‘Farah, there’s a quote on the wall. An actual quote about laughing and loving being the key to life. I can literally feel my stomach churning to look at it.’
‘Give it a chance.’
‘Before I set fire to the place?’
‘Lucy…’
Back in the day, Farah was my girl. She also had a streak of wanting to swim against the tide and, together, we were a little raucous. No, a lot raucous, to the point where our mothers had each other’s telephone numbers laminated to the fridge so they could check with the other to see if we’d been lying about our whereabouts and to lament at how we were both intent on testing their parental boundaries. In sixth form, we spent a lot of weekends in London ‘visiting my sisters’ but in fact partying hard at R&B/hip-hop nights wearing very little and having relations with people who were far too old and street for us. For example, C-Boss (twenty-three years old; abs for days; real name actually Clarence). In my memory, we’d made a pact that we’d be friends forever. We’d visit each other at university, call each other, still have mega nights out, getting off our faces in coloured contact lenses, bra straps on show and in skirts so short ‘you could see what we had for dinner’ (her father, circa 2019).
But Farah is not that girl any more. Farah has a family and she’s miles away from here in Amsterdam. That said, she dips in and out to check I’m all right and, today, she and the sisters have conspired to bring me here. After my trip to the theatre and my old home, my mind didn’t quite sit right and some deep funk set in. On the one hand, the world of old Lucy presented people like Tony, Darren and Cass to me, new friends and loves, but on the other the last decade has felt so eventful, so full of life and experience, and not being able to recognise any of it is terrifying and frustrating. The sisters knew it was bad when I actually cancelled my thirtieth birthday celebrations and some supposed grand plan I had to hold a music festival party in a field. That wasn’t the Lucy they knew. Therefore, they gave Farah a call – someone I know, someone I remember, someone I love.
‘You know this hypnotist person?’ I ask her over the phone.
‘Hypnotherapist, there’s a difference. I went to university with him. He’s a nice guy. Try it, worst-case scenario it doesn’t work but, best-case, your memory comes flooding back and you’re healed.’ I hear the gurgles of a newborn son over the phone and smile to myself.
‘Though if he’s wearing a cape, gets me down on all fours and tells me to bark like a dog then I will punch him,’ I say.
She knows I’m not even lying.
‘Please don’t punch him. He’s my friend.’
‘He’s a hypnotist. Maybe he’s hypnotised you into thinking that.’
‘Behave.’
‘Never.’
The baby gurgles again and it’s a pacifying sound to me, to hear that my friend is now a mother. I know her wife Astrid too and the idea of their growing family makes me glow.
‘How is little Zeke?’ I ask.
‘He misses his godmother…’ she says. ‘We all miss you.’
It still feels mad someone has entrusted that privilege and honour to me. ‘Hug him hard for me.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Farah, I have a question… We kept in touch, yeah? We are still good mates?’
She pauses for a moment and I don’t know if I’ve insulted her.
‘Luce, I wouldn’t call in favours for anyone else. What we have… our love, friendship, is crazy like that. I won’t lie, we go months without seeing each other sometimes or even talking and that’s mainly because real life, distance, gets in the way. But we’re still mates. I should say that’s mainly because of you though. You’re the one who keeps in touch with all of us. You’re a gift of a mate.’
While I like the compliment, there are words there that hurt. That at times we drifted away from each other. She’s the sort of person I imagined would be there forever, just on the sidelines, someone I’d see every day, for which I blame nineties sitcoms with their coffee shops and in vogue haircuts. But I guess real life doesn’t work like that.
‘When we adopted Zeke, you were the first person we rang. You were on a bike at the gym. You literally screamed with happiness and then called us pricks for having kept it all a secret.’
‘I screamed at the gym?’
‘During a spin class… I believe someone fell off a bike in shock. You then hugged everyone in the room and then got banned from that establishment,’ she says, laughing.
‘You sound so happy…’ I tell her.
‘I’m happy because my mate is still alive but in general? I’m good, babe. We’re all good.’
‘Do you still have a tongue piercing?’ I ask her.
I love hearing her laugh. That thing used to clink against her teeth when she talked and I was there when she had it done. She had to eat soup for a week and her parents freaked out and took away her phone for a month.
‘I do. Some things haven’t changed. Promise me you’ll give this a go, yes?’
‘Does this fella wear a waistcoat? I will mock him if he has a waistcoat.’
‘He doesn’t. I love you, let me know how it goes.’
