He puts his hands about my waist; they are warm and fleshy, pressing through my thin cotton T-shirt, pulling me towards him firmly, until we are pressed together. The curve of my spine is flat against the leanness of him. His breath is warm against my ear. He is saying my name, telling me it will be all right, that he will look after me. As he moves around he breathes against the back of my neck, feathering the hair there, and I flinch, pulling away. Marco sighs, rakes his fingers over his scalp. In this light I can see how tired he looks, how disheartened, and I know that I am losing him, and the fear fills my mouth like seawater. As I open my mouth to speak his phone begins to ring. He looks at the screen, shrugs.
‘Look, I have to take this. Why don’t you get your stuff from the car?’
I stand for a moment in front of a silvery, fly-spotted mirror in the hallway. I have to keep reminding myself that this is for my own good. The doctor said so, and Marco had agreed. A break from everything. Getting away from it all. Outside the rain is easing, and the day fills with an eerie tobacco-coloured light. I flick the keys at the car, hear the clunk as it unlocks. I feel an uncomfortable sensation of being watched – no more than a prickle – and I look back to the house. For a moment I see a silhouette in the upstairs window, grey and insubstantial like a veil of smoke, but when I step forward it has gone.
Clouds. Clouds moving across the sky on the glass.
In the car boot a spare tyre, antifreeze, Marco’s golf clubs. I stare at the empty space where my bag should be. Close it, reopen it, close it. My blood thickens. I move slowly around the car, peering into the footwell, cupping my hands against the darkened glass of the windows to look into the back seat. I look up at the sky, chrome-coloured, sucking my breath from my lungs in silver ribbons. I open the boot once more, and it is still empty. I stare and stare and heat builds in me like a fever.
‘What is it?’
Marco is standing in the doorway, his phone in his hand. He tells me it is cold, to keep the door closed. He reminds me I am not well and on this score he is absolutely right. I am not well.
‘Did you bring my luggage into the house?’
He stares at me blankly, shakes his head.
‘It’s gone, Marco. My suitcase with all my clothes in it, my toiletries, everything, gone.’
‘Have you checked the back seat?’
‘Yes, the front too.’ I drum my fingernails on the roof of the car with a sound like tiny bullets. I can feel a hectic colour in my cheeks.
‘Do you think someone has taken it?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’
‘I’ll tell you what I think, I think coming here was a mistake and that this is a – I don’t know – some sort of sign. Fate telling me to go back to London.’
Marco smiles slightly, but his eyes remain cool and dark, watching me. ‘A sign, Stella? This isn’t the Middle Ages. Your firstborn isn’t going to die because the cock crowed thrice this morning. You’ve obviously just left it at your flat—’
‘I put it in the car. I put it in the car this morning, along with my jacket. I know I did because I remember not wanting to put it down as the ground was wet. So I put it straight in the boot.’
Marco tilts his head a fraction, as if listening to a faraway sound. ‘Think, Stella. Think back. Do you really remember doing it? It was early, and you were still half asleep. Maybe you intended to put it in the car but got distracted and you’ve created a false memory. Remember what Doctor Wilson said.’
I stand, blood buzzing in my ears, chin bent to my chest. I try to remember but it is hard. I can remember unhooking my keys from where they hung by the coat rack. I can remember Marco asking if I was sure I had packed everything I would need. The dawn air had smelled smoky and exotic and the neighbour’s cat Tonto had wandered over as I’d stood beside the car. Had I put my bag down to stroke him and not picked it back up again? Is it still sitting on the thin strip of littered concrete which serves as a parking space near our Lewisham flat? But in the next moment I’m sure I stroked Tonto on my way back from the car, because I had had both hands free. Hadn’t I? Hadn’t I?
Marco says softly, ‘I think you left it behind, didn’t you?’
I nod, and my eyes brim with tears. What a day. What a lonely day.
‘Let’s . . . Okay, let’s sort this out.’ Marco is scanning through his phone. ‘Don’t worry. We can fix this. Doctor Wilson said to expect these sorts of things to happen, didn’t he? It’s all part of your recovery, Stella.’
I hurriedly wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘Alice.’
‘What can she do?’
‘She can go to the flat and see if you left it behind. Then she can have it couriered down here.’
‘How will she get into my flat?’
‘She’ll use my key,’ he replies. ‘You’ll just have to manage for tonight.’
He turns away from me as he begins talking to Alice. I find my thoughts wandering to Carmel and instantly force myself to stop. It is too painful.
‘Okay. She’s on her way there now. She’ll call and let me know. Why don’t you get some sleep?’
‘Sleeping is all I’m doing these days.’
‘It’s the pills. Doctor Wilson said—’
‘I know what he said, Marco. I’m just – so tired of being tired. You know?’
‘You’re not the only one, Stella. Sometimes I think—’
I stare at him. ‘What? You think what?’
He looks exasperated and puffs his cheeks out in a long, loud sigh. ‘I’m worn out, Stella, I really am. I’m trying so hard to help you. I’ve driven you all this way and – well. Leaving your bag behind like that, it’s a pretty lame trick.’
‘You think I did it on purpose?’
He raises his eyebrows at me but says nothing.
‘I thought I’d put it in the boot. I honestly did.’
‘I just can’t believe anything you say anymore. All I’m doing is trying to help you.’
Back in the kitchen he leans on the work surface, head bent. I wait. I can feel a headache building in my temples, something as dark and ponderous as a storm.
‘In the car you asked me about the numbers in your phone.’
I nod.
‘You asked me where the numbers for your friends were. Don’t you remember?’
He is speaking softly, cushioning his words. Tears prickle again. Sometimes I just feel like screaming.
‘Stella?’
‘Huh?’
‘Do you remember?’
‘Yes. I asked you where my numbers had gone.’
‘They’ve gone, Stella. You lost them.’
‘I can get them back.’
‘I mean your friends, honey. Carmel, Martha, James.’
He reaches his hands forward, I take them. He begins to rub my fingers, gently building warmth.
‘You’re cold.’
‘I’m frightened. I don’t want to be left on my own. I want to go home.’
He is not being unkind when he tells me: ‘You’ve nothing to go back for.’
I feel that dull sense of cauterisation which has become so familiar to me in recent weeks. A sensation of distance, of depth, the unbearable itch of amputation.