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  "I need some fresh air," she said, pushing her unfinished glass of wine towards the middle of the table. As they made their way to the exit, Isabel touched her shoulder lightly.

  "Look, why don't you come to my place for a while?" Rebecca hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then nodded — anywhere was better than going home and being alone right now.

  Surprisingly, they didn't live that far apart. Isabel's home was a flat in a converted house in Elephant and Castle. Though for many years the council had proclaimed that the area was under renovation, Rebecca still couldn't see any changes evident. Shop fronts still looked worn, their metal shutters covered with graffiti. Large office blocks and houses alike were covered in discoloured paint, peeling from the brickwork it had once stuck to. Isabel asked the taxi driver to turn off the main road onto a quiet residential street. Rebecca was surprised to see the row of houses standing neatly next to each other.

  Out of the chaos comes order, she thought to herself. The outside of the houses were obviously maintained as the paint looked fresh, hedges were trimmed and there wasn't a scrap of rubbish to be seen. Isabel paid the taxi driver and led Rebecca into a house. Her flat was one of six leading off a communal hall. Fresh lilies stood on a table in the middle of it with envelope holders for each of the flat's mail. The hardwood floor was polished, with a multi-coloured rug lying in the middle of it, adding to its welcoming feel. Isabel's flat was small, but not cramped. The passageway led to a light and airy front room. The wine-red walls were lightened by the furniture and wooden blinds and a small fireplace occupied the centre of a wall, wood logs built up inside the grate. A large beige sofa by the window and an oak coloured coffee table in front of it finished the scene. It seemed that Isabel was very well organised — nothing looked out of place. The room had a warm, lived-in feel about it, but Rebecca couldn't help noticing the distinct lack of a personal presence. Isabel had no knick-knacks or personal photographs on display. Her home revealed nothing about herself — which was just the way she was herself. Rebecca hadn't failed to notice that Isabel rarely, if ever talked about herself, and she had never once mentioned having a partner — present or past.

  "White wine okay?" Isabel asked Rebecca, who nodded. "Make yourself at home," she said as she left the room. Once alone Rebecca headed straight for the large bookcase, complete with crime books and biographies of homicide profilers. She turned round when she heard Isabel enter the room.

  "I see you don't like light reading," Rebecca said, nodding toward the book shelf.

  "Actually, if you had taken the time to look at the bottom row you would have seen my collection of Mills and Boon."

  Rebecca looked at her with disbelief.

  "I'm not joking," she said, "look for yourself." Rebecca bent down and saw she was telling the truth. Amongst all the books about murder and crime sat soppy romantic tales.

  "Well I would never have guessed," Rebecca said, crossing the room and sitting on the large sofa.

  "That's one of the first things you learn in my line of work... looks can be deceiving." She handed her a glass of wine and they clinked each other's glasses. The front room door creaked open and a small form wandered into the room.

  "Aah, and here's the man of the house," Isabel said as her cat jumped onto the sofa. She stroked his black and white fur fondly. "Rebecca, meet Manson." The cat purred, responding to the strokes he was receiving. He lay on his back, waiting for his belly to be rubbed.

  "Wow, he sure knows what he likes," Rebecca said as the cat wiggled his body ecstatically. He had black patches around his eyes, giving the impression that he was wearing a mask, and his small pink mouth curved as though he was smiling. He reminded Rebecca of the joker from Batman. "He's beautiful... and the largest, most muscular cat I have ever seen! How long have you had him?"

  "Three years," she said, still stroking Manson. "I was working on a case where the victim worked in a cat shelter. I went along to take a statement from her colleagues and as I was leaving this little one caught my eye — didn't you?" she said, switching to baby talk with the cat. "I just knew there and then that I couldn't leave him there, so the next day I went and collected him and he's been my partner-in-crime ever since!"

  "And what about any other partners?" Rebecca asked as she joined in stroking the cat. Isabel turned to look out the window. "I'm sorry if you think I'm prying," she said.

