“Mum, it’s obviously you! Your face?—”
“You’re wrong.” My voice begins to tremble. I take a deep breath.
The photograph in the article is quite clear. It isn’t grainy or open to interpretation. It is taken in a good light on one of the streets nearby. And along with its clarity, it’s deeply disturbing. There I am, walking along the pavement wearing nothing but a white shirt smeared with dirt and a pair of grey knickers. My hair is dishevelled, my face afraid.
I know how it must seem to her, but this cannot be me. There is no way in hell that I would walk around like that and not remember it. There’s just no way.
“Mum, come on,” Penny says gently. “It’s you.”
There are tears in my eyes as I walk away from the kitchen, pull open the patio doors and step outside, staring at the blue horizon beyond the house.
“Penny, please,” I say. “You’re jumping to conclusions. I know why you don’t believe me. I know that I have had some frightening episodes and believe me, I understand my diagnosis, but can we please consider that someone has faked that photo.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Perhaps Penny is examining the photo again. Then she says, in a quiet voice, “It doesn’t look fake to me. I’m sorry, Mum, but it just doesn’t.”
I close my eyes and hold back a sob. Nothing I say is going to convince her, and why should it?
Penny sniffs before continuing. “I know you would never, ever walk around like that. But there will be times now when you do things and say things that aren’t you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not there yet, Penny. I’m not lost. It’s stillearly. I still have time before all that. You know that.”
“Do I? The doctor said nothing was definite about the progress of the disease. It’s different for everyone. And what if they made a mistake? Maybe it’s further along than she thought?”
I think about my encounter with Tina but don’t mention it. “Maybe,” I say. “Fuck. I can’t believe this photo is in the news under my name! Can they do that? Without me confirming it? Look, I have to go. I need to call my agent and put out some sort of statement.”
“Mum, are you sure you’re okay?”
First a witness of me on the moors and now photographic evidence. Am I being stubborn? Should I accept that I had an episode and forget about defending myself? I know my mind is becoming less and less reliable, but I feel so sure about this. Every part of my body clenches up tightly.
“Pen, I promise you I’m okay.”
“Are you still going on your date?” she asks.
I consider that for a moment. “I guess so. Unless he’s seen the photo. In which case, I’d be surprised if he even shows up.”
“Well then he won’t be worth it,” she says. “Speak later, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, before hanging up.
About a year ago, Penny decided she wanted to leave her apprenticeship at a finance company in London and work in York. She even lived with me for a few weeks before moving into a flat in Malton. The job didn’t last though. Since then, she has worked in the York dungeons, as part of a team of wedding planners at Howsham and at a Dracula-themed bar in Whitby. We joke that she’s making her way around North Yorkshire. It’s been nice having her living nearby, but sometimes I worry that she’s staying in the area because of me. I hate the idea that I’m holding her back, that she’s not doing what she really wants because of me, and yet there’s a part of me, the selfish part, that wants to keep her close forever.
I slump down on a patio chair and stare out at the sea. Seagulls swoop and squawk over the cliffs. Bees buzz around the roses at the bottom of the garden. Usually this view would calm me, but not today. I think about every doctor explaining this illness to me. Paranoia, forgetfulness, confusion, stubbornness, changes in personality: all these symptoms track with dementia and every single one suggests I’m wrong about this, and that I was out there roaming the moors. At one of my group support sessions another woman with dementia shared how she forgot to put on her trousers after coming out of a shop changing room. Is this really so different? If I was presented with this photo and told the person in it had dementia, I would think that it all makes sense.
I’m not there yet.
At least, I don’t want to be there yet.
As a writer of mysteries for teenagers, I decide to approach this like my crime-fighting twin-sister characters. I need to examine the evidence. Penny thought the photo seemed genuine. I check it again. She’s right. If it is a fake, it’s a very good one.
I read some of the comments on the news article. It appears my readers have found it already.A case for the Palmer Twins. What happened to Faye Mathis? A night of partying or a night of burying bodies?I wish it was a night of partying.
Having written bestsellers for years, I am a public figure. Not a very famous one – but my image is available online. Anyone could find my official author photos from over the years and put it through one of those AI programs. They could create a false narrative. I don’t know why anyone would, but it’s possible.
Next, I call my agent. It’s time to implement some damage control.
The receptionist answers and puts me through. I’ve had the same agent for over twenty years now and we’ve never had any major issues. I meet the deadlines set by my publisher and Shalina negotiates the contracts.
“Faye. Oh my God. Are you okay?”
