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  Gasping, Claire rushed back upstairs to get dressed and brush her hair. Only when she was satisfied with her appearance did she look inside the fridge where she found an omelette, a wilted tomato and a jar of olives. Ignoring the tomato and the olives, she ate the omelette cold.

  A nurse was coming to see her. She wondered if it was someone she knew. It would be nice to see a familiar face. Claire wanted to know when her memory was coming back. She couldn’t get her life back if she didn’t remember anything about it. And she couldn’t fix her marriage if she didn’t know what was wrong between Paul and her. He might have told her they were the happiest of couples who never argued but she didn’t believe him. A happy couple didn’t behave like them, not touching, barely talking and not sharing a room. A loving husband would have visited her more often as she lay in her hospital bed, trying to make sense of who she was. Suddenly nauseous, she leaned on the edge of the dining table and closed her eyes, counting down from fifty to one, just like the nurses had taught her.

  On twenty-five, she was breathing easier. On seven, the doorbell rang.

  The man standing outside was dressed in a business suit and held a folder in his hands. He was small and wrinkled, and his prune-like face was stretched into a smile. He introduced himself as Dr Johnson.

  ‘A doctor? I was expecting a nurse,’ she said, clasping her hands nervously.

  ‘Is that why you won’t let me through the door?’ The doctor’s smile grew wider.

  Claire realised she was blocking the doorway. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m not myself these days.’ She stepped aside and the doctor walked in.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. To make you feel more like yourself.’

  ‘You think it’s possible? Will I remember everything? How long will it take? I didn’t realise doctors made house calls.’ Claire was talking fast, tripping over her words. She paused and studied the doctor, who made himself comfortable on the sofa.

  ‘That’s a lot of questions. We usually don’t make house calls, you’re right. But I’m a friend of your husband’s.’

  ‘You knew me before the accident?’

  Dr Johnson nodded but didn’t say another word, hiding behind his folder.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I forgot my manners, among other things. You must think I’m awfully rude. Would you like something to drink?’

  A dismissive wave in reply. It was clear Dr Johnson didn’t believe in small talk. He got straight down to business. ‘So, Claire, I understand you returned home from hospital yesterday?’ As if for emphasis, his finger pointed at something in his file.

  ‘The day before yesterday.’ Claire sat down opposite the doctor. With his small glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he looked like he had all the answers. Surely he would be able to suggest something, give her a magic pill that would help her remember. All she had to do was ask, and he would fix her. That was his job, wasn’t it?

  Dr Johnson looked up. ‘How are you finding it so far? Overwhelming, I would imagine.’

  ‘That’s an understatement, Doctor.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s a normal reaction in a patient with memory loss when returning to their normal life. Have you been feeling unusually agitated lately?’ When Claire nodded, he continued, ‘Again, completely normal, nothing to worry about.’ He wrote something on the chart. ‘What about headaches?’

  Claire rubbed her aching temples. ‘Not as bad as before.’

  ‘Have you been feeling confused? Disoriented?’

  ‘I don’t remember who I am. Of course I’m disoriented and confused.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘Perfectly normal. I know. Most of the time I feel afraid. Like something bad is about to happen. I think it’s my meds. They make me paranoid. Sometimes I wonder if I should stop taking them.’

  Dr Johnson appraised her for a few seconds before replying, ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

  ‘No, of course not. Forget I said anything. And please don’t mention it to my husband.’

  Dr Johnson nodded. ‘Let’s do some short-term memory tests, shall we? To check your progress.’

  What progress, Doctor? she wanted to say. But before she had a chance, three pictures appeared in front of her, with names written underneath. Dr Johnson instructed Claire to look at them for a few seconds and then flipped the cards over. On the other side were the same images without the names. Claire had to pick the names out of a long list. Some of them were similar to one another, with a difference of one or two letters. There was a number next to each name. Claire didn’t know what the numbers meant, nor did she ask. She wanted the test over and done with. She wanted to be alone, so she could go through the photo albums and find another photograph of her mother. But she did her best to match the names to the pictures, on the off chance that by some miracle it would help recover her memory.

