I let them call me a taxi, and when she offers, I take twenty pounds from my mother to pay for it. They ask me where I’m going, but I won’t tell them. I don’t want them to know where he is or what I’m doing. I want this for myself, a moment between a husband and a wife. I want to say sorry, to try to put things right, and to get back what I’ve lost from my memory. The things my father took. I want more than anything to protect Andrew when it seems that recently I might well have been doing anything but.
Light shines from the windows of New Hope rehab centre in the small village of Westmeston. I can smell woodsmoke, and as I step from the car, I see a man walking his dog, his hood pulled low, shoulders hunched against the cold.
‘You going to be all right?’ the taxi driver asks.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say as I peer through the window, hand over the money, the soft sounds of the radio jazz barely audible.
The car pulls away and I’m left standing all alone in an unfamiliar village. I told the driver I’d be fine, but I don’t know whether that’s true. I’m getting ready to face a man I have betrayed, a man I hardly even remember.
I stand there for a while, looking up at the building. New Hope is a sprawling place that looks as if it might once have been a farm. It reminds me of the old mill in that its function is no longer clear to see. To my left there is a new extension, while on the far side of the grounds I spot the ruinous remains of a barn, broken walls and holes in the roof that might on a clear night let moonlight shine through. Old machinery fills the space.
I take a deep breath and walk up the pockmarked driveway edged with overgrown winter roses. There’s a scent that takes me back to that night. Roses, I think. Something to do with the crash. But the memory leaves as quickly as it came to me, and I push on towards the building. Beyond it I can make out a distant outline of trees, picked out by the weak lunar light sneaking through a momentary break in the clouds. It’s just a chink in the armour of a deep night sky, a heavy expanse of black stretching endlessly ahead.
Apart from the presence of a small sign mounted on the external wall, the building resembles a slightly unloved house, a large but tired family home. The paintwork around the door is peeling and the grass is overgrown. There are patches of moss swamping the paving slabs and the lower segments of wall. But from inside I can hear noise and commotion, laughter and cheer. Music playing, an old George Michael song just ending. Another starting up in its place, perhaps the Pogues. Christmas music, I think, relieved to even have such a memory.
I knock on the door and wait. At the last minute I can feel the dressing on my head come loose, flapping about in the breeze. I don’t even need it any more, the wound long since healed. Up until now I just couldn’t bear to look at it so left it in place. I pull it off, slip it in my pocket, exposing the scar to the elements. After a moment I hear footsteps, soft on the other side, a voice in the tail end of conversation. I take a quick glance at my reflection in the glass and ponder what a mess I look, but it’s too late to worry now. It doesn’t matter. I hear the door handle, and seconds later heat hits me as a tall woman with long hair and a soft fringe opens the door.
She looks me up and down and I fiddle with my wedding ring, more uncertain of myself than ever before. She pulls the door shut behind her so the wind can’t get in. ‘Can I help you?’
‘My name’s Chloe. I was hoping to speak to Andrew. Andrew Jameson. I’m his wife.’ I swallow hard, aware of the pale skin and red scar cutting my left temple. It feels so cold and new.
‘Chloe,’ she says with understanding, her eyes kind. She moves aside, beckons me forward. ‘You had better come in.’
She opens the door wide and I step onto the plush red carpet of the hallway. A long table holds books, a floral arrangement, and a selection of mismatched knick-knacks. A large mirror hangs above, and I know if I see myself in this unforgiving light, I will look even worse than usual. I’m not ready to see the scar. The Christmas music continues, voices singing along, laughter in the background. The heat is almost unbearable.
‘You’d better sign in first,’ she says, pointing to a book on the table. I notice a box alongside it full of Christmas raffle tickets. ‘Then have a seat. I’ll go and let Andrew know that you’re here.’
