‘You misunderstand me. You bought me a motorbike – the bike I’d been dreaming of for years, apparently – for our first anniversary. And I wasn’t even here for it?’
‘No,’ I said, and I turned away from him to the coffee machine again.
‘Were you furious about that, Molly?’
‘I wasn’t the first year.’ I really hadn’t been – I had been sad, of course, but I wasn’t angry – I knew there was a good reason as to why he wasn’t there. It was only when he missed our second anniversary that it finally occurred to me that what had seemed like a one-off was actually going to be the standard.
‘And the second year? What was that like?’
I don’t answer him.
‘Molly, for God’s sake!’ He’s frustrated enough to raise his voice and I turn back to him and frown. ‘Don’t you understand how frustrating it is when you drip feed me information like that? What happened on the second year?’
‘You didn’t come home. You didn’t call. You didn’t even email me,’ I snap at him, and Leo stares at me in disbelief.
‘What? No, I wouldn’t have done that.’
‘That’s exactly what you did. So forgive me if I don’t really want to reminisce about that day with you.’
‘Did you… Did you remind me?’ he asks. He sounds uncertain, and it strikes me how infrequently I have heard Leo use such a tone. I shake my head at him. ‘Maybe I just forgot?’
‘You did. You were busy in Syria – it just slipped your mind.’
We’d had a number of icy phone calls in the days that followed, with Leo apparently bewildered as to why I was so furious with him. I know it was stupid and passive aggressive and immature, but I didn’t ever remind him. Something must have jogged his memory a few days later because he sent flowers. I was so livid I threw them straight into the bin.
I open the fridge to take out the milk and automatically begin to make us each a coffee. Leo is still behind me, and after a minute or two, I glance back at him.
‘What else have I missed, Molly?’ he asks.
Everything. Every other damned time I needed you. I gave up my family for you, and you’re never here for me. ‘A lot.’ I slam the fridge door closed and the sound echoes throughout the apartment. ‘It’s not fair to talk about it with you when you don’t even remember it, plus we’re just going to argue about it and I can’t do that right now. So can you please just drop it. When your memory is back, if you want to talk about how I feel about your travel, I’ll talk to you all day and night until you’re satisfied but for now – please – can we just make this topic off limits? I can’t see how any of this is going to help you get your memory back.’
Leo falls silent, and I make the coffees and then carry them through the dining room and into the lounge. I set the cups on the low coffee table and then push the sofa out of the way so Leo will be able to reach his cup. He comes through behind me, and I watch as he pauses at the wall of photos I’ve hung beside the new dining room table. Silently he surveys the twelve large images, his eyes scanning the neat rows of identical black frames. There’s a canid shot that I took at the beach of Teresa and Paul and the boys, and there’s also a photo of Brad and Penny and their kids. Then there’s a photo of Anne and Andrew on our wedding day, and finally one I took of Lucien with Santa Claus at a charity day at his vet clinic one Christmas. But the rest are all of Leo and me together. I watch Leo’s face as he scans them, but his expression remains neutral. I think about the portrait of a marriage I have painted through those photos. We are smiling in every single one; we are embracing in most of them.
They are all from when we were dating, or our first year of marriage. I think about the rest of the room, and the endless arguments we have had here, and the countless times when I have been alone in this space and acutely aware of Leo’s absence. I have spent more time alone here now than I have had moments with Leo anywhere: the wall of photos is a lie.
He touches the new dining room table and he smiles a little to himself when he sees the silk irises in a vase, then moves on to the living space where I am waiting. There are new couches here – a plain beige upholstered set that I’ve brightened up with some bold pillows.
I had desperately wanted to stay in my beautiful apartment on the harbour, but Leo was determined not to move from this terrace. Gradually I came to understand that it was important enough to him that I should be the one to compromise and I was happy to do so, if it meant he would be more comfortable.