  Dr Johnson nodded at every answer, his face impassive. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Finally, he took the pictures of people away, only to replace them with pictures of vegetables. Claire had to memorise them and then pick names from a long list. ‘Verbal new learning,’ he explained.

  ‘And what do you expect me to learn from this, Doctor?’

  ‘You don’t need to learn anything. I need to assess how well you’re doing.’

  Not only did Claire manage to answer every question but she recorded a close to perfect score. Better than 90 per cent of Dr Johnson’s patients. The doctor looked unimpressed when he told her that. ‘You’re doing great, Claire.’

  ‘You think I’m doing great, Doctor? Then why do I feel so …’ She couldn’t think of the right word. Empty, lost, desperate? All of the above?

  ‘You don’t feel like yourself. It’s understandable and to be expected. You have what’s known as post-traumatic amnesia. It’s generally caused by a severe head injury.’

  Claire nodded while suppressing the desire to laugh in doctor’s face. Tell me something I don’t know. But what she said instead was, ‘These other patients of yours. The 10 per cent who did better than me on the tests. Have they recovered? Can they remember?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘So what’s the prognosis?’

  ‘The good news is, this type of amnesia is usually temporary.’

  Claire perked up. This was good news indeed. ‘How long?’

  ‘The human mind is incredibly complex. You could wake up tomorrow and remember everything. Or it could take years.’

  ‘Or it could never happen?’

  ‘It’s impossible to tell. You were unconscious for a long time. That could affect the duration of your amnesia.’ Claire must have looked disappointed because something resembling pity appeared Dr Johnson’s face. Pity was not what she wanted to see. She looked down into her hands. The doctor continued, ‘All we can do is stay positive. Do you have a strong support network? Family, friends?’

  Claire thought of Paul’s cold eyes as he collected her from the hospital. She thought of her missing mother. ‘I have my father. And my best friend.’

  ‘That’s a good start. You’ll need all the support you can get. Try to immerse yourself in familiar activities. Anything could trigger your memory, anything at all. People, experiences, sounds. Scents can work particularly well.’ Dr Johnson stood up.

  ‘Is there anything else we can do?’

  ‘There isn’t much, unfortunately. No reliable treatments at this stage, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about unreliable? Hypnosis, maybe?’

  ‘Some people believe hypnosis can help. But they are in the minority. We certainly don’t recommend it. The mind is a tricky fragile thing. It’s best not to influence it with something so intrusive.’ The doctor shrugged apologetically. ‘There is no foolproof solution. Find out what you’ve enjoyed before the accident. These experiences might act as a catalyst, and before you know it, you’ll remember.’

  Claire wished she knew what she had enjoyed before the accident. She made a m
ental note to ask Gaby. And then it occurred to her – she loved to dance! Yes, that was it. ‘When can I go back to work?’ Suddenly it felt like the perfect solution. She had been dancing since she was a little girl. What could be more familiar? She thought about how easily she seemed to remember the movements. If only she could dance again, her mind might catch up with her body.

  ‘You were a ballet dancer, were you not?’

  Claire nodded, for the first time feeling excitement and anticipation warming her from the inside like burning coals.

  ‘Not yet. No strenuous exercise. Although you’re physically strong, mentally you’re extremely fragile. As you improve over time, you can start challenging yourself – slowly. Remember, baby steps.’

  ‘I can’t stay here, cooped up in this house, not knowing what to do with myself.’

  ‘It might be frustrating at times, but rest is what you need right now.’

  ‘Please don’t tell Paul I want to go back to work. I’ll tell him when the time is right. I don’t want him to worry.’

  Dr Johnson nodded. ‘I’ll visit once a month to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Claire, suddenly nervous. What was the point, if there were no treatments and no definite prognosis? If there was nothing they could do, why even try? ‘How will it feel when I start remembering? Will it all come back at once?’