  "No, you're not prying," Isabel said slowly. It was obvious from her demeanour that she was troubled by her thoughts. "It's just one of those silly scenarios that every gay woman swears she'll never find herself in, but eventually always does." She got up and walked over to the fireplace, bending over to light the wood with a box of matches. The kindling caught fire almost immediately. She stood up and looked at Rebecca, pain etched on her face.

  "I swore blind I would never talk about this, but I think you can relate to what it feels like to lose someone." She picked her drink up from the table. "I met Amy through friends of mine — they all knew I was a sucker for hard-done-by women, and she fitted the mould perfectly. They warned me away from her, but I wouldn't listen — too caught up in my 'saviour mode.’ She'd been having trouble with her boyfriend and I suggested she stay with me until it all blew over. We became lovers. One week turned into one month, then a year. We were pretty committed to one another, though I always had that fear in the back of my mind that she'd go back to a man."

  She shrugged.

  "Well, it seemed that my fear was unfounded when she suggested we have a baby and settle down as a family. God, I couldn't believe my luck, everything I had ever wanted was now coming true! We decided that she should be the one that got pregnant..." She paused, shaking her head. "Oh, it was going to be so simple; we find a man; get him checked out; get his sperm; she has the baby and we live happily ever after..." She laughed bitterly.

  "Well, it all went according to plan alright. We found the donor — an old friend of hers who was eager to help us out. He was fine about not having any rights or playing any part in bringing the baby up when it was born, so..." She sighed. "Everything was set and ready to go; he played his part to the T, always having the sperm available whenever the previous attempts had failed. Anyway, we had success after a couple of months, and before we knew it we had a new baby at home. You should have seen this place, it looked like mother care!"

  She smiled at the memory, and then it vanished from her face. "Out of the blue, Amy soon decided that her friend should be able to see the baby — after all, it was his child, she said... I couldn't believe it, but went along with it because it meant so much to her. Anyway, one visit turned into two, and then three, and then he was always round here. Amy and I fought non-stop, which wasn't good for the baby, and in the end we broke up. She moved out to her parents — or so I thought. Turns out she moved in with him." She dropped her head, afraid she might start to cry. "I later found out that the baby was conceived the natural way."

  Rebecca was at a loss for words. Silence hung in the air like a heavy cloak. Isabel leaned over to the table to refill her drink. She'd managed to convince herself she was over it, but it clearly still hurt.

  "And there you have it," she said, raising her glass to Rebecca.

  "When was the last time you saw her?" she asked sympathetically.

  "Oh, not so long ago; she and her husband and child." Rebecca gasped.

  "She married him?" Isabel smiled bitterly again.

  "Oh yes, and now it's just me and Manson — and I wouldn't have it any other way." As if on cue Manson jumped down from the sofa, stretched and walked over to Isabel, lying down in front of her. She picked him up and held him in her arms like a baby, stroking underneath his chin, which he seemed to like as he made no attempt to escape.

  "This isn't how it's meant to be, is it?" Rebecca said, smiling sadly. "Whatever happened to all of the 'happily ever after' endings?" she said, nodding in the direction of the Mills and Boon books on the shelf.

  "Yeah, well, we can all dream. Anyway, a
re you feeling better now?" Isabel asked abruptly.

  "If you want the honest answer, no, I'm not alright. I'm tired... I'm tired of how tough life is, I'm tired of the shit people bring into my life, I'm tired of waiting for the pain to go away, which it doesn't."

  Isabel took the wine glass out of Rebecca's hand and put both glasses on the table.

  "Come here," she said, drawing Rebecca into her arms and stroking her hair as though she was a child. Rebecca began to cry all the tears that she had held in because she was too afraid to let go of them; scared that if they fell she would be admitting it was the end, that Genevieve really wasn't coming back. She felt a strange comfort being in Isabel's arms. It was the first time in years that she had been this close to a woman other than Genevieve. She felt Isabel planting little kisses on the top of her head and rocking her gently from side to side. Though it was an intimate gesture, there was nothing sexual in the embrace — and yet Rebecca felt a little deceitful.

