The town police station was gone now, replaced by a bigger one in nearby Lochgilphead, covering the whole area. Depending on where the patrolling officers were, it could be up to an hour before they arrived here, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Maybe she’d hit her head, needed medication? Whatever it was, something wasn’t right. ‘Can you tell me what your name is?’ he asked as he woke his phone up and prepared to dial in the non-emergency number for the local police.
Her face went pale, and a look of horror passed over her features, as if she’d just received some devastating news. ‘I … I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know what my name is.’
Ben stared back at her. How was that possible? He was tempted to laugh, sure she was playing some kind of joke on him,but the desolation in her eyes caused him to swallow hard instead.
‘The first memory I have – not just today butever– is sitting at that bus stop,’ she continued shakily. It was as if hearing herself say the words out loud caused her brain to finally catch up with the ramifications of what she was telling him.
Her legs buckled, and she clutched onto his sweater to steady herself, then pulled herself closer so her forehead was almost touching his chest. On reflex, Ben’s arms closed around her. He wasn’t sure she had a steady grip, and it looked as if she might crumple in a heap at any second.
And as she clung onto him, taking great juddering breaths, Ben looked over the top of her head at the empty bus stop. It occurred to him that if thiswasLili, there might be a really good reason why she had no idea who he was.
Chapter Seven
One year before the wedding.
I SAT ON the Tube, my violin case clutched to my chest, desperately trying to stop myself from shaking. The scruffy man sitting opposite me gave me a weird look. I dipped my head, so I didn’t have to meet his eyes.
This was a bad idea. I should get off at Westminster and head straight back to Victoria, where I could get a train home. I’d be drinking tea in my parents’ kitchen within the hour.
But when the doors huffed open, I closed my eyes, clenched my jaw, and willed myself to stay sitting. They eventually slid closed again, and the Underground train rumbled along to its next stop. My stop. The hammering inside my ribcage intensified.
I avoided going into central London these days if at all possible, preferring to stick to my sad little life in the suburbs. There were too many reminders of what could have been in the city centre. The whole place was ruined for me now, thanks tohim– Ben the bloody Photographer.
Like a complete mug, I’d waited for a phone call or a message, even a pathetic lone emoji to arrive, after we’d parted at the airport. And I’d waited, and I’d waited.
At first, I made excuses: he’d got delayed. He hadn’t reached his hotel,so he hadn’t been able to charge his phone. And then I’d got scared. What if something had happened to him? What if he’d had an accident travelling alone? Or maybe he’d been kidnapped? As the days went on, the scenarios I’d invented had become more and more outlandish. At one point, I’d even convinced myself that he’d had something planted in his luggage and was now languishing in a Dutch prison, falsely accused of being a drugs mule. But as the hours had turned into days and the days had turned into weeks, I’d had to get real.
It had been pure fantasy, hadn’t it? The whole thing. He’d never intended on calling me at all. I’d just been a diversion, an amusement, like the other sights and sounds of the city, a way to pass the time until the next flight. Yet I’d fallen for his patter hook, line, and sinker. Like I said … a complete mug.
But at least I hadn’t turned up the next summer to meet him in the garden, all hopeful and dewy-eyed, thinking I’d met ‘The One’ and that he’d be there waiting for me. I wasn’t that stupid.
I’d gone back to the London Conservatory demoralised, my self-esteem nastily dented, and that had been a mistake too. I’d dropped out two months later. Not the quiet non-appearance at the start of term I’d planned, but a shameful fall from grace that had made it impossible to return.
That had been some time ago, and now I worked in the fried chicken shop down the end of Penge High Street. Some glorious new career that was. Eventually, I’d become so sick of myself moping around and whining I’d decided I had to do something about it. Which was why I wasmakingmyself head into the city centre now with my violin clutched to my chest.
I hadn’t told anyone what I was doing. Because what if I failed? What if I messed up and embarrassed myself again? It would just be more proof that I was empty of all the potential everyone had seen in me.
It was my parents I felt the worst about. I’d seen the disappointment on their faces when I’d told them I was dropping music school. I’d sensed the emotional landslide inside of them as they’d kept their faces neutral, all their hopes and expectations for me slithering to the ground.
I darted off the Tube at Embankment and headed up Villiers Street towards The Strand. The day had been crisp and bright when I’d left the house, the sky cloudless behind the winter sun, and I hadn’t bothered with a coat. The tightness of the sleeves around my armpits always seemed to impede the movement of my bow arm, so I’d chosen a thick, baggy jumper. Not very attractive, but it was warm and allowed for freedom of movement.
However, while I’d been underground, the clouds had gathered, and the wind was icy, finding its way between the looping, open knit of my sweater. I shivered as I crossed the road and hurried up one of the many narrow streets that lead to Covent Garden.
I didn’t know if I was allowed to busk here without a permit, and I hadn’t checked. Maybe because I was hoping someone would shout at me and tell me to move on, and then I could let myself off the hook and go home, no damage done.
Stage fright.
People think of it as the jangle of nerves before you step into the spotlight. They believe the adrenaline coursing through your system ultimately helps you hit even greater heights of brilliance.That was never my experience. For me, it was pounding, churning, dizzying terror. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Sometimes my vision narrowed and I couldn’t even see properly. I certainly couldn’t play. On the few times I’d been forced to try, it had sounded like someone torturing next door’s parakeet.
The thought of standing in a concert hall still made me go weak at the knees, but I had to dosomething.I couldn’t just stay at my parents’ house, stagnating. So maybe I could do this. Maybe I could play for strangers rushing past as they hurried to the office or the next tourist hotspot. All they would hear was a few snatched seconds. It wouldn’t be the same. I couldn’tletit.
I didn’t head for the main busking spot in front of the church that flanked Covent Garden Market, its huge columns and porch creating the impression of a grand stage. A juggling team had set up there, pulling in a crowd of fifty or more, and I could hear the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of appreciation as I scurried past, looking for a little nook or street corner I could position myself on.
I found a spot up James Street, not far from Covent Garden Tube station. I took a deep breath, placed my violin case at my feet and unclasped it. Octavia was a fine-looking violin, beautiful to hold. She wasn’t centuries old or eye-wateringly rare, but she was precious to me all the same. Mum and Dad had gone without a couple of holidays to pay for her. In fact, they’d gone without a lot of things over the years to allow me to chase my dream of being a professional musician, something that weighed on my mind every day.
I brought Octavia up to my shoulder, rested her under my chin and raised my bow,taking a few practice strokes, just to get my nerve up. A few heads turned at the unexpected noise. My stomach churned harder. I ignored it and began to play ‘Spring’ from Vivaldi’s ‘The Four Seasons’, a sure crowd-pleaser, but it felt as if my whole body had gone rusty, that my muscles had forgotten how to move to make a suitable noise.
It must have been bad because I played for ten minutes before someone chucked a coin in the direction of the open case. I kept going, almost as scared to stop as I had been to begin. It was easier not to watch people walking by, so I closed my eyes, feeling the weight and elegance of the instrument in my hands, and dived into some other familiar pieces.
