He nods. ‘Fine. I was just being a good neighbour, that’s all.’
I nod. ‘Thank you.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll be off then.’ He turns to go.
‘Hang on a minute.’ I take a step towards him and open up one of the images of Seth that I got Daisy to forward to my phone.
‘What’s that?’ he asks.
‘Just humour me a minute and tell me if you recognise this person.’ I hold out my phone and show him the photo of Seth sitting in Regent’s Park.
‘Bit difficult to see, love, without my glasses.’ He peers down at the screen. ‘Looks like Seth.’ He gives me a bemused look.
My heart sinks at his confirmation that this is my fiancé. ‘What about this one?’ I show him another image of the two of us – a close-up, our heads tilted together.
‘Well, that’s the two of you together, isn’t it? It’s okay, you don’t need to prove who you are. I recognise you now.’ He nods and pats my arm.
I bite my lip, bitterly disappointed that Seth’s neighbour believes that the man in the photos is Seth.
‘Okay, well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ he says. ‘Congratulations on the wedding.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply bleakly as he leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.
I put a hand to my chest to quiet my beating heart. I bet he’ll tell Seth I’ve been here. I’ll have to come clean now. I’ll call him later ... or maybe I won’t.
I bend to pick up the framed photo from the box. Turning it over, I see that it’s the one of Seth and his parents sitting in the garden of Brook Cottage. The man in the photo is not my Seth. I give a bitter smile as I realise this whole trip has been nothing but a wild goose chase. Half-heartedly, I tear the paper off the other photos, which are all of the fake Seth. Of course they are.
The pictures surround me – smiling, happy images of a man I don’t know.
I finally understand that the problem must be with me. That there is no fake Seth. That all this time, I’ve been looking for an illusion. A delusion. A man who doesn’t exist.
Chapter Twenty
NOW
I stand beneath the wooden front porch and wipe my palms on my jeans, trying to get my breathing under control. This is my third meeting with Seth since the wedding. The first was when my parents brought him along to the flat unannounced, and the second was that brief meet-up in the park. Neither meeting went well, but after another counselling session with Laurence, he suggested I persevere. So here I am outside Brook Cottage, trying to raise enough courage to knock on the dove-grey painted wooden door.
I’ve come to the reluctant conclusion that the man I’m here to see today probablyisthe real Seth. My acceptance of the truth came in stages. First, when I realised I couldn’t picture Seth in my head. That I have no recollection of what my Seth actually looks like. Surely, if I loved this man and was about to marry him, I should have been able to summon some kind of mental picture of him. But I couldn’t. Second, when I went to his flat in London and was faced with photographic evidence that the man who lived there is the same man who showed up at the church. The man who everyone else believes is Seth Evans. And third, when Seth’s neighbour confirmed it too.
Whatever weird conspiracy theories I had going on in my brain were justthat– conspiracy theories. I think they were simply a way to explain the glitch in my brain that stopped me recognising my fiancé. The only problem with dismissing that theory is that I now have to accept the fact this stranger actually is the real Seth. That the fault lies with me. In my mind, and not with other people playing some kind of trick on me.
When I spoke to Laurence about it, he had a way of putting me at ease and not making me feel like a total freak for what happened on my wedding day. For what’sstillhappening. Because I still don’t recognise my fiancé. Not properly. I wonder if I ever will.
I knock on the door and listen for Seth’s footsteps, hoping against hope that today might be the day when I experience a glimmer of recognition. My heart is in my mouth as the door opens. But it plummets again when I’m faced with the same handsome stranger standing before me, and not my familiar Seth – even though I now understand they’re one and the same.
‘Alice,’ he says, his eyes warm. ‘You came.’
My heart twangs with nerves. I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out so I give a short nod instead. I’m aware I must seem standoffish, hostile even, but I can’t help this gut reaction I have every time I see the man. In fact, every cell in my body is screaming at me to turn around, get back in my car and drive away.
‘After the park, I honestly wasn’t sure you’d show up,’ he says.
I’m a little offended by his comment, but I don’t reply. There’s nothing to say to such a statement. Especially as I realise he’s got a point.
‘Anyway, come in,’ he says, taking a step back so I can move inside.
The interior is dark and cool. We walk through the narrow hallway to the bright living room at the rear. The painted white French windows open out on to a pretty country garden with a stream atthe far end that looks like an impressionist painting. A garden I thought would be mine.Ours. I’m sad at how Brook Cottage is so familiar to me with its scent of fresh flowers and furniture polish, its warm wooden beams, heritage colours on the walls and comfy cream sofas. As I drink in my surroundings, I can almost imagine that nothing bad has happened. That all is as it should be. Until I look at Seth.
He gestures to one of the sofas and I gingerly take a seat. He sits opposite before immediately springing up again. ‘Sorry, can I get you a drink?’