I pick up the pen, my hand poised above the page. I take a deep breath, press the nib down, and write my name. Chloe Jameson. The peculiarity of something so instinctive surprises me, a signature I haven’t tested in weeks. Chloe Jameson: am I still her? My handwriting is neater than a few days ago, forward-sloping and elegant in a modern way. I sit down in a chair and wait.
People pass by, women and men. They seem well put together, nice clothes and kind faces, a few who are wearing tabard uniforms. A stocky cleaner with sweaty hair and a red face wanders through carrying a mop and bucket, followed by a man in a black polo shirt with a foldaway ladder under his arm. They both smile at me, almost as if they have been expecting my arrival.
‘Is somebody seeing to you?’ the man with the ladder asks, breaking his stride when he gets close. He’s old, approaching retirement, his skin weathered and lined. When he smiles, his wrinkles deepen, forming a near-continuous crease across his cheeks, around his eyes and over his brow.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, and he gives me a satisfied nod, heading down a couple of steps where the light seems brighter and kinder. It’s as if he doesn’t even notice my injuries. I watch as he walks away, his casual and cheerful manner, and feel jealous of his easy life. His arrival in what I assume to be the kitchen is met with the clatter of pots and pans and laughter resonating through the corridor. It brings a smile to my face, reminds me of the cheery woman in Guy’s apartment building who was heading out for a run. Will I ever be able to find something simple like this again?
But then I realise that a man is standing in front of me, sense his presence like a shiver across skin. I look up, see the bright blonde hair and familiar grey eyes. Is it really him? For a moment I hesitate, until I hear him say my name.
‘Chloe.’
I stand, unable to breathe. Part of me wants to run, and I can’t help but look to the door, in instant fear of his judgement. But when I find the courage to look back, it isn’t anger I see on his face, but regret. He’s almost smiling at me in fact.
‘How did you know I was here?’
I take a breath. I glance at his body, slimmer than I remember, his face older. But it’s still him, the man I once knew so well. I can feel it, the knowledge that I know him inside and out, even if I can’t remember how. ‘Janice told me she thought you might be here, and I wanted to see you.’ It seems in that moment like such a stupid thing to say. Yet he shrugs his shoulders, holds his palms out wide.
‘Well, here I am.’
I nod, but don’t know where to look. He takes a step towards me and I can feel my anxiety increasing. The closer he comes, the worse it gets: so many questions to be asked and apologies that need to be offered. So many things I have to say and I wouldn’t even know where to begin. My breath becomes laboured and my hands are shaking. The words fight for a place on my lips: sorry, forgive me, I wish … But as he narrows the distance between us, only one word comes out.
‘Joshua…’ As I say his name, my voice breaks, the tears flowing freely down my cheeks. The only thing that stops me from falling is Andrew. I feel his arms reach for me, hold me close. And standing there in this alien hallway, I feel more at home than I have in weeks. He holds me as I sob, says nothing, my wet cheek pressed against his shoulder. I know his touch, the way our bodies fit together. He is routine, simple. He is what we crave, and then tire of, and then lament once we lose it. The relief of that realisation is consuming and terrifying all at once.
‘Andrew, I’m so sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t know what to say, or where to start.’ My words jumble as I reach up to wipe my eyes.
He’s shaking his head, still holding me close. ‘Let’s not do this here.’ His voice is cracking too, a tear that could rip apart at any moment. He looks away, up the stairs. ‘We’re not supposed to have people in our rooms, but we can talk in private up there. I think we need that, don’t we?’
He heads towards the narrow staircase. His fingers find mine, guiding me along behind him. He feels like the past. And in that moment I experience that connection for which I’ve been searching since the moment I woke up: something real, with a history, without lies or untruths. That’s what home is, I think, knowing yourself alongside another person, not being able to explain why but being sure that you’re supposed to be together. It’s knowing there are problems but still being able to see the emptiness of life if that person didn’t exist. In that moment it is just Andrew, and me. It’s us, isn’t it? Just like he asked me a thousand times when he was in pain. And it is us, but I wonder now just how much of us is left.