“Sorry,” Tina says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I realise that my expression must be one of shock, or fear. I try to rearrange my features. “Don’t worry about it. I guess I was still half asleep this morning. No more late nights for me.” I laugh, and swipe my arm as though wiping away everything that came before this point in our conversation. “How are you? Are you keeping well?”
Tina starts telling me about the new extension they’re having done and the havoc it’s playing on her and her husband’s lives. And Roger Moore’s life, probably. I smile and nod but in my heart, I’m deeply disturbed and all I can do is picture myself wandering on the moors without even knowing I was there.
Tina says her goodbyes and I head into the Co-op, now on the back foot, like I have a long list of groceries to buy but I’ve left the list at home. How have I forgotten going for a walk? I thought this medication was helping me. Since it was prescribed by the doctor – after many, many tests – I started to feel better. I’ve been driving to and from my mum’s house, handling my shopping and cooking my meals. All are aspects of life that can be impaired by dementia, but I’ve been coping well.
Perhaps this disease is progressing faster than I anticipated. I can’t bear the thought. She’s wrong. She has to be. After all, Tina only ever saw me in a dingy pub after the sun had gone down. She most likely mistook me for someone else. Why should I doubt my own mind just because this person thinks every redheaded woman is me?
Moving quickly, I grab the items I need and head to the till.
I run a packet of ibuprofen, a pint of milk and a can of deodorant through the self-service and wait for the teenage staff member to confirm I’m old enough to buy painkillers.
Once I’ve paid, I hurry out of the shop and down the hill to the Palmer House, walking briskly along Summer Lane.
Back home, as I put away the milk, I see a text from Penny on my phone.
Hey Mum, thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing. Let me know how the date goes tonight. Exciting! Please text me when you get home though, ok? Love you!
It’s a perfectly lovely message and I should be grateful my daughter – who, now in her twenties has her own life to live – cares enough to check in. And yet I know why she is and it’s stifling. Like this house without the windows open. It’s not her fault. I know that. She loves me and she’s worried about me.
But I don’t want anyone to worry about me.
I think ahead to my plans for the evening. My first date in over twenty years. He’s thirty-seven, called Alistair and works at a design agency.
Of course, I haven’t told him that I have young-onset dementia. Obviously, he’ll go running for the hills as soon as I mention it, which is probably why I’m putting off telling him. It isn’t really first-date material, is it?
Nice to meet you, I’m Faye, I’m fifty, divorced and sometimes I forget how to make a cup of tea. I like long walks on the beach and forgetting who I am in the middle of the night.
Even thinking about it makes my chest tight. Which is why I need some actual fun. I need to get to know someone who has no idea what I’m going through.
It’s like I’m being suffocated by medication and doctor’s appointments and the concern on people’s faces. I need this date with Alistair. I need to be with someone who makes me feel young. I deserve conversation and flirting and adventure and, yes, sex. I want those things.
I’m in the process of composing a reply to Penny when I notice a text from my stepson, Nathan.
What the hell is this? Sorry, but I think you need help.
The terse tone gets my hackles up. Nathan has never been known for his tact. No, he definitely learned his manners from Scott, not me.
Intrigued, I tap the link in the message and gasp when it opens.
A local news article loads, filled with ads around the side bar. But what catches my attention is my name in the headline. Then, as I scroll slightly further down, I see the photograph. My heart stops as I stare at the image.
This can’t be right. Itcan’tbe.
CHAPTER3
FAYE
Penny calls first.
“Mum, I’m coming up. I need?—”
“I’m fine,” I interject.
“But the photo?—”
“It’s not me, Pen.” I sigh. “It… it can’t be.”