  ‘It’s more likely you’ll experience islands of memory. You’ll remember certain things, perhaps those that have made the most impact on you in the past.’

  ‘What about everything else?’

  ‘Once you start remembering, it’s a good sign. Other memories will follow.’

  ‘And what if they don’t?’

  ‘That is also possible. No one can tell for sure. The human mind—’

  ‘Is complex. Yes, you’ve said.’

  ‘Remember, stay positive. In the meantime, I want you to start a diary. Write down anything that comes to mind. Ideas, memories, thoughts. Anything could help.’

  He said goodbye, leaving Claire standing in the doorway, watching his retreating back, unsure what to do next. After he disappeared, she did as she was told – she found a blank notepad and sat by the piano. As her hands played a melody she didn’t recognise, she thought of something to write in her new diary.

  What did the doctor say? Thoughts, memories, ideas? After two hours, there was only one question in Claire’s notebook, written in a square childish handwriting:

  What happened on the day of the accident?

  * * *

  In the afternoon, Claire played the piano until she could no longer see from the tears in her eyes. As Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture filled the room, she could sense memories within her reach but when she tried to grasp them, they melted away like fresh snow in spring. Being here, in this house she didn’t remember, looking at the stranger in the mirror and knowing nothing about her filled her with dread she couldn’t understand or control. She didn’t know what it was she was afraid of, but she was afraid nonetheless. If only her father was here. He would know exactly what to say to make her feel better.

  The moment her piano fell silent, Claire heard a noise. Molokai bounced up in the air and barked, disappearing into the living room. Claire slid off her chair and softly tiptoed after him. The living room was empty but she could sense a presence. She wasn’t alone. There was someone in the house.

  The dread was no longer a low current running through her. Suddenly she could think of nothing else. Would Molokai be able to protect her if … if what? If there was an intruder in the house? If she had a secret enemy she knew nothing about? Her head was spinning and the walls were closing in on her. She couldn’t see anything around her. All she could do was scream.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Miss.’ She felt pair of strong arms lifting her off the floor. ‘I’m Nina, your housekeeper.’

  Claire opened her eyes cautiously and saw a round woman dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt, carrying a mop. She looked like she was in her thirties but could have easily been younger or older – she had one of those faces that seemed ageless. The woman was staring at Claire with her mouth open. She was the one who looked alarmed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Claire. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry.’

  She longed to put her head on the woman’s chest and cry her heart out. There was something maternal about her.

  ‘Oh no, Miss. Don’t be sorry. You have panic attack. You not well. I know you have memory problem. Mr Paul tell me. But I know how to make you feel better. You come and sit. I make you something.’ The woman sounded foreign. Claire could hardly understand her.

  Nina led Claire to a chair and, after making sure she was comfortable, proceeded to the kitchen. Claire heard the fridge door open and close, the sound of a knife on a cutting board and then a loud noise of a kitchen appliance, perhaps a juicer or a blender. Relieved and a little embarrassed, she put her head into her hands and tried to slow her breathing but her heart was racing and she felt dizzy and nauseous.

  Five minutes later, Nina emerged with a glass of juice. ‘Your favourite. Apple, watermelon, kale, ginger. It will make you good as new.’

  To make Nina happy, Claire took a sip, her hand shaking so badly, the glass rattled against her teeth. She forced her voice to sound normal. ‘So, Nina, where are you from?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Scotland.’

  ‘Well, I am. But before then, Russia. I left to escape cold.’

  ‘You went to Scotland to escape the cold?’

  ‘Nowhere as cold as Russia,’ explained Nina. ‘Not even Scotland. We have snow nine months a year.’

  Nina wiped the table, while Claire carried her empty glass to the sink and started washing it. ‘No, no, I do that,’ said Nina, rushing to Claire’s side and wrestling the glass from her as if she was afraid she would instantly lose her job if Claire as much as lifted a finger.

