If Ever I Fall: A gripping, emotional story with a heart-breaking twist. S.D. Robertson
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that such a handsome stranger had noticed me, never mind started a conversation. He looked in his late thirties, well dressed in a light-grey suit and tie; clean-shaven with cropped hair. I decided to enjoy it, not least because I could see the Queen Bs staring at us, wondering why he was talking to me and not them.
‘Um, there is a spot a few streets away that I tend to use.’
‘I knew it,’ he replied. ‘And let me guess, you’re not going to tell me in case I nick it in future.’
I smiled. ‘It’s not that secret. There’s room for more than one car. Did you see me turn left on to Meadow Street?’
I gave him the directions and, next thing I knew, we were shaking hands.
‘I’m Rick,’ he said.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Maria.’
I wondered how he’d been able to recognise me just from seeing my car behind his. When I asked him this, he laughed.
‘You stopped for petrol on the way, right? Don’t worry, Maria. I’m not stalking you or anything. I just happened to be doing the same thing. I noticed you at the pump and then you followed me out afterwards.’
Rick explained that he and his daughter, Anna, had recently moved to the area because his job had been relocated. He’s a finance manager for a large retail firm, apparently. I didn’t ask, but there was no mention of any wife or girlfriend. Today was Anna’s first day at her new school, he explained, adding that she was eight, the same age as Ruby. The weird thing was when the school doors opened and Ruby ran out into the playground with Anna in tow, begging me for her new friend to come to play at the house. Coincidence or what?
Before I go on, I must say how much Ruby misses you. Please don’t think for a second that she’s forgotten you and moved on. I could list countless examples of how that’s not the case; they’d break your heart. But again, that’s not why I’m writing to you.
Where was I? Oh yes, Ruby and Anna coming out of school together, all smiles. They were both buzzing about having a new playmate, as kids do. It was lovely to see.
‘Pleeease can she come, Mummy?’ Ruby asked, arms squeezed tight around my legs and puppy-dog eyes peering through her long blonde curls.
I looked over at Rick. He was being accosted in a similar way by his own daughter, who was a little taller than Ruby, with shoulder-length dark hair in neat plaits. ‘What do you think? I’m fine with it if you are.’
‘Sure,’ he replied, flashing his pearly whites at me. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘How about tomorrow?’
I could have invited them there and then, to be honest, but I knew the house was a mess and I didn’t want that to be his or Anna’s first impression of where we lived.
‘Fine with me. Am I invited too?’
‘Of course.’ I smiled. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to entrust your daughter to someone you’d just met.’
He beamed back at me in a way that felt like we might be flirting with each other. ‘I don’t know. You look like a pretty safe bet. And you did share your parking secret with me. We’ll look forward to it, won’t we, Anna?’
She replied with an excited nod.
‘Great. See you here tomorrow, then?’
‘Fantastic.’
And that was it: play date arranged. I’ve been cleaning the house ever since. Tidying up is my way of dealing with the nerves.
I could have imagined the flirting thing; it’s been so long, I’m not sure I even know how to do it any more. Luckily I stopped short of saying: ‘It’s a date.’
I’ll tell you what: I can’t wait to see the look on the Queen Bs’ faces when we leave together. It’ll be priceless.
Time to go now. It’s late and my empty bed awaits. I’ll write again soon.
Love as always,
M
Xx
Roof tiles clatter, boards creak and the window rattles in its frame as an angry wind gusts outside. The sound distracts me for a moment. From my pillow I scan the bare ceiling above me as if it might contain clues to answer the questions swirling around my mind. Then I flick my eyes back to the expectant face, still glued on my own, scrutinising me.
The man, a wiry chap in his late fifties or early sixties, scratches the top of his head, his white hair so short it barely moves. He’s dressed in smart navy jeans and a pressed white shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up.
Miles: that’s what he says he’s called, although it rings no bells with me. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met before and this room I’m in – this bed – is unfamiliar.
He claims to be a doctor: a retired GP. What he won’t tell me is anything about myself. He wants me to try to remember first, although I know there’s no point. The cupboard is bare.
‘Nothing at all?’ he asks, finally breaking the silence.
‘No.’
Panic grabs a hold of my throat and thumps me in the chest.
Where the hell am I?
Who is this guy?
Why can’t I remember anything?
I try to sit up in bed, but doing so makes my head pound like before and I flop straight back down again.
‘Take it easy, lad,’ Miles says. ‘Here, let me help. We’ll do it slowly.’
He disappears from view for a moment and returns with a second pillow. Then, supporting my shoulders, he eases me up into position. Thankfully, the pain is more manageable this way and it settles again once I stay still for a few seconds.
‘How’s that?’
‘Good,’ I whisper, breathing out a long sigh of relief.
He hands me a glass of water. I take a couple of grateful sips to sprinkle the desert that is my mouth and throat, licking my swollen, crusty lips a few times to try to moisten them.
I take a deep breath, try to speak. My voice fails a few times and I cough, my throat hurting with the effort.
‘So you’re surprised my memory hasn’t come back yet?’
‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
He paces the room before answering. ‘This kind of memory loss, which we call retrograde amnesia, might happen a lot in films and soap operas, but it’s rare in real life. A blow to the head is more likely to affect the forming of new memories. Even then, it would have to be a serious whack and, honestly, I don’t think yours was that bad. I’d have taken you to the hospital if so.’
The word hospital sets off the panic again. I feel it rising in my chest. ‘Isn’t that where I need to be? What if my brain’s swollen, or I have a blood clot or something? It’s agony every time I move. And I don’t know who I am. That’s not normal – you said so yourself.’
‘Calm down. Getting all riled up is only going to make things worse. I’m a qualified doctor. I have many years of experience and I’ve checked you over with the utmost care. If I had the slightest suspicion you were in any immediate danger, I most certainly wouldn’t be dealing with this here. Trust me, you’re far better resting in bed than being jostled around in a car or an ambulance.’
‘How can I trust you, though? I have no memory of you. You claim to be a qualified doctor, but how do I know that’s true? You also said yourself that