She hangs up on me and I sit in the reception area, leaning around to see what’s happening in this place. It’s a therapy centre of sorts and they like them a motivational quote, house plant and primary colour to lift the mood. The room opposite me seems to be dedicated to some sort of arts and crafts. There’s some basket weaving, clay sculpture and there’s a man painting a canvas in red and black, throwing paint on in quite a haphazard fashion. Crumbs, who hurt you, honey? Someone takes his brushes. I studied this (apparently): therapy through the power of dance. Maybe that is what I need? Maybe we need to go into the deepest recesses of my mind and beckon all of my memories out via a bit of tap dancing. Do we dare go there though? What brilliant horrors lie under my surface?
‘Lucy?’
I look up. Christ on a bleeding bike.
‘Yes. Are you Cosmo?’
He puts his palms together to bow and acknowledge his name. I don’t really know how to describe Cosmo but he’s wearing all white, which is always a sign in a person that they lack any practicality but also that they may want you to join their cult. He completes the look with grey felt clogs, a lot of hair, a big Bob Ross bushel to the head and sprouts of it like weeds escaping out the top of his shirt and cuffs. For the love of Etsy hell, that’s a dreamcatcher pendant.
‘You are most welcome today,’ he tells me in a soft melodic accent. ‘Farah has told me so much about you.’
‘All my best bits, I hope…’
He smiles. That’s not a reply though, which makes me think Farah didn’t give him the PG version.
‘Please come with me,’ he says, his hands ushering the way through the centre. I am dubious, I can’t lie. Peering into the rooms, it seems like a lot of people sitting in circles, talking, listening, crying, hugging and holding hands as they chant to the ceilings, a wall of tantric whale music, tai chi and positive healing vibes in the very brickwork. The cynic in me wants to run. This is not what Lucy does. I’m led to believe I solve problems with terrible jokes, alcohol and by hitting stuff. Hard. I am starting to wonder what sort of friend Farah actually is that she’s led me here.
‘So you and Farah went to university together?’ I ask him, trying to get more of an idea of Cosmo. I bet he drinks a shedload of fennel tea and has a pet alpaca whose wool he farms for the socks.
‘We did. We lived together for a while in Manchester. Isn’t she just the best soul?’
We probably have very different experiences of Farah. The Farah I know and love used to get super drunk with me, entertain people on the night bus with singalongs and flash her boobs out of the bus window.
‘She’s pretty awesome. And you’ve worked here long?’
‘I set up Sanctum with a friend: it’s a combination here of traditional psychotherapies and alternative methods of inner healing.’
I saw a film called Sanctum on that Netflix the other day. They took that woman’s brain and gave it to aliens. I should have put my phone tracking on before I came here. Don’t look at his pendant. Or the fact he has what looks like granola in his hair.
‘So Farah filled you in on everything, you got my medical notes?’ I ask him.
‘I have,’ he replies, not giving too much away. This doesn’t make me trust you, Cosmo. ‘How is your physical recovery going?’ he asks me, studying my head.
‘As good as can be expected. My sister has me working with a physio. He hates me.’
‘I doubt it. And have you been seeing any other therapists?’
‘They’ve tried to push them on me. Psychoanalysts, counsellors, but…
‘You don’t believe in that stuff?’ he asks, smiling.
‘I have four sisters. It’s free therapy.’
I think my problem is that the whole idea of hypnotherapy means I’m easily suggestible or swayed. This goes against my character and I don’t want to let my guard down, ever, not least to a stranger. He opens a door and leads me to a room with a yellow velveteen sofa and a chair, moving a metal plate in the door to inform everyone it’s occupied. There are still a lot of plants, framed quotes and gauzy white curtains that filter the light in.
‘Please take a seat on the sofa,’ he instructs me as he heads over to a counter. ‘Can I interest you in some matcha? It can sharpen the mind and help relax you before our session.’
I nod, debating whether to warn him that if it’s drugged and he tries to get me in his van and drive me to his ranch then I have quite the kick on me.
‘So tell me what you know about hypnotherapy, hypnotists, Lucy…’ he asks.
‘Honestly?’ I say, watching him closely as he makes my tea. ‘Pseudo magicians, ponytails, “look into my eyes”, stage shows where people get tricked into doing chicken dances for other people’s amusement…’
He grins. ‘Farah did tell me you were funny…’
‘I haven’t offended you, have I?’ I ask.
‘You forgot fork-bending and…’ He clicks his fingers and waves them around. ‘… sleep…’
I giggle as he goes over to an incense burner. ‘What I practise is hypnotherapy so today we’ll be examining your subconscious, filtering through your memories – sorting out your hard drive, if you will.’
I want to tell him we tried that on my laptop. All we found were two hundred saved memes and a selection of very badly organised folders with names like ‘University Shite’ and ‘CV Gubbins’.
