Fractured(52)

Jimmy saw what I meant and grinned back, just as the waiter offered to take us to our table.

‘If you think I’m sharing my spaghetti strand with you – forget it. And as for the last meatball… that’s definitely mine. I don’t love you that much!’

‘Just as long as you don’t start singing “Bella Notte”, we’ll be fine,’ I retorted, remembering his complete inability to hold a note.

And even though we were both still smiling at the banter as we walked to our table, I couldn’t help but replay his last casual comment in my mind.

But the frivolity between us was only a mask we had taken up to disguise the real purpose of the evening, and once our order was placed, the reality of what we needed to discuss could be ignored no longer.

‘Are things any clearer in your mind now? Now that you’ve had some time to think about them?’

I took a long sip of my wine before answering as honestly as I could. ‘“Clear” might not be the right word exactly. If you’re asking if I suddenly remember the last five years the way you all say that they happened, then no, I don’t. For me, the only reality is still the one I explained to you the other day. The only difference between then and now, is that now I know that none of it could actually have happened the way I thought it did.’

He reached across the table and took both of my hands in his own.

‘That in itself is a huge step forward,’ he encouraged. ‘At least when you meet with the amnesia specialist, you’ll be more receptive to hearing how you can get back your true memories.’

‘I suppose so.’ My voice still sounded heavy with a scepticism I couldn’t disguise.

‘When is your appointment, anyway?’

‘The end of next week.’ I wondered if he was going to volunteer to accompany me, then realised that Matt would be back in the country by then, and as my fiancé it would be his place to go with me, rather than Jimmy’s. But if the choice was entirely mine, which man would I rather have at my side?

Jimmy released my hands as the waiter arrived with our plates, and I felt strangely bereft at the loss of his grasp. But at least it crystallised the answer to my question.

‘You know, many of the things you thought had happened to you are really beginning to make sense now, when you think it all through.’

‘They are?’

‘Absolutely.’ Clearly he had been giving the matter some serious thought. Or perhaps his policeman’s mind had been unable to stop itself from seeking out the rational and logical in a situation that seemed to defy either.

As we devoured the deliciously steaming pasta and crisp green salad, not to mention the bottle of surprisingly good house wine, Jimmy, time and time again, found evidence to rationalise and clarify the minutiae of my imagined reality.

‘But what about the explicit details that I knew? For instance, how did I know the name and number of that woman in Human Resources at Andersons Engineering?’

‘That’s simple. You could have applied for a job there at some time in the past. Those details could all have been lodged somewhere in your head. I’m sure I remember hearing once that anything you know is never entirely forgotten.’

I supposed it was feasible, although it seemed highly unlikely. I tried a different track.

‘OK then, why would I have conjured up such an awful idea of my father dying of cancer?’

He paused to consider for a moment, before a solution presented itself to him.

‘Well you did make him stop smoking many many years ago when we were kids. You were terrified of him dying after seeing some TV ad campaign, or something. So perhaps that fear had never really gone away, it was only buried somewhere in your mind.’

He had a point. I had always had an almost irrational hatred of people smoking.

‘And,’ Jimmy continued, clearly on a roll now with his theory, ‘the idea of people having a second, completely fictitious identity would already have been planted in your head after interviewing Dr Whittaker for your article.’

I gave a humourless laugh. ‘It does explain why his number was on my mobile.’ It also explained why I thought I’d seen an article on that subject. It should have been familiar – after all, I’d written it.

‘You see?’ encouraged Jimmy. ‘Once you start to break it down, detail by detail, almost everything there can be explained.’

I took a moment to absorb his words, and could so far find no hole in his theory. But one question still remained.

‘But why was everything I created so terrible? So bleak and tragic? Why did my mind conjure up my father’s illness – my own too, for that matter? Why was I alone and lonely? Why hadn’t I imagined a second perfectly happy life for myself?’