and she really doesn’t want her company to know she is still in therapy. Once they know, the people on South Georgia will inevitably find out.
‘I’ve got a slot on Fridays at six,’ Joe says. ‘What do you think?’
‘I can make that.’ She gets up off the bed.
‘And I’d quite like to try hypnotherapy,’ Joe says. ‘Would you be OK with that?’
A voice inside her screams, No, no, don’t even think about it!
Out loud she says, ‘You want to hypnotise me?’
‘It’s a common therapeutic technique,’ Joe says. ‘It’s really just about putting you in a very relaxed state so that you can allow some hidden memories to come to the surface. You’d be conscious and aware at all times.’
No, she cannot be hypnotised.
‘Can I give it some thought?’ she says.
‘Of course. How’ve you been since I saw you? Anything else happen I should know about?’
Felicity finds that she can remember the Skype call ending. Susan Brindle, her potential new boss, has offered her the job but stressed the need to think carefully. ‘South Georgia is a very long way from just about anywhere,’ she’d said. ‘And two years is a long time with only a dozen other people for company.’
Still holding the phone to her ear, Felicity goes into her office and activates her laptop. The Skype call finished at two forty-five in the afternoon. It is now after nine and the light outside is starting to fade. Six hours have gone.
Outside the skater is back, performing some sort of manoeuvre directly in front of her door. There is something about the sound that is annoying, even aggressive.
‘Felicity?’ Joe sounds anxious.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Nothing else. Situation normal.’
The situation is very far from normal. She has lost six hours out of her day.
‘No more lost time?’ Joe says.
She steps to the window to draw the curtains.
‘Felicity?’ Joe prompts.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I got the job in South Georgia. They’ve given me a couple of weeks to let them know.’
She is on the point of closing the curtains when she sees the vacant space where she usually parks her car. Her car is missing.
‘Congratulations.’ He sounds more concerned than pleased.
‘Joe, I should go, I’m expecting a Skype call,’ she lies. ‘Thanks for letting me know about the scan. I’ll see you Tuesday.’
She puts the phone down before he can ask her anything else and runs downstairs. There is no sign of her car keys on the hall table and she is about to check the kitchen when she spots a small padded envelope that must have arrived in the post while she was out running.
She has an idea of what’s inside, and finds her hands trembling as she rips the seal apart. A pair of small keys fall out, an identical pair fastened together with a thin steel loop. They are the ones she found online and ordered two days ago. She realises, as she balances their flimsy weight in her hand, that she has been hoping they wouldn’t arrive.
Pushing thoughts of her missing car to one side, she finds her torch and enters the loft. She crawls along the loft floor thinking, perhaps the keys won’t work. She searched the exact make of the trunk and even the model number, but there is no guarantee.
They work. The locks spring apart and she has no choice but to open the lid.
The scent of violets steals out before she can properly see inside, surprising her. Sweetness is not what she expected. She shines the torch inside and sees a large, decorative box covered in roses and with plaited silk handles. Wondering if this is some weird version of Russian dolls, that she might have to open box after box, she pulls the lid up.
And the surprises keep on coming.
She is looking at a wedding dress, carefully folded, the lace bodice lying neatly upon the heavy folds of the skirt. A glimpse of the hemline shows her that it is slightly soiled, and there are flakes of dried confetti scattered around the box.
Opposite the scalloped neckline is a pair of white satin shoes, the soles and thin heel stained green. Size seven. As though moving in a dream, Felicity removes the slipper from her left foot. The satin shoe fits her perfectly. She pulls it off, as though it has burned her foot, and tucks it back into the box.
There is more to discover in the trunk. She spots a leather-bound photograph album that she doesn’t quite dare look at yet, and a small jewellery box. This feels safer so she opens it to find two items inside.
The first is a wedding ring, simple, gold, inscribed on the inside. F & F, for now, for always. She tries it on the third finger of her hand and feels sick. It slips on as though it knows where it belongs. She rips it off so fast that she hurts her knuckle. The other item in the box is almost worse. A silver lily on a chain that she recognises instantly. It is the emblem of her Cambridge college, and this is a piece of jewellery that is only available to members of the college. Several of her friends were given it on graduation by parents or boyfriends, but she’d had neither and hadn’t wanted to buy her own. The chain is fastened around a folded note. She opens it to read: From Freddie, for now, for always.
She has no idea who Freddie is, and at the same time, knows the name means something to her. No, it means everything.
She is going to have to look at the album. She lifts it and spots what might be a reprieve. Beneath is what looks like a single photograph, framed and wrapped in a protective black cotton. A single photograph feels easier than an album, and so she unfolds the cotton and shines the torch.
It is a stylish, silver-framed, black and white wedding photograph, taken from the back of the church. The veiled bride and a tall, fair-haired groom are small figures in the distance at the chancel rail. Both are looking back over their shoulders, a little startled, towards the focus of the photograph, a tiny blonde bridesmaid, hardly two years old, who is running for the church door with a look of joy on her face.
It is a charming picture, and yet Felicity can find no pleasure in it. She shines the torch on the face of the groom and knows, with an instinct she can’t explain, that this man is Freddie. She knows that she has loved him with all her heart and that he has caused her unbearable pain. She knows, from the trembling in her hands, and the sickness in her stomach that she doesn’t feel will ever leave her now, that she is terrified of him.
She almost doesn’t need to look at the bride, but she shines the torch all the same. The woman’s face is difficult to make out behind the veil, but Felicity can see a hint of blonde hair swept back into a graceful bun, the curve of the cheekbone, the full lips and arched brows. She is looking at a photograph of herself on her wedding day.
She is married. To Freddie. And she has no memory of it at all.