He hesitated, clearly torn. But in the end he nodded, then turned and walked in the other direction in silence. I hurried alongside him, throwing him the odd glance, and when I caught a glimpse of the angle of his jaw, my heart squeezed. I looked away before he noticed me staring.
He stopped abruptly outside the Slug and Lamb.
‘How about here?’
‘I—’ I stopped. This was Greg’s favourite pub and I couldn’t risk him or his friends seeing me with Adam. ‘How about that place?’ I pointed across the road to The Crown, an old-fashioned pub with one gin to choose from and one type of cheap white house wine. Greg and his mates would never go in there.
‘Okay?’ He said it like a question but I didn’t bother to explain. He had his secrets, I could have mine.
We entered the deserted pub. A quick glance round confirmed that not only was there no-one in here I knew, but there was barely anyone at all. We peeled off our coats and hats and hung them on the backs of chairs in the corner.
‘What would you like?
‘A glass of red please.’
‘Coming up.’
As he was buying the drinks I gave my mind a moment to catch up with itself. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home, with my husband, shoring up our marriage so it was strong enough to survive the tsunami of his betrayal. But, just like he always did, Adam was drawing me to him like a shopaholic at a closing down sale, and I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t leave now even if I wanted to.
I studied him for a moment. He’d taken off his hat, and I saw for the first time that his once-long, shaggy curls had gone, his hair shorn almost to the scalp. But otherwise he looked the same. A few more lines, his cheekbones a bit less pronounced, but he was basically still the same boy who’d set my heart alight all those years before.
Adam returned, placed the wine carefully on the table in front of me, one in front of him, and sat down. His knee bumped mine and I moved my leg away as though I’d had an electric shock.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and took a sip of the cheap red wine to cover for my lack of small talk. I felt as though my tongue had shrivelled up inside my mouth.
Luckily, he spoke first.
‘So, I obviously know you, which means I owe you an explanation.’ He drank some wine and licked his lips. ‘But can you tell me how we know each other?’
I shook my head. ‘How about you tell me what’s happened first. Why can’t you remember me? Then I’ll tell you.’
He nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He glanced up at the ceiling, then slowly lowered his gaze to meet mine.
‘I had an accident.’ He took another sip of his wine, building up to something. ‘You have to bear in mind, I don’t remember any of this, it’s just what I’ve been told since. But apparently I was riding my bike, the road was wet, I skidded, and I lost control. I hit my head on impact with the central reservation and – well, that was that.’ He shrugged. ‘I woke up in hospital, and I didn’t remember anything about who I was or what I was doing there.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Absolutely nothing. I didn’t know who my parents were, my friends. I didn’t recognise the house when I finally left hospital and was allowed back to my parents’ place. I didn’t know where I’d been living, whether I was married, had kids, a job. I was just an empty shell of a person, as though I’d never existed before. Still am.’
I didn’t know what to say. If what he was telling me was true – and there was no reason to doubt him – then it wasn’t just me he’d forgotten. He’d forgotten everything. He wouldn’t remember the way his parents had treated him, or being thrown out of his private school, or falling in love, or playing in his band. He wouldn’t remember the passion we’d had, or breaking my heart. It was hard to believe that it wasn’t still in there somewhere.
‘That must be…’ I trailed off, aware no words could ever be enough.
‘Terrifying? Yup. Frustrating? Absolutely.’
A silence fell between us. I heard the whir of the fruit machine in the corner, the clatter of glasses behind the bar, the tired squeak of the ale pump. ‘Is there anything you remember at all?’ I said finally. ‘I mean, you remember how to play your guitar.’
‘Yeah, I do. It’s weird, that just felt natural from the moment I got home and saw them sitting there.’ He picked at a beer mat in front of him. ‘I sometimes get flashes of something, like a tiny fragment of a memory that’s trying to reach me, but it always disappears again before I can quite get a grasp on it.’
‘It’s just like my mum,’ I said.
‘Your mum?’
‘She has dementia.’ I realised he wouldn’t remember the day the terrible phone call had come to tell me about her diagnosis, even though he’d known about it once.
‘She was really young when she found out.’ I swallowed. I still found it hard to talk about, even now. ‘At first she just forgot minor things like how to make a cup of tea, or she’d leave the house and forget where she was going. But over the years she’s lost more and more of her memories. I guess it’s different because all of yours went at once, and hers have slowly been extinguished, one by one, like the lights of a house going out. It’s been tough.’
‘It must be. Has she lost all of her memory now?’
