I get a flash of my mother’s face before I turned and stalked away. I’d been studiously trying to avoid looking her in the eye, but it seems I noticed anyway. She looked stricken. Not pathetic, as I’d often seen her when she was in an alcohol-induced haze butdevastated. Broken. By me and my refusal to even acknowledge her.
But there are reasons for that too. And she knows that.
I’m not sure what to do about Luke, but I do know that I need a cup of tea. I throw back the duvet, plant my feet on the floor and stand up. But that’s when the earth seems to shift on its axis once again. Where I’m expecting to see a framed print of a Picasso line drawing on the wall in front of me, there’s a door. My old dressing gown is hanging on one of the hooks, along with a whole host of scarves I’d forgotten I owned.
Wait. What … ?
It’s not … I’m not … I’m not back at home. I’m somewhere else.
Again.
And I recognize this place.
I reach out and gingerly touch one of the scarves. The soft cotton seems real enough beneath my fingertips. But how can this be? Am I still dreaming?
I grab the dressing gown and put it on, knotting the sash as I exit the bedroom and walk down the hallway, hardly noticing how cold the floor is beneath my bare feet. As I approach the kitchen, I become aware of the steamy roar of a kettle just about to boil. I arrive at the threshold just in time to see Hannah throwing a teabag into a mug. She looks up as I stand in the doorway, open-mouthed.
‘Want one?’
I nod. And then, before she can pull another mug from the cabinet, I rush over to her and fling my arms around her.
She laughs. ‘Oh … okay!’ And then her arms come around me and she’s warm and solid and just … Han. She has no ideahow pleased I am to see her. This is how we became friends, when we rented rooms in a house in Catford for a couple of years.
I straighten my arms, keeping my grip on her, so I can look at her face. Yes, it’s definitely Hannah. But younger. She’s wearing the nose stud she abandoned after she got married, and her skin is smoother, especially around her eyes and on her forehead.
‘So, are you dropping by the party this evening or not?’ Hannah asks as she breaks away from me and continues making a cup of tea for us both. All I can do is stare at her, watch her move.
‘Party?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten!’ I retort, not knowing why I feel the need to keep a certain level of pretence going. I also have no idea what kind of party it is. But if I’m going to a party, then Hannah is too. Han lovesa party. ‘What are you wearing?’ I ask her. Hopefully, her answer will give me some clues as to how I should dress myself.
She gives me a knowing look as she pours boiling water into each mug. ‘You havetotallyforgotten. Just as well you have me as your back-up memory!’
She’s right. I’m very grateful for what’s inside her brain right now. I intend to mine it for as much information as possible.
‘I’m not going,’ she says.
‘You’re not?’
Her forehead crinkles as she squeezes a teabag against the edge of my mug with a spoon. ‘Your family have only met me once. Why would they invite me?’
Oh. It’s afamilyparty. I rack my brains. Whose anniversary, birthday, or engagement could it be?
‘I was only asking because you weren’t sure if you could fit it in before you went out for your big romantic meal with Luke.’
Inside my skull, I have the sensation of things dropping into place, areas of thought and memory connecting themselves. At first I have no idea what these inklings are, but then they come more sharply into focus. ‘What year is it?’
Her eyes narrow in confusion.
‘Just … humour me.’
‘Exactly the same year it was when you went to bed last night – twenty-fifteen.’
What feels like a blast of hot air passes through my body as I process her answer. 2015. I blink, unable to think of anything else but those numbers for a few seconds, but then I add, ‘And what date?’
She shakes her head, bemused but not pissed off, as she heads to the fridge to fetch the milk.