‘This is lotus and white musk,’ he says as he lights the incense, ‘this will help you get in touch with your mind’s eye.’ I inhale deeply to get a whiff. I can’t tell him it smells like the Body Shop, can I? ‘Now I want you to just relax, slip off your trainers, get as comfortable as you can here.’
He puts my tea down next to me and then does some yoga poses to afford himself the same level of comfort before he sits on his chair. I don’t know how to respond so just do as I’m told and shimmy my shoulders, the wrinkles on my forehead most likely signalling my doubt that this will really work.
‘So let me talk you through the process. We’re just going to get you into a deep state of relaxation, we will work on your breathing, focus your state of mind and visualise some things you can remember. I’ll ask you to focus on nothing but my voice to guide you.’
All I can think is that when I’m that relaxed I will most likely break wind. I hope the lotus and white musk will be able to mask that.
‘Am I allowed to say, you don’t look wholly convinced?’ he says.
‘I don’t know…’ I take a sip of green tea to not appear rude. It’s bitter, which makes my face wince even more.
‘Farah did tell me you were an experimental kinda girl though so it can’t hurt to at least try?’ he tells me.
Bloody Farah.
‘She also said you did yoga – this is akin to that, think of it as guided meditation. If anything, it’ll just relax you.’
I smile. Like Igor, there’s zero attraction there but there is something calming about him that removes my hesitation about this process. Hell, we’ve done everything else to try and get my memory back. Let’s give it a go. I’ll down all this tea, hold your hand and do some macramé next door if it’ll help.
‘Well, go gentle. You may enter my mind, Cosmo…’
‘I’m always gentle when it’s someone’s first time…’ he jokes. ‘Now look into my eyes…’
I laugh. He gets my brand of humour at least.
‘So firstly, lie back. I’d like you to close your eyes for me.’
I do as I’m told, propping some cushions behind me. He goes quiet for a moment and I flick one eye open to keep watch, like a kid checking to see if their parent is still in the room at bedtime.
‘The eyes, Lucy.’
‘Sorry, Cosmo.’
He then hits a gong. Don’t laugh. I expect ninjas to run in. They don’t, which is disappointing.
‘Rest your hands beside you, inhale. I want you to tense your body as you do, all the way down to your fingertips, and then release all that tension as you exhale. On my count. One, two, three…’
I do exactly as I’m told but I won’t lie, this does feel like the sort of exercise one would teach a pregnant woman. Breaaaattthheee. Puuuuuussssh. Releeeeeease. Don’t fart, Lucy. I can’t say any of this out loud, can I? I need to at least try. For Farah. For me. For all the people who are investing time in trying to help me get better. I pout my lips and exhale. Is he doing the same? I won’t open my eyes but I hope he’s not reading from a script and checking his Facebook at the same time.
‘Clear your mind, I just want you to focus all your energy on your breathing.’
This feels like the very opposite of what we need, right? The mind is already very clear, like a blank page. We need to fill in the gaps? OK. Breathe. I’m glad I wore a comfy bra as my chest is doing a lot of work here. I should have done a wee before I came in here. Breeeeathe. It’s actually not awful. Just don’t fall asleep, right?
‘Can you hear my voice?’ Cosmo says gently.
‘Uh-huh,’ I reply sleepily. It is a lovely voice, a bedtime story kinda voice. Not that I want to be in a bed with him. He can read to me and leave. I’m not sure what I expect now. You see people being hypnotised in crime programmes, everything comes back to them in vivid flashbacks until the moment when they see the killer’s face and then they scream and collapse in tears onto the arm of a very attractive TV detective. Nothing is playing back to me like that, just the monochrome fuzz of the insides of my eyelids.
‘You’re in a safe place, Lucy. Still focus on your breathing and my voice.’
Don’t focus on your bladder. I like the way he keeps saying my name. Luuuuuccyy.
‘I don’t want you to engage in anything new. I don’t want you to think about the accident or the present moment but I want you to reconnect to what you can remember. Tell me about you.’
OK. My name is Lucy. That’s a good place to start. I’m seventeen. Does he want detail? Does he want to know what I’m wearing? The fact I’m not a huge fan of tomatoes or golf? It’s a terrible excuse for a sport. I remember my sisters. Mum, Dad, school, my bedroom.
‘I want you to focus on all the senses. Let’s home in on a specific memory. Something that’s vivid and easy to bring to mind. What can you hear? See? Smell? Taste? Touch?’
Any memory? Cosmo, there are millions of the things. That’s like asking me to talk to you about a grain of sand on a beach, to pick it up and tell you all about it. One memory? OK. The sisters, dancing when we were little in our front room. That feels accessible as it’s fresh in the old memory banks. I smile inside, not even sure if the emotion registers on my face.