  She gently eased her way out of Isabel's arms.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not normally so emotional."

  "You don't have to apologise to me for feeling hurt Rebecca. I don't know what I would do in your shoes." Isabel picked up their wine glasses and handed one to Rebecca and took a long mouthful of her own. She hoped that Rebecca could not hear her heart thumping. She had never felt like this before and the worst thing was Rebecca could never and would never feel the same way about her. She watched her mentally get herself together, making small talk with Isabel, trying to play down her loss of control. She wondered if she was always so controlled or had Genevieve been able to break though the armour she wore around herself. Isabel made a conscious decision that night: She would be a friend to Rebecca for as long as she needed her and would put her own feelings on the back burner for now. If Genevieve got her memory back, all well and good, but if she didn't...

  CHAPTER 17

  GENEVIEVE HAD BEEN enjoying the sessions with her counsellor. It was the only place where she could really tell the truth.

  "So, how are you feeling today?" her counsellor asked, clasping her pale white bloodless hands together.

  "Restless. It's always the same: I feel caged in that house; I feel like my parents are looking at every move I make."

  "How are your feelings toward Paul?" She leaned back, settling her heavy bulk comfortably into the leather chair, squishing noises matching her every move.

  Genevieve blushed.

  "I don't know. I can imagine that I would be attracted to someone like him, but..."

  "But?" Dr Covette asked, her thick eyebrows meeting together in a frown, her wide gazing eyes conveying years of wisdom.

  "It's just not in here," she said putting her hand on her stomach. "He doesn't reach me... Oh, I can't explain it."

  "Yes you can, just take your time."

  "Okay. I just don't feel the connection that I feel there should be..." She looked around the office, which she had sat in for the past few weeks. Stark white walls and minimalist furnishings gave the illusion that the office was bigger than it was.

  "Do you feel a connection with anyone else?"

  "Only my work," Genevieve said bluntly.

  "So, no human connection so far?"

  "No. Don't get me wrong — I like him and think he's incredibly talented but —"

  "You just don't connect," the counsellor said solemnly.

  "What about friends from the art world — do you feel any connection with them?"

  "I don't know. I haven't met any of them yet, though I did meet a woman who said she was my flat mate," Genevieve replied enthusiastically.

  "And?"

  "And I liked her very much... Well I must have done, because I shared a flat with her."

  "So why haven't you seen her? Surely you need to be around as many people as you know to give you a breadth of knowledge about who you are?" the counsellor asked, her soothing voice probing further.

  "My parents don't like her — and neither does Paul. And as far as I know, she hasn't tried to contact me. None of my friends have," Genevieve responded bitterly.

  "Do you know why your parents and Paul don't like her?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever asked them why?"

  Genevieve sighed. "I've tried to, but they get irritable when they even hear her name. They more or less threw her out of the hospital when I was there."

  "Was she acting badly?"

  "Not at all, but I couldn't remember who she was, so my dad told her to leave."

  "Has Paul talked about her?"

  "God no, just the mere mention of her name makes him tense!" Dr Covette raised her eyebrows.

  "Frankly Genevieve, it sounds like there's a lot more to this than meets the eye. You know you lived somewhere else, but so far no-one has offered to take you back there to see if it has any effect on your memory. Which then begs the question: What do you think is more important, pleasing your parents and Paul, or trying to get your memory back?"

  "Obviously getting my memory back, but at the same time I don't want to upset my family. This must be hard enough as it is for them."

  "But what about you? Isn't it hard for you, not remembering? Genevieve, I'm not here to upset the apple cart, but I am here to help you with your memory loss, and I believe it imperative that you remember all aspects of your life — not just a select few. It sounds to me as if they're hiding things from you. They may have good intentions at heart, but you need to be reminded of as many details in your past as possible if you are to have any hope of recovery."

