Sam Carrington - The Missing Wife

‘Look, I’d best do the rounds, you know – mingle a bit seeing as all these people are apparently here for me.’ If Brian wasn’t coming to save the day, then Louisa had to excuse herself. ‘Thanks for coming. It was … well, good to see you,’ she managed. On trembling legs, Louisa got up and walked across to the nearest table, a fake smile in place to meet and greet her non-friends.

‘You’re doing great,’ Tiff said as she handed Louisa a bottle.

‘Bloody hell, Tiff – what’s this now? Lager? I’ve had far too much already.’

‘Nonsense. We used to put away loads more than this.’

‘But I haven’t—’

‘You haven’t got to worry about Noah,’ she cut in, ‘and I’m reliably informed you’ve expressed enough milk to feed all the babies in Devon. Let your hair down, woman!’

Louisa conceded. She had no strength to argue and couldn’t be bothered to correct Tiff’s memory of them drinking loads. It was always Tiff, not Louisa, who had got drunk. But if having more drink now helped get her through the rest of the party and then sleep solidly for eight hours, she’d take it.

An hour passed with Louisa managing to mingle with a few people, passing the time with basic-level chat, mainly consisting of telling stories about the exploits of their respective children. She’d lost count of how many drinks she’d consumed but she guessed it’d been too many judging by her blurring vision and the reduction in her ability to balance – even while sitting. Her swaying body was beginning to make her feel motion sick.

‘I’ll be back in a bit.’ Her mouth had begun to water as a wave of sickness rocked her. Louisa made her excuses and left the table.

The grass felt tickly and cool under her feet as she walked.

Where was she?

And where were her shoes?

Her handbag was over her shoulder, though. Good, she hadn’t lost that.

She stopped walking and pulled at it, trying to find the zip. Her fingers finally found the little metal pull. She reached inside. The bag dropped to the ground. Louisa’s eyes couldn’t focus well enough, her right hand swooping several times but failing to pick it up. She’d get it in a minute. She had the packet, at least.

A voice came from behind her.

‘Can I blag one of them off you?’

Louisa turned unsteadily to face the person who’d asked but she was still staring down at the cigarettes as she blinked several times in a vain attempt to clear her vision. She shook the packet, not trusting her eyes. Damn. Only one. She thought she’d only smoked five. She didn’t want to give her last one to a stranger.

As she looked up and her eyes finally focused, an image flashed in front of her. It wasn’t like the other ones she’d experienced; this one made each of the tiny hairs on her body tingle and stand erect. She lowered her head again, avoiding eye contact.

‘Yeah, go ahead.’ A fear consumed Louisa as she held out the packet containing the single cigarette. This was no stranger; she was sure it was someone she used to know.

It took a few moments for Louisa to remember where she was. It was daytime – the light easily penetrating the pale cream curtains. She didn’t move; she couldn’t. Any movement might make her sick. Had she already thrown up? The taste in her mouth suggested she had. Slowly, she slid her mobile from the bedside table and tried to focus on the display.

10.23 a.m.

She stared in disbelief at the time. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept in that late, and she had no memory of waking during the night. That had obviously been Tiff’s plan all along – get her blotto knowing she’d pass out and be guaranteed to get solid sleep.

She didn’t feel all that rested though, just hungover. And that was a feeling she hadn’t had for a very long time. Her head screamed for water so, reluctantly, she eased herself out from under the covers.

Louisa winced as her feet made contact with the floor. Shit. They felt sore. Bruised. God, please say she hadn’t been dancing barefoot, making a fool of herself in front of her family. Her fake friends.

Oliver.

She shivered. It was as if her alcohol-soaked brain had only just remembered he’d been there – and it was reliving the shock of seeing him all over again. Louisa tried to recall if she’d spoken to him again after their first brief conversation. She screwed up her eyes. No. No memory of talking to him. But there was something – some elusive image teasing her, coming to the edges of her memory but no further. She couldn’t capture it. Tiff would more than likely fill her in on the night’s events, though she was probably feeling as rough as Louisa was.

Like an old woman – hunched and slow – Louisa walked to the table-top fridge in the corner of the room and retrieved a small bottle of sparkling water. The liquid she expected to be flavourless was sour in her dry, foul-tasting mouth, but it refreshed her. As she was about to place it back inside the fridge, a sharp pain, almost like an electric shock, pulsed through her head. She dropped the bottle. Water spread and puddled on the grey carpet.

Blood.

Louisa stumbled backwards.

With her next blink, the vision of the dark red pool had shot away and she was left staring at the water-soaked carpet.

There was a sharp knock on her door. Louisa took a hand towel from the bathroom, placing it over the spilled water, before opening the door.

‘Thank God for that.’ Tiff, her face serious and completely free of make-up, stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her.

‘What are we thanking God for?’

‘For you being in here.’

‘Where else would I be?’ A knot of worry began to tighten in her already painful tummy.

‘I lost track of you last night—’

‘What do you mean, you lost track of me? Didn’t we just get back here together?’

‘You don’t remember?’

Louisa’s initial worry-knot grew in size and intensity, the sensation increasing the sick feeling. No, she didn’t remember.

‘I’d had a lot to drink … I think I have you to thank for that.’

‘Sorry, you know what I get like after I’ve had one too many – I’m pushy.’ Tiff smiled apologetically and sat down on the bed beside Louisa.

For most people, having a lapse in memory after a heavy drinking session was funny – an expected side effect that gave rise to mickey-taking from others who had witnessed the drunken antics. But for Louisa, any gaps in memory only added to the dread that it was happening again. A period of her life during her last year of college was a complete blur to her – not just a day or two, but a huge chunk. For a long time afterwards, Louisa had experienced regular panic attacks, often for no apparent reason. The distress of why she couldn’t remember often overwhelmed her.

Her mum had pushed for her to see a doctor, saying it wasn’t right for a healthy teenager to have such debilitating attacks of anxiety. Louisa had only agreed on the premise that she could go on her own – not wanting her mother to know what might be causing them. Deep down she’d known that something bad had happened to cause them; there’d been a trigger – but she’d pushed it to the back of her mind until her mum had forced the situation.

The doctor had said stress was a factor for the panic attacks, but in relation to the missing chunks of memory, he’d mentioned something called dissociative amnesia. This in itself had caused more stress than if she’d not gone to the doctor at all. He’d talked about how someone could block out certain information because they’d suffered a traumatic event. Louisa had obsessed about this, gaining as much information about it as she could through library books and journals at the time, then looking up everything about it online years later. The memory loss associated with the disorder included gaps in memory for long periods of time, or of any memories that involved the traumatic event.