‘What was your favourite part?’ I ask her.
She shrugs and very briefly glances at the cover – but I notice the way that her gaze does not linger on it for long. The crease is back between her eyes and when she speaks, she’s a little short with me again. ‘The ceremony was beautiful. The reception was a lot of fun.’
‘Where did we go on our wedding night?’ I ask her.
‘We stayed at a suite in the city right near where we were tonight. It seemed a bit silly seeing as our house was only a ten-minute drive away, but it was nice.’
‘Did we…?’
‘Did we what?’ she asks pointedly, and when I just grin at her she laughs. ‘Go on, say it!’
‘Did we…?’ I waggle my eyebrows at her in response and then say as suggestively as I can, ‘order room service?’
She laughs and her frown disappears. ‘We did order room service. And then after we ate it, we immediately fell asleep.’ She’s smiling again now. These memories amuse her. ‘We had such grandiose plans for that night. I spent a fortune on lingerie that didn’t even come out of the suitcase until we went on the honeymoon. But by the time you unhooked all of the tiny buttons on that dress, the most energetic activity we could manage was to climb into bed to sleep. We did make up for it on the honeymoon, don’t worry.’
‘We went to the Maldives,’ I realise this as I’m saying it, and she nods enthusiastically.
‘You remember?’
‘I think I’m starting to,’ I murmur. ‘I remember several days where we barely left the hotel room at the resort.’
She laughs again. ‘That’s right. We didn’t leave the villa for the first four days. We barely sobered up in that time, either. I seem to recall that when all of the fun slowed down we were both hung-over for days, and I think our room service bill was more than the accommodation in the end.’
I look back at the album and open the first page, and then gradually begin to make my way through the other photos. The whole album looks like something from a glossy magazine, bright bursts of colour and flawless skin in every perfectly framed shot.
‘I remember that look,’ I say quietly, and she follows my gaze. It’s a photo of us staring into each other’s eyes. For a while, we gaze at the image together and I slip back into the memory as easily as if it was never lost. I remember the scent of cut grass and the eucalyptus in the park around us – the feel of her soft skin in my arms – even the taste of mint on her lips when I’d kissed her. She’d been too excited to eat lunch, she told me, but she was starving after the ceremony and so she’d been devouring the only thing in her purse that was edible – a little box of breath-freshening mints. I remember the overwhelming sense of love, pride and amazement and – moments of pure intimidation.
I wait, wondering where that last bewildering thought comes from, and gradually, that thought clarifies too. Molly looked perfect that day, like a living portrait: she would stare at me as if I was a hero, and I both loved and was terrified by the expectation and hope in her eyes. She was the best blessing I’d ever known, but her happiness was now in my hands and the task of being worthy of that responsibility had seemed dizzying.
We talk for quite a long time before I can bring myself to ask Molly the question that now sits impatiently at the tip of my tongue. As soon as the conversation hits a lull, I ask her very gently, ‘So, when did it start to go wrong, Molly?’
She’s gradually moved closer and closer over the course of the chat until she’s stretched herself along the lounge and now lies flat, with her head resting on my thigh. This position is familiar; I can remember her lying like this with me even in our earliest days together.
She stares up at me when I prompt the shift in the conversation’s tone and the smile fades from her face. Then she looks beyond me, to the ceiling, then tentatively back to my eyes.
‘Promise you won’t get defensive?’ she whispers.
‘I can promise I’ll try,’ I whisper back.
‘I actually think it started when you missed that first anniversary. You had good reasons for staying, but it was the start of a shift between us.’
She’s told me about the anniversary when she told me about the motorbike. I still don’t remember it though, and I hesitate to ask her, but the time has come for these painful conversations. Just like some nasty wound sustained in the field, sometimes some painful cleansing has to be done before things can heal.
‘Tell me what happened?’