  Genevieve put her head back on the couch for a few seconds, fighting the tears back. She knew that if she left her parents' home it would break their hearts, but what the doctor had said was true. How was she ever going to find herself if she was only being shown one side of her life? Her counsellor sat quietly while Genevieve battled with her mind.

  "Would you like a tissue?"

  "No, thank you."

  Genevieve looked up at the clock — just five minutes to go. She felt sad as she sat there. She was sad that she would never see Dr Covette again and even worse that she was going to have to break her parents' hearts. She was going home, to wherever home was. She hoped Rebecca wouldn't mind her moving back in, but she had to find out what was going on. She would tell Paul and her parents after he had exhibited his work.

  * * *

  Arriving home, Genevieve walked through the front door, straight into a box in the hallway.

  Is this the sum total of my previous life? One box?

  "Hey, you're here," Paul said, appearing from behind them. He reached for her and held her in a hug. "Shall I take this up to your room?"

  "I'll just take my camera with me for the minute," she said. He opened the box and sifted through until he found what she wanted.

  "Aah, here it is," he said, handing her the box.

  "Thanks. I think I'm going to lay down for a bit."

  "Okay, I'll see you later then," he said, pecking her on the cheek. "I'll just say goodbye to your parents and I'll be off."

  Ever since she'd been to his flat for dinner, he'd been visiting her every day and her parents seemed happy to encourage him. A drunken kiss had been as much as she could offer him that night, even though he'd tried his hardest to get her to change her mind. She had pacified him by saying she wanted to take things slowly and that she was sure everything would be right between them again. He had seemed happy enough with this and had taken her home when she asked.

  She went up to her bedroom and put the box on the bed. Opening the box, and taking out her camera, she examined it from all angles. She didn't recognise it as her own but she liked the look and feel of it. She opened the viewing lens to flick through the pictures that were stored on it. They didn't trigger any memories; anybody could have taken them. She slumped down on the bed and felt her stomach churn. She had a whole life out there somewhere, just waiting to be claimed, and she'd be damned if she was just going to live the rest of her life waiting for
someone to bring her the clues she needed! In that instant, she knew that the decision she'd made in the counsellor's office was the right one. How her parents and Paul were going to take the news about her leaving she didn't know, but she did know one thing: She was definitely going.

  CHAPTER 18

  DRESSED IN A FLAWLESSLY cut charcoal grey suit and crisp white shirt, Paul thought of the evening ahead. It was at The Ivy House that his life had begun its downward spiral. The memory rekindled the old feelings of hate, bitterness and resentment. His thoughts darkened, as if a black cloud had spread across them. He fought to pull himself up from the cold depths of despair.

  "That was then, this is now," he told himself firmly, "and everything is going according to plan." He tapped the ring in his pocket just to make sure it was still there. It was the same ring he had given to Genevieve all those years ago, only this time he was going to make sure she didn't get away.

  Whiteness powdered the blue sky, the first patters of rain beginning to drop. The weather forecast had predicted heavy rain but that didn't stop people making their way in droves into The Ivy House art gallery. Large black umbrellas plodded along like a procession as people made their way into the building. The car with Paul and his party of supporters pulled up next to the kerb outside the gallery. Not bothering to use an umbrella, they quickly walked the short distance to the modern, glass-fronted building.

  As Paul pushed open the large glass door, he tried to brush off the memories that were trying to invade his mind again. He was grateful when he caught sight of the gallery owner and went over to greet him.

  "Paul," Bill, the owner said, his deeply lined faced breaking into a smile revealing perfectly straight teeth. He shook his hand enthusiastically before turning his plump, well-dressed body to Genevieve.

  "Genevieve," he said, taking her hand to his lips, "a pleasure to see you again."

  "You too," she replied, forcing a smile through the unwanted intimate contact. She had no idea who he was.

  "I'm sure you remember Genevieve's parents, Eddie and Elsie," Paul said.