I thanked her and, for no reason I knew, and as if it explained what I had just done, told her my father was dead. ‘Fuck …’ she said, and, in what

must have been the first of her many switches from drunken stupidity to compassionate efficiency, she took me back to her room and we ate toast and

drank black coffee, all the time listening to records and talking about our lives, until it began to get light.

She had paintings propped up against the wall and at the end of the bed, and sketch books littered the room. ‘You’re an artist?’ I said, and she

nodded. ‘It’s why I’m here at university,’ she said. I remembered her telling me she was studying fine art. ‘I’ll end up a teacher, of course, but in the

meantime one has to dream. Yes?’ I laughed. ‘What about you? What are you studying?’ I told her. English. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘So do you want to write novels

or teach, then?’ She laughed, not unkindly, but I didn’t mention the story I had worked on in my room before coming down. ‘Dunno,’ I replied instead. ‘I

guess I’m the same as you.’ She laughed again. ‘Well, here’s to us!’ she said, and as we toasted each other with coffee I felt, for the first time in months,

that things might finally be all right.

I remembered all this. It exhausted me, this effort of will to search the void of my memory, trying to find any tiny detail that might trigger a

recollection. But my memories of my life with my husband? They had gone. Reading those words had not stirred even the smallest residue of memory. It

was as if not only had the trip to Parliament Hill not happened, but neither had the things he told me there.

‘I remember some things,’ I said to Dr Nash. ‘Things from when I was younger, things that I remembered yesterday. They’re still there. And I can

remember more details, too. But I can’t remember what we did yesterday at all. Or on Saturday. I can try to construct a picture of the scene I described in

my journal, but I know it isn’t a memory. I know I’m just imagining it.’

He nodded. ‘Is there anything you remember from Saturday? Any small detail that you wrote down that you can still recall? The evening, for

example?’

I thought of what I had written about going to bed. I realized I felt guilty. Guilty that, despite his kindness, I had not been able to give myself to my

husband. ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Nothing.’

I wondered what he might have done differently for me to want to take him in my arms, to let him love me. Flowers? Chocolates? Does he need to

make romantic overtures every time he’d like to have sex, as if it were the first time? I realized how closed the avenues of seduction are to him. He can’t

even play the first song we danced to at our wedding, or recreate the meal we enjoyed the first time we ate out together, because I don’t remember what

they are. And in any case, I am his wife; he should not have to seduce me as if we have only just met every time he wants us to have sex.

But is there ever a time when I let him make love to me, or perhaps, even, want to make love to him? Do I ever wake and know enough for desire to

exist, unforced?

‘I don’t even remember Ben,’ I said. ‘I had no idea who he was this morning.’

He nodded. ‘You’d like to?’

I almost laughed. ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘I want to remember my past. I want to know who I am. Who I married. It’s all part of the same thing.’

‘Of course,’ he said. He paused, then leaned his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands in front of his face, as if thinking carefully about what to

say, or how to say it. ‘What you’ve told me is encouraging. It suggests that the memories aren’t lost completely. The problem is not one of storage, but of

access.’

I thought for a moment, then said, ‘You mean my memories are there, I just can’t get to them?’

He smiled. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

I felt frustrated. Eager. ‘So how do I remember more?’

He leaned back and looked in the file in front of him. ‘Last week,’ he said, ‘on the day I gave you your journal, did you write that I showed you a

picture of your childhood home? I gave it to you, I think.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did.’

‘You seemed to remember much more, having seen that photo, than when I asked you about the place where you used to live without showing you

a picture of it first.’ He paused. ‘Which, again, isn’t surprising. But I’d like to see what happens if I show you pictures from the period you definitely don’t

remember. I want to see if anything comes back to you then.’

I was hesitant, unsure of where this avenue might lead, but certain it was a road I had no choice but to take.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Good! We’ll look at just one picture today.’ He took a photograph from the back of the file and then walked round the desk to sit next to me. ‘Before

we look, do you remember anything of your wedding?’

I already knew there was nothing there; as far as I was concerned, my marriage to the man I had woken up with this morning had simply not

happened.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re sure?’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

He put the photograph on the desk in front of me. ‘You got married here,’ he said, tapping it. It was of a church. Small, with a low roof and a tiny

spire. Totally unfamiliar.

‘Anything?’

I closed my eyes and tried to empty my mind. A vision of water. My friend. A tiled floor, black and white. Nothing else.

‘No. I don’t remember ever having seen it before.’

He looked disappointed. ‘You’re sure?’

I closed my eyes again. Blackness. I tried to think of my wedding day, tried to imagine Ben, me, in a suit and a wedding dress, standing on the

grass in front of the church, but nothing came. No memory. Sadness rose in me. Like any bride I must have spent weeks planning my wedding, choosing

my dress and waiting anxiously for the alterations, booking a hairdresser, thinking about my make-up. I imagined myself agonizing over the menu,

choosing the hymns, selecting the flowers, all the time hoping that the day would live up to my impossible expectations. And now I have no way of knowing

whether it did. It has all been taken from me, every trace erased. Everything apart from the man I married.

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing.’

He put the photograph away. ‘According to the notes taken during your initial treatment, you were married in Manchester,’ he said. ‘The church is

called St Mark’s. That was a recent photograph – it’s the only one I could get – but I imagine it looks pretty much the same now as it did then.’

‘There are no photographs of our wedding,’ I said. It was both a question and a statement.

‘No. They were lost. In a fire at your home apparently.’