I tried to picture myself, arguing with Ben, looking after a baby, trying to write. I imagined bottles of milk, or Adam at my breast. Dirty nappies.

Mornings in which getting both myself and my baby fed were the only ambitions I could reasonably have, and afternoons in which I was so exhausted the

only thing I craved was sleep – sleep that was still hours away – and the thought of trying to write was pushed far from my mind. I could see it all, and feel

the slow, burning resentment.

But that’s all they were. Imaginings. I remembered nothing. Claire’s story felt like it had nothing to do with me at all.

‘So I had an affair?’

She looked up. ‘I was free. I was doing my painting then. I said I’d look after Adam two afternoons a week, so you could write. I insisted.’ She took

my hand in hers. ‘It was my fault, Chrissy. I even suggested you go to a café.’

‘A café?’ I said.

‘I thought it would be a good idea if you got out of the house. Gave yourself space. A few hours a week, away from everything. After a few weeks

you seemed to get better. You were happier in yourself, you said your work was going well. You started going to the café almost every day, taking Adam

when I couldn’t look after him. But then I noticed that you were dressing differently, too. The classic thing, though I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I

thought it was just because you were feeling better. More confident. But then Ben called me, one evening. He’d been drinking, I think. He said you were

arguing, more than ever, and he didn’t know what to do. You were off sex, too. I told him it was probably just because of the baby, that he was probably

worrying unnecessarily. But—’

I interrupted. ‘I was seeing someone.’

‘I asked you. You denied it at first, but then I told you I wasn’t stupid, and neither was Ben. We had an argument, but after a while you told me the

truth.’

The truth. Not glamorous, not exciting. Just the bald facts. I had turned into a living cliché, taken to fucking someone I’d met in a café while my best

friend was babysitting my child and my husband was earning the money to pay for the clothes and underwear I was wearing for someone other than him. I

pictured the furtive phone calls, the aborted arrangements when something unexpected came up and, on the days we could get together, the sordid,

pathetic afternoons, spent in bed with a man who had temporarily seemed better – more exciting? attractive? a better lover? richer? – than my husband.

Was this the man I had been waiting for in that hotel room, the man who would eventually attack me, leave me with no past and no future?

I closed my eyes. A flash of memory. Hands gripping my hair, around my throat. My head under water. Gasping, crying. I remember what I was

thinking. I want to see my son. One last time. I want to see my husband. I should never have done this to him. I should never have betrayed him with

this man. I will never be able to tell him I am sorry. Never.

I open my eyes. Claire was squeezing my hand. ‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘I don’t know whether—’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Tell me. Who was it?’

She sighed. ‘You said you’d met someone else who went to the café regularly. He was nice, you said. Attractive. You’d tried, but you hadn’t been

able to stop yourself.’

‘What was his name?’ I said. ‘Who was he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must!’ I said. ‘His name at least! Who did this to me?’

She looked into my eyes. ‘Chrissy,’ she said, her voice calm, ‘you never even told me his name. You just said you’d met him in a coffee shop. I

suppose you didn’t want me to know any details. Any more than I had to, at least.’

I felt another sliver of hope slip away, washed downstream in the river. I would never know who did this to me.

‘What happened?’

‘I told you that I thought you were being silly. There was Adam to think about, as well as Ben. I thought you ought to call it off. Stop seeing him.’

‘But I wouldn’t listen.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not at first. We fought. I told you that you were putting me in an impossible situation. Ben was my friend too. You were asking me to

lie to him.’

‘What happened? How long did it go on for?’

She was silent, then said, ‘I don’t know. One day – it must have been only a few weeks – you announced that it was all over. You’d told this man that

it wasn’t working, that you’d made a mistake. You said you were sorry, you’d been foolish. Crazy.’

‘I was lying?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. You and I didn’t lie to each other. We just didn’t.’ She blew across the top of her coffee. ‘A few weeks later you were

found in Brighton,’ she said. ‘I have no idea what happened in that time.’

Perhaps it was those words – I have no idea what happened in that time – that set it off, the realization that I may never know how I came to be

attacked, but a sound suddenly escaped me. I tried to clamp it down, but failed. Something between a gasp and a howl, it was the cry of an animal in

pain. Toby looked up from his colouring book. Everyone in the café turned to stare at me, at the mad woman with no memory. Claire grabbed my arm.

‘Chrissy!’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’