‘What are you actually sorry about?’ he asks, an edge creeping into his voice. ‘Are you sorry about the honeymoon? The wedding? Us?What?I need some kind of explanation, Alice. You owe me that, at least.’
I rub my upper arms, wishing I could be anywhere else than here with him. This fake Seth. I don’t understand the disconnect between what I’m seeing and what everyone else believes. It makes no sense. Am I losing my mind? Could I be wrong? Could this actually be the real Seth? I force myself to look at him again and recoil as his eyes bore into mine. No. I absolutely 100 per cent do not know this man.
‘I ... I was excited about the wedding. I wanted to marry Seth ...you. But when I saw you in the church, I didn’t recognise you. You honestly look like a stranger to me.’
‘You didn’t recognise my face?’
I nod.
‘Have you heard of prosopagnosia?’ he asks.
‘It’s what my GP thought I might have. But she’s doubtful because it’s only you and your parents that I don’t recognise.’
‘Do you still believe I might not be Seth?’ he asks.
I shrug. Inside, I feel like I should be shouting at this imposter, asking him who he is and what he’s done with Seth. But I feel paralysed. Terrified.
‘So that means you’re still unsure.’ He takes out his phone. ‘Why don’t you come and look at these photos.’
I hesitate, unwilling to get that close to him.
He’s scrolling through his phone, waiting for me to come over.
I take a breath and walk across the living room, my brain swimming, legs shaky, like I’m approaching a cliff edge with a sheer drop. As I draw nearer to him, a strong sweet smell invades my nostrils and makes me gag, but I manage to ignore it and sit on the sofa, leaving a couple of handspans between us.
He looks across at me and I press a hand to my chest trying to calm my breathing. ‘Here.’ He hands me his phone.
I take it and edge away slightly. The photo he shows me is of the two of us out in a bar in London. I remember the night very well as it was my first trip there to see him, just one week after we first met. He has his arm around me and our heads are tilted together. I was glowing, happy, almost in love by that point. But the man in the photo is the same stranger sitting next to me on the sofa. It isn’tmySeth. It’s the weirdest feeling ever to see this familiar memory overlaid with the image of someone else. It makes me want to cry.
He leans across and swipes the screen. The next photo is of us in the garden of Seth’s parents’ holiday home in Rockford, a small hamlet just outside Ringwood. Again, the man who should be Seth, isn’t my Seth. Brook Cottage was his parents’ wedding gift to us. We were due to move in after we were married. But, of course, that’s not going to happen now. All our plans have disappeared down the drain like dirty dishwater.
‘Do you remember these photos?’ he asks, swiping again to show more images of us; these ones are from our holiday in Portugal earlier this year.
‘I remember the photos, but not you,’ I reply quietly. The first thought that comes into my mind is that he could havePhotoshopped them. I stare at the images trying to see if I can spot whether they might be fake, but I can’t see anything obvious, although that doesn’t mean anything. He could have paid a professional to alter them. But why would he do that? What would be the point?
I realise that the easiest way to check the photos’ validity would be to look at the photos on my own phone. In fact, why the hell haven’t I done that already? Probably because I’ve been wandering around in some kind of dazed shock for the past three days. Now that I’ve had the idea, I’m desperate to check my phone album, but I don’t want to do it while he’s still here.
He retrieves his mobile and we resume our awkward silence for a moment. I don’t want to offer him a drink because that will only prolong his visit.
‘So,’ I say without actually looking at him, ‘my GP has referred me for a brain scan later this week.’
‘That makes sense,’ he replies. ‘Hopefully they’ll find out what’s wrong and we can get our lives back.’
‘Mm,’ I reply noncommittally. ‘But ... in the meantime, I think it’s probably best if we don’t see one another. Not until after I get the results.’
‘Really?’ He frowns and gets to his feet. ‘Alice, do you honestly not know me?’
‘No. I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.’
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Seeing as the honeymoon’s off, I’m staying at Brook Cottage. I don’t start my new job at Southampton until next month, so I thought we could spend time together. Work out what’s happening here. I thought it would be a good idea for us to spendmoretime together, not less. In case something jogs your memory. I mean, how are we supposed to get through this if you don’t even want to see me?’
I clench my fists. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that it feels too weird.’ I stand and start pacing the lounge. ‘I can’t deal with it. Withyou.’ I stop and turn, making myself look him in the eye. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.’ But I’m not sorry at all, and I don’t understand why I’m being so polite to this man.
‘So, what? You want me to leave?’ His jaw muscles flex and his eyes harden.
‘I’m sorry, but yes, I do.’
He looks taken aback. Gutted. He blinks. ‘Fine.’ He starts towards the door and then stops and turns around. ‘I don’t know what’s happening here, Alice, but I want you to know that I love you. I still want to spend the rest of my life with you even if you don’t. I really hope this is fixable. That this isn’t some ... I don’t know ... some elaborate plan to get out of marrying me?’