  ‘I don’t mind helping,’ said Claire.

  Nina looked at her like she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘You sit, relax. I’m very sorry for your accident. You not yourself, Miss.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You even look different. Expression in your eyes, it change.’

  Intrigued, Claire asked, ‘What was I like before?’

  ‘Honestly? You walk around like world owe you favour. This is first time you speak to me.’

  ‘How long have you worked here?’ It occurred to Claire she didn’t like the sound of her old self very much. What kind of person didn’t speak to someone who cleaned and cooked for her?

  ‘I am with you and Mr Paul three years now. Since you move into house.’ Nina’s cheeks jiggled as she dried the glass with a tea towel. Her face was plump, like she had eaten too many Russian blinis. ‘So it is true? You not remember anything?’

  Since she’d woken up in hospital, Claire had seen this reaction many times. It was a mix of pity and curiosity. She wanted none of it. She cleared her throat and asked, ‘Nina, did you ever meet my mother?’

  ‘Of course I meet her. She come every week.’

  Claire stared into space, lost for words. ‘What is she like?’ she muttered.

  ‘You not know what your mother is like?’

  Claire looked at the stain on the floor where Nina had spilled a bit of juice. ‘She went away for a while. I haven’t seen her since the accident. And since I don’t remember anything …’

  ‘I cannot believe your mother go away at time like this. She loves you so. You always complain she crowd you, call you too often. Every time you sick, she move in. You hate it.’

  ‘She sounds lovely,’ whispered Claire.

  ‘Your mother is beautiful gentle person. Always nice words to say to me. Even let me borrow her dress.’ Sitting next to Claire, Nina added, ‘The only one she not like is Mr Paul. Do not worry. When your mother come back, she make everything better.’

  ‘Wait, what did you say?’
>
  ‘When?’

  ‘About my mother and Paul?’

  ‘They no get along. I always see them argue.’

  ‘Argue about what?’ exclaimed Claire.

  But Nina didn’t seem to hear. She was chattering away, while her mop never stopped moving. ‘I think it is matter of mind. Your brain protects you from traumatic memories. But if strong mind, you can overcome.’

  ‘You mean, like mind over matter? If I try hard enough, I’ll get my memory back?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Claire wondered if perhaps Nina was right and all she had to do was force herself to remember. In vain she probed the void inside her head. No matter how traumatic the memories, she wanted them back. Every single one.

  Nina stopped in the middle of the kitchen, put her mop down and said, ‘What you want for dinner, Miss Claire? I go to market. I cook.’

  ‘Anything, Nina. I don’t mind. And thank you.’

  While she waited for Nina to return from the market, she opened her walk-in wardrobe and examined row after row of designer clothes in awe. She tried on a gorgeous Dior dress and a high-heeled pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. The dress made her look sophisticated, glamorous like a movie star, messy hair notwithstanding. This beautiful house and expensive clothes, was it really her life? She felt like an impostor as she posed in front of the mirror.

  Then again, what did she know about herself?

  Judging by the photos Paul had shown her and the Amazon jungle of flowers in her hospital room, she was a woman who had many friends. She was popular, social and liked to entertain. She was a woman who danced for a living. That required discipline and determination. She must have been hardworking and dedicated. She was a woman who wouldn’t even speak to her housekeeper, as if she was beneath her.

  Shuddering, Claire turned away from the mirror.

  To take her mind off her dark thoughts, she decided to search her room. Her chest of drawers was filled to the brim with personal belongings. Old envelopes, cinema tickets, coins, all clues to who she was, all in disarray. The drawers were at odds with the rest of the house – like an island of chaos in her otherwise perfect universe. She rifled through various items that had once defined her life but no longer meant anything to her. There were dozens of old programmes featuring Claire in a white tutu, graceful like a swan and just as delicate. ‘Claire Wright as Cinderella’, she read. ‘Claire Wright as Sugar Plum Fairy’. She spent a long time looking through each programme, touching the photos, feeling them through her fingertips.