‘Are you with me, Lucy?’
‘Yep.’ Kinda. I’m in my front room. Don’t tell Mum I let you use lipstick, OK? Meg says. It feels strange, a thick oily layer slick on my lips, and I keep pouting and stretching them so it sits better. And I remember looking at Meg’s boobs thinking about when mine are going to come in. I stuffed all sorts in my bras from that point forward to try and create them. Socks. I stuffed socks in my bra. Carpet, I can feel the twists of carpet under my feet. I hear a song and my shoulders moving, the beat of that music like a pulse.
‘I’m dancing, Cosmo,’ I mumble.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Happy, free.’
‘Those are good emotions, Lucy. Can you think of other times you felt like that?’
When did I last feel happy? When did I feel that swell of emotion in my chest, a smile that lasted for days? Exam results day. Grace drove me to the school in her Nissan Micra. I was wearing a very big belt. Mum said the belt looked ridiculous, like I was a cowgirl and that it didn’t actually help holding up my jeans. I was with Farah and we both stood on the grass field out by the front of the school opening our envelopes together. I scanned her face before I reacted. She dropped a grade so I embraced her tightly. It’s still so good, babe. It’s just letters on a piece of paper. You can still go to uni. I felt her body trembling under mine and tears fell from my face to hear her so disappointed. What did you get, Luce? she asks me, grabbing my letter. Four As. She squealed. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD. There were dogs in the general vicinity who heard that sound. Grace got out of the car across the way and stood there nervously. And she grabbed my hand and we ran across the grass. I looked up and the sun hit my face, the sky was the brightest of blues and her hand around mine was so tight. Farah looked so proud, so happy, and as the air rushed past my face, I felt that happiness, that freedom that this was the starting point of something great. A tear rolls down my temple as I lie here. Ooof.
‘Breathe, Lucy. Deeply, in and out.’
OK. Other things that were so good they made me cry with happiness. Tess. Baby Tess when I held her for the first time. She smelt bad though. I’d been handed her after a particularly bad nappy but how she looked, how she felt in my arms, the overwhelming feeling of love was intoxicating. That I felt she was mine, connected to me.
‘God, I love that girl.’
‘Where are you now, Lucy?’
I’m standing on a stage. I’ve performed. I am bowing. Clapping. Lots of clapping. I’m so thrilled to be up there, the adrenalin runs through me. That emotion is exhilarating. I want to do it again, forever.
Wait.
TLC are playing again. Why are there so many lights? Why can I taste sambuca? I’m in very high heels. No carpet.
‘I don’t know where I am…’ I mumble.
‘Slow down. Breathe. Don’t panic. Listen to my voice.’
‘I have boobs.’
In my memory. I have boobs because I feel them bobbing up and down as I dance. I’m not using socks to stuff my bra any more.
‘I’m happy. I think I’m happy. Josh can cock off though.’
I can’t tell if my hypnotherapist is laughing. Why am I telling Josh to cock off? I’m in that nightclub. Am I remembering this? Or just recreating it in my mind? I don’t trust this feeling.
‘Who can you see?’
‘My sisters. I’m still dancing.’
‘Why are you dancing?’
‘It’s my birthday.’
‘What date is your birthday?’
‘9th February,’ I mumble.
There is silence as I say that. That’s not my birthday. My birthday is in August, in the summer so I’m always the baby. Why did I say the 9th of February? Whose birthday is the 9th of February? I run through all the sisters. No one is born around then.
‘I… No… That’s not my birthday…’
‘What is that date, 9th February?’
‘I’m happy…’ I whisper. ‘I’m really happy…’
‘Why, Lucy?’
‘Oscar.’
And just like that, I open my eyes and sit up. Like I’ve been underwater or had one of those strange dreams where I’ve been falling. Crikey. That was a fricking trip. What did you put in that tea, Cosmo? I sit there and just look around the room. He senses my shock and puts a hand to my shoulder.
‘Are you OK, Lucy?’
‘I said a name…’
‘Oscar.’
‘Did I say who he was?’
‘No. You didn’t.’
Damn. ‘How did you do that?’ I ask, staring him in the eye. You’re going to take my brain now, aren’t you? What strange mind magic was that?
‘I didn’t do anything… That was all you…’
I feel a little bad I doubted him. I mean, I still want to drugs test the tea though. I remembered something. Oscar. Seriously, who the hell is this dude?
‘All me? Really? Then we’re doing it again…’ I say, lying down and closing my eyes immediately.
‘Errr… all right then… just give me a moment. I need to crack a window open…’
‘I farted, didn’t I?’
He nods.