I’m so appreciative that Magdalen College in Oxford allowed me to sit in on lectures in consciousness given by leading neuroscientists.
Thanks to David Luke for taking the time to speak to me during an early draft. Daniel Bor, who has been so patient answering endless questions over the past year, and contributing ideas to bring Oliver’s technology to fruition in the story. Of course, I have taken artistic licence in fictionally developing the technology that is currently available to fit Adam and Anna’s experience. It’s been so fascinating to learn about the developments in science, the current trials and the technology out there (not a million miles away from the tech that Oliver has created), which I’d previously thought could only have existed sci-fi movies. The future is exciting. To everyone involved in brain science research who is working tirelessly towards eradicating neurological disease, my heartfelt thanks. You really are changing the world.
Louise Molina, for all your medical expertise – any mistakes are purely my own.
All the book bloggers who work so hard sharing their love of good stories. In particular Linda Hill, whose romantic relationship with her husband, Steve, made me long to write about a love like theirs.
My friends who, like Nell, are always there for me when I need them, no matter how much time has passed; in particular Sarah, Natalie, Hilary, Kuldip and Sue.
My family: Mum, Karen, Glyn, Bekkii and Pete. I love you all immensely, along with my husband Tim – thanks for your unwavering support.
Callum, Kai and Finley, who make me infinitely proud every single day. I would cross worlds for you three. Always.
And Ian Hawley. Forever.
Read on for an exclusive extract from the next novel from
Amelia Henley
Coming Summer 2021
Chapter One
Four phone calls.
It took four phone calls to tip my world off its axis. I remember them all with sharp clarity; the things I wanted to know, the things I wished I’d never been told. The disbelief, the fear, the hope. The impossible, impossible choice I am faced with. I want everything to slow down.
Stop.
‘I can’t…’ What I can’t do is look my sister, Alice, in the eye. It’s too much. All of it.
‘Say yes, Libby.’ She’s crouching before me, reaching for my hand. I snatch mine away. As vivid as the memories of the calls are, it’s the time between each one I am struggling to recall. Alice says shock has the power to whisk memories behind a hazy curtain, sometimes replacing them with a better, shinier version – the way we wished things were. The way we wished they could have happened – and she’s probably right. Right about that, at least, but the rest… I have to remember if I’m to make the right decision. Again, I try to summon a slideshow in my mind but the images are as blurry as an out-of-focus photo, nothing quite making sense. ‘I think…’ I tail off, unsure what I think. What I know. She’s been telling me a new life, a better life, is what I need. What I deserve.
That word plucks a hollow laugh from deep in my belly. Deserve.
Do I deserve… this?
‘You know what you have to do, Libby.’ Her voice thick with tears. ‘For your sake. For Jack’s.’ She adds softly. ‘For mine.’
Sometimes I hate her.
Should I do what she is asking? If I agree, it’s an admission that my life has been built on a lie and the childish part of me wonders why should I give her what she wants when I can’t have what I want.
‘Please, Libby, please,’ she pleads. ‘I know it’s a big ask. I know you weren’t expecting this – none of us saw it coming but…’ One whispered word, ‘Please.’
Neither of us speaks. The clock ticks. In the distance, the beep of a horn. Alice’s perfume fills my throat, something light and floral.
‘Jack—’
‘Don’t speak his name,’ I snap.
She flinches, but still she doesn’t leave. She’s waiting for an answer as she tucks her long blonde hair behind her ear. I lean back in my chair, eyes flickering over the nicotine-yellow ceiling we never did get around to painting bright white, as though I might find the right response written there.
Yes or no.
Yes or no.
Yes or no.
The words are loud. I raise my hands to my head, fingertips digging hard into my scalp. I can’t decide. I won’t.
Jack.
I have to.
Think.
‘You know if I could change things, I would,’ Alice says softly. She places her palm against my cheek; it’s cool and I lean against it, allowing her to take the weight of my head, which is heavy with thought. With doubt. For the first time I look at her, her eyes, the same green as mine, are rimmed red. The whites streaked with tiny blood vessels where she’s been crying and I realize she is no more together than I am. This is as torturous for her as it is for me. ‘If I could go back…’ She falls silent before she can again blame herself. I can’t bear her guilt. Her shame. I have enough of my own.
If we could go back, I would return to the exact moment everything changed. It was the day we moved in here. I shift my gaze around the room that was once warmed with love but now feels as chilly as my cold, cold heart. I allow myself to remember, tumbling down the rabbit hole to the ordinary Thursday almost eight months ago when it all began. My hand had rested on Jack’s knee, both of his gripping the steering wheel as we’d bumped down the potholed lane, exchanging a look of pure pleasure as we’d curved into the driveway past the board now displaying ‘SOLD’.
Before the van had properly stopped, I was opening the door. Despite my snivelling cold I could smell the difference in the air: honeysuckle and happiness.
‘Do you want to unload—’
‘Nope.’ I couldn’t wait to get inside. Our scant possessions crammed into the back of our hired transit could wait. Our last rental was fully furnished, and we didn’t own much. There was nothing I needed in that moment except to step over the threshold of our new home with the man I loved.
Jack had taken my hand. Our fingers linking together the way they had a million times before, as we gazed in wonder at the decrepit three-storey detached that had somehow become ours. Despite the hard work that lay ahead, it felt like the right decision. The warm breeze on my cheek, the birds singing from trees that lined the side of the house, the lazy buzzing of bumblebees, all seemed to welcome us.
‘This is it, Libby.’
Despite my thumping headache, streaming nose and sore throat, I tingled with excitement as I drank it all in. The pops of yellow amongst the jungle-like garden as daffodils poked their cheerful heads through the tangle of weeds. Tucked in the corner, a mass of pink that I thought were weeds but were so pretty I vowed not to pull them up. The peeling paint on the front door; I was itching to restore it to a glossy racing-car green, shining the brass knocker back to its original glory. Tall and proud against a backdrop of a clear blue sky, the towering chimneys. I could imagine smoke curling into a winter’s evening as Jack and I lazed in front of the fire, dipping toasted marshmallows into melted chocolate. It was easy to romanticize. We’d never owned our own home before, never even lived in a house before, but the three years spent in our cramped modern flat already seemed part of our distant past.