The Good Part

‘I am not muddled,’ Dad says, scowling at her.

‘Look, I know no one likes to talk about these things, but I think it’s better to have things out in the open. If you can’t recall basic information – that’s going to have a knock-on effect on all of us,’ Mum says, just as Sam walks down the stairs with an armful of laundry.

‘You told them?’ Sam says in surprise, and before I can respond, Mum is sitting bolt upright, head darting from left to right like a meerkat on high alert.

‘Told us what?’

‘About Lucy’s memory,’ Sam says.

‘Lucy’s memory? I was talking about Bert. What’s wrong with Lucy?’

‘Oh,’ says Sam, sheepishly, giving me an apologetic look.

‘Lucy?’ Mum asks, splaying her fingers and pressing them to her lips.

‘We didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily—’ I say, but Mum interrupts me.

‘I knew it, I knew you were ill! Your skin is so sallow, your cheeks are all puffy. You’re on steroids, aren’t you? Is it cancer? Tell me it isn’t cancer.’

‘I’m not ill,’ I say, holding up a palm to stop her from talking. ‘I’ve just had some trouble remembering recent events. Temporary amnesia, the doctor says—’

‘Amnesia? This is your side, Bert,’ Mum says sharply to Dad. ‘We’ll have to cancel our trip. We’ll have to stay and help. Sam can’t be expected to cope with all this alone. Just look at the state of the kitchen!’

Sam bites his lip, but I can see the agitation in his hands as he slowly clenches and unclenches his fists. ‘We’re managing, honestly, Margot.’

Mum is pacing now, wringing her hands like a character in a Jane Austen novel who’s just learnt the regiment is about to leave town.

‘There must be something we can do to help?’ she asks.

Sam looks at me, a glint in his eyes as he says, ‘There might be something.’





Chapter 18


‘Date night. You’re a genius,’ I say as we slide onto two bar stools in a dimly lit pub called Polly’s on Farnham High Street.

‘Your mother’s biggest fear, after illness, is marital discord. She’s a firm advocate of date nights to stave off a relationship’s decline.’

‘She is?’ This is news to me.

Sam had a shower and changed into a clean shirt before we came out. The hair at the nape of his neck is still slightly damp and I resist an inexplicable urge to reach up and sweep it away from his collar.

‘Your mum and dad went to couple’s therapy a few years ago,’ Sam says. ‘Now they do date night twice a month and we get regular updates on the family cloud app.’

‘My parents went to a couple’s therapist? I can’t compute them spending money on something like that.’

‘They won vouchers in a raffle,’ Sam explains, while scanning the bar menu with his watch. ‘Do you want a French martini? That’s what you usually have here.’

I don’t even know what a French martini is, but I nod, deferring to my future self’s taste in alcoholic beverages. As Sam orders, I look around the bar, reassured by how familiar this pub seems. Pints are still pints, pub carpets are still inexplicably hideous, and drunk old men are still there, still trying to chat up the disinterested barmaid.

‘Bars haven’t changed much, have they?’ I say.

‘What were you expecting, robot bartenders?’

‘Yes,’ I say, laughing, ‘I want robots and anti-hangover drinks.’

‘Oh, we have anti-hangover drinks,’ Sam says.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. They’re called soft drinks.’

‘Oh, ha ha,’ I say, elbowing him gently while the barmaid passes our drinks over the bar. ‘That’s a real dad joke.’

Sam lifts his pint to my cocktail glass. ‘My speciality. Cheers.’

There’s something about Sam’s posture, his body language, that tells me he’s comfortable in his own skin. I wonder if he has always been this way, or if this stillness is something people grow into.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been so out of it this week.’

‘There’s been a lot for you to get your head around. I’m just glad you’re feeling better now. Oh, before I forget, Amy’s got this rash, so you need to put cream on after every nappy change, it’s the blue tube on the changing table. Felix has got an away game at school on Monday, so he needs—’

‘Do you mind if we don’t talk about the children tonight?’ I ask, gently resting my hand on his arm. ‘I want to get to know you, Sam. I hardly know anything about you . . .’

‘Right.’ Sam lifts his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side. ‘Well, this might be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, but okay. What do you want to know?’

‘Everything,’ I say, hearing a flirtatious note in my voice that I didn’t plan on being there.

‘Everything might take a while.’

‘The headlines, then.’

‘On our first date you asked me a series of quick-fire questions. You said it was the most efficient way of uncovering any red flags.’

‘Sensible,’ I say, feeling myself smile. ‘And did I uncover any?’

‘A few orange ones. I smoked at the time and you hated that. You didn’t like that I was a musician either.’

‘Oh? Why not?’

‘You’d dated a drummer and sworn off us for good.’

‘But you won me over.’

‘I won you over.’

His mouth is so expressive, I can’t help watching it as he talks. He’s got this broad smile, that shows in flashes. When he grins, it’s like a chain reaction spreading out across his face as the smile ripples into dimples in his cheeks, then creases around his eyes. He rubs his stubbled cheek with a hand, as though conscious of my gaze.

“Tell me more about your family, where you grew up in Scotland,’ I ask him.

‘Well, we lived on a farm, four miles from the nearest village. My dad was a farmer, my mum was the local postie. My best friend was a mangy sheep called Patrick.’

‘Who’s your best friend now?’ I ask.

‘You. Luckily you smell better than Patrick.’

‘I should hope so,’ I say, feeling myself grin as I twist a piece of hair around one finger.

‘I only ever told you about Patrick because you told me about Lisa.’

‘I told you about Lisa?’ I swivel my bar stool around towards him. Lisa was my imaginary friend, who lingered far longer than imaginary friends are supposed to. ‘I must really like you. I’ve never told anyone about Lisa.’

‘You really like me,’ Sam says. He catches my eye and now it feels as though he is flirting with me. I force myself to sit on my hands to stop myself from fiddling with my hair.

‘Apart from my obvious sheep-like qualities, what did you like about me then, when you first saw me in that karaoke bar?’

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