He was quiet for some moments, and even though I hadn’t known this new Matt for very long at all, I could tell his mind was already working at finding a solution. Presumably that was why he was such a success in business: if there was a problem, you fixed it. It was as simple as that.
‘Well I think it’s a good idea that you’re going back to your dad’s for a while. You obviously are going to need someone to look after you for the time being.’
‘I’m not ill, Matt.’
‘No, no, I realise that, Rachel. It’s just that I wouldn’t like to think of you back in London on your own, and you remember I have that important meeting in Hamburg I have to leave for tomorrow.’
‘Actually I didn’t know that. Amnesia, remember?’ Oh, that was almost too cruel of me, but I couldn’t resist.
He looked confused. When had Matt lost his sense of humour?
‘Oh, oh, of course you didn’t know. Well, it’s been planned for months… If there was any way of rescheduling it, then you know I would, but at this late stage…’
I reached out and patted his arm. ‘Relax, Matt, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’
He left not long after that but not before taking me in his arms and kissing me in a way that had felt oddly familiar and completely new all at the same time. I had tried to hold back, but he silenced my protests with his warm mouth and I had ended up returning the kiss with barely concealed eagerness. I might not actually be his fiancée but that didn’t mean I couldn’t at least enjoy something pleasant out of all this madness before I finally made sense of it.
Both of us were a little breathless when we finally broke apart.
‘Well, at least we haven’t forgotten how to do that now, have we?’ There was a confidence now in his eyes and his voice. ‘And if you have forgotten everything else, well I’m just going to have to make you fall in love with me all over again.’
He left, promising to call me at my father’s from Germany and assuring me he would only be away for a little over a week. That was perfect. That should easily give me enough time to try to sort out this whole stupid mess. I didn’t care that everyone else was perfectly happy to accept the amnesia theory. I knew that it wasn’t true. Somewhere out there was my real old life and the sooner I was able to get out of this hospital ward and prove that to everyone, the better.
7
The following morning a nurse brought me the clothes they said I had been wearing when I had been brought in. I didn’t recognise them, but when I slipped them on they appeared to fit me perfectly. And while I didn’t like the feel of wearing someone else’s clothing, it was either that or walk out of there clad only in a hospital gown.
What really surprised me was when the nurse placed a large expensive-looking leather bag on the bed.
‘Whose is that?’
There was sympathy in her voice as she replied.
‘That’s yours.’
I don’t know why she was sounding sorry for me. I appeared to be the owner of a Gucci handbag! As I fumbled to open the unfamiliar clasp, I wondered if it had been a present from Matt; it looked like his style of gift. I held the open bag upside down and tipped the contents out onto the faded hospital blanket. There wasn’t much to give me a clue: keys, a purse, a comb, a make-up bag. I flicked open the purse: the back pocket held more money than I ever carried around and the card slots were filled with an array of credit and store cards, all in my name. My own purse held a solitary debit card.
But it was the mobile phone that interested me most of all. Small and sleek, its shiny mirrored surface glinted brightly under the overhead light, sparkling like treasure. Which it very well could be. I snatched it up and found my fingers were trembling as I struggled to flick it open. It took several infuriating moments while I paused to try and figure out how to display the menu. When I did manage to access the right screen, I was initially disappointed to see that the phone book display held no immediate answers.
I had been so sure that there would be some clue to be found in this tiny device. I scrolled through the list of names: a few were familiar but most were not. I was about to snap shut the phone when the final entry on the list caught my eye. Dr Whittaker. Those two words, illuminated by the pale green backlight of the screen, shone out at me like a lighthouse through a fog. Dr Whittaker was the consultant I had been under after the accident. He was the one who had prescribed the medication I was currently taking for my headaches and it was him I’d been intending to see back in London to investigate why they had suddenly become so much worse.
With trembling fingers I pressed the call button and the wait seemed interminable before the familiar ringing purr came back in response. The connection had just been picked up when the door to my room swung open and in breezed a staff nurse carrying the flowers Matt had given me the night before.