Dr Manzar looked confused. ‘You go home, of course.’ He looked at her hand, still joined with Ben’s. ‘Since you’re friends, I assumed you lived nearby.’
She shook her head, slid her fingers from Ben’s firm grip and brought her hand to sit in her lap with the other one. ‘We only met this morning. Ben’s been … well, he’s been very kind.’
‘Oh.’ Dr Manzar’s forehead folded, creating two deep horizontal lines. ‘I wasn’t … In that case, I’m going to have to inform social services.’
‘Social services?’ Ben didn’t look hugely pleased with that idea.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Dr Manzar said. ‘If you can’t go home because you don’t know where it is or have any kind of support from friends or family, that means you’ll be classed as a vulnerable person. We need to make arrangements, for you to get all the support you need.’
She swallowed, holding back a fresh round of tears.Vulnerable.She hated that expression. Mostly because it described exactly how she felt at that moment. Without any shell of memories or knowledge about the world and her place in it to protect her,she felt as if every nerve ending was raw and vigilant, exposed. And, somewhere in the depths of her subconscious, she knew she’d felt this way before, and it was a dangerous, dangerous place to be.
Chapter Nine
Almost a year before the wedding.
IT WAS A few weeks before I saw the man with the umbrella again. Most days, I lugged Octavia up to London and picked exactly the same busking spot at exactly the same time, and one bright winter morning, I was playing an Irish folk song that had the crowd of twenty or so clapping along when I saw a flash of camel-coloured wool at the back of the crowd. I knew it was him, even before I fully registered his face.
He wasn’t smiling or tapping his foot like the other onlookers, but I knew his gaze was locked on me. Despite the cheery sunshine up above, I sorely wished it would rain.Don’t wander off,I prayed.Don’t leave without saying a word.
And after the next song, I took an unscheduled break. The audience scurried away, back to their sightseeing or their office jobs, but he stayed. ‘Hi,’ I said, resisting the urge to look at my feet. I had a feeling this man never needed to take refuge in the tops of his shoes.
‘I came back to check if you really were as good as I thought you were.’
And …?I asked silently, looking at him from under my lashes, too much of a coward to say the word out loud.
He answered me anyway, smiling that smile again. ‘It was much better. You’re growing, improving … I think you have a lot of potential.’
I swallowed. ‘Thank you.’
He glanced around at the dirty street, the crowds of unimpressed tourists and passers-by. ‘This really isn’t the right venue for a talent like yours. You ought to be performing in concert halls, grand theatres.’
I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing, partly from the irony of his words and partly because of the sheer stupidity of his suggestion. Yes, I had the talent – I knew that – but I lacked the ability to do any of the things he’d suggested, whichwasstupid. And pointless. And sad. Even so, hearing him compliment me that way applied balm to my battered creative soul.
‘That’s very nice of you to say that, but I honestly think I’m better off here.’ He didn’t know my story, and I wasn’t about to tell him. I’d rather he went on thinking I was wasting my potential than knowing the truth.
‘My name is Justin De la Hay. I’m a choreographer of contemporary dance – think edgy modern ballet, and you’re on the right track.’
If you’d asked me to guess his career, that’s not what I’d have come up with. He looked like a financier or a lawyer. I hadn’t expected him to be an artist too.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I know you think you belong on a street corner, but I don’t, and I might be able to introduce you to people who could help you reach your true potential – if you’re interested?’
I hugged Octavia to myself and chewed his words over. As much as I thought it was impossible to hope for that,I found myself nodding.
‘Would you like to go somewhere to chat about it? I promise I won’t take up much of your time.’
The sensible girl from Penge inside me hesitated. He might be gorgeous. He might be sophisticated. But he was still a stranger. I didn’t know him.
He seemed to sense my disquiet because then he added, ‘We can go to the café over there …’ He nodded in the direction of one of the restaurants that lined the square, with wooden tables and big red umbrellas. ‘We’ll sit outside. You’ll be perfectly safe.’
He smiled again, and this time I smiled along with him. ‘Yes,’ I answered quietly. ‘I think I would really like that.’
I was standing on the landing, checking my thousandth outfit choice for the evening ahead in the only full-length mirror in our house, when my sister’s highlighted head appeared at her bedroom door. She took in my floaty maxi skirt and ankle boots. ‘Where you going?’
‘Who says I’m going anywhere?’
‘Come on … You’ve hardly worn anything but leggings for what seems like years and suddenly you’re putting on make-up and leaving the house, practically bouncing down the path.’
Lo was right. My wardrobe had changed a bit in the two weeks since Justin had taken me for coffee, but I just smiled and changed the subject. ‘Do you think this is a bit … you know …?’ My younger sister was always making fun of my eclectic dress sense, calling me ‘hippy’ and ‘flower child’, and I usually responded by letting her know that,most days, she dressed like a middle-aged bank manager.
