The Girl from the Sea: A gripping psychological thriller (3 page)

Chapter Five

DS Wright has been gone for almost an hour now. When she returns, it will be with my boyfriend, Piers. A boyfriend I have no knowledge of. A boyfriend whose face I probably won’t even recognise. And I’m going to meet him very soon, wearing borrowed pyjamas and a dressing gown.

I’m perched on the end of the bed. The woman opposite is asleep, and I’ve drawn the curtain down one side of my bed to give myself the illusion of privacy. I glance up at the clock on the wall. He should be here any minute. My stomach buzzes with nerves and my body pulses with anticipation. I’m trying to remain calm, but the past few minutes have been unbearable. I should have agreed to meet him straight away, rather than allowing myself the opportunity to descend into a state of anxiety.

At the sound of footsteps, my stomach swoops, and I peer around the curtain. It’s only one of the nurses. This is ridiculous. I need to calm down. I go and sit on one of the chairs by my bed, grab a magazine from my nightstand, flip it open and try to concentrate on an article about jilted husbands. I don’t take any of it in, but at least I’m not freaking out as much as I was a few minutes ago.

‘Mia.’

A man’s voice. Deep and confident. I look up from my magazine. He’s medium build, blond, tanned. Handsome. Holding a huge bouquet of flowers. DS Wright is standing next to him. ‘Hello, Mia,’ she says. ‘This is Piers. Call me if you need anything.’
Good luck
, she mouths behind his back.

I nod, unable to speak for the moment.

‘God, Mia, it really is you.’ His face breaks into a smile. He strides over to me, lays the flowers on the bed, and opens his arms out. But I stay seated and lean back into my chair. He stops. His expression suddenly uncertain, his arms dropping back to his side. ‘Mia? Are you okay? They said you’d lost your memory. But . . . surely you must know who I am.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, feeling bad for him. ‘I don’t know you. I don’t even know myself.’

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘Sorry. I was sure you’d recognise me.’ His voice is clipped, confident. A voice some would call posh. Posher than my voice, I know that much.

He’s dressed casually in shorts and a polo-shirt, but his clothes look expensive, his fair hair styled in a perfect French crop. He’s also insanely handsome. Too handsome. Like, maybe he knows it. But I’m probably being unfair.

‘Apart from your memory, how are you feeling, babe? Are you hurt at all?’

Babe?
Okay. This is going to take some getting used to. ‘I’m feeling much better now, thanks. It’s been a weird few days.’

‘I bet it has. I can’t imagine. I’ve been worried sick, you know.’ He takes a seat next me, and grasps one of my hands in both of his. They’re warm, firm. ‘You really don’t look yourself, Mia. We need to get you home. Get you some pampering.’

‘Where do I live?’ I ask, wondering if he and I live together.

‘Wow.’ He stares at me for a few seconds, as though searching my face for something. ‘I can’t believe it. You don’t even remember your house.’

‘I have a house?’

‘Yeah, in Christchurch. You own a townhouse on the river. It’s a pretty nice place. You love it there.’

Okay, that sounds good.
‘Christchurch? Is that near here? Is it my own place? Or do I share it with . . . anyone?’ I’m too embarrassed to ask if we live together. It seems too intimate a question for someone I’ve only just met.

‘It’s all yours, Mia. I do stay over a lot, but you kind of like your own space.’ He rolls his eyes and grins.

That’s very good news. I’m glad I have my own place. I don’t think I could cope with living with a stranger. Even one as handsome as Piers Bevan-Price.

‘And Christchurch is only about fifteen minutes from here,’ he adds. ‘Not far at all. Can you really not remember anything, babe?’

I shake my head. He’s so close to me I can smell his aftershave. It’s a sexy, masculine smell, but it overwhelms me. He’s too close. I wish he wasn’t still holding onto my hand. ‘Do you want some water?’ I ask, reclaiming my hand, getting to my feet and turning to the water jug.

‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I’ve been drinking coffee downstairs all morning, waiting to see you.’

I’m not thirsty either, but I pour myself a glass just for something to do while I think about what else to say to him.

‘It’s been torture,’ he continues, ‘not being allowed to see you. I’ve been yo-yoing between here and the police station for the past few days. I’ve felt like some kind of criminal.’

I make a sympathetic face and take a sip of water before replacing the glass and sitting back down.

‘What happened, Mia?’ he asks ‘Why were you at Southbourne Beach? You can tell me, you know. If there’s anything you’re keeping from the police, you can trust me with it. We tell each other everything.’

I look at him. Really look at him, for the first time. His eyes are bright, like he’s holding back strong emotions. He almost looks as though he’s about to cry.

‘If I knew anything,’ I say, ‘I would tell you. But I don’t. I really don’t. It’s like, everything that happened before Sunday morning has been erased. I have retrograde amnesia. I’m not faking it, if that’s what you think. I wish I was.’

‘No, no, of course not . . . I just . . . What a nightmare,’ he says.

Then, something occurs to me. ‘What was I doing the night before I was found?’ I ask. ‘Where was I on Saturday night?’

‘Don’t you know?’ he says, surprised. ‘Haven’t the police told you? I’ve gone over everything with them a million times already.’

‘No one’s told me anything,’ I say, suddenly wondering why.

‘Well that’s pretty crap of them,’ he says. ‘I would have thought they’d have given you that information. As far as I knew, you were at home that night,’ Piers says.

‘What do you mean, “as far as you knew”?’

‘I mean, we were supposed to go to Rich and Annalise’s party on Saturday night, but you said you were tired and didn’t want to go. So you stayed at home, and I went to the party on my own.’

‘Who are Rich and Annalise?’

‘Friends,’ he says. ‘It was Rich’s thirtieth. They had a party.’

‘Oh.’

‘Tell you the truth, Mia, I’ve been feeling bad about the whole thing.’

‘Bad? Why?’

‘I should’ve stayed in with you. I shouldn’t have gone to the party on my own. If I’d stayed in, maybe none of this would’ve happened.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ I say. ‘If I said I was tired, then maybe I just wanted a quiet evening in and an early night.’

‘Yeah, I suppose so.’ He sighs and rubs his chin with both hands. ‘But it still doesn’t explain how you ended up on the beach.’

‘Could I have gone there for an early morning run?’ I ask. ‘I was wearing sports gear.’

‘What gear?’ He snaps his head up and stares at me.

‘Lycra leggings and a top.’

‘That’s your rowing gear.’

‘Rowing?’
Does he mean water and boats and oars?

‘You belong to the rowing club,’ he says.

‘I row?’

‘You could say that.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, detecting a hint of bitterness in his voice.

‘You like to row, Mia. A lot.’

‘In the sea? So could I hav
e
―
’

‘No, not in the sea.’ He cuts me off. ‘You row on the river.’

‘Maybe I went out in the sea for a change . . . ended up falling in?’

‘Unlikely. And why would you have gone rowing if you were feeling tired?’

‘I don’t know. I wonder if I’ll ever find out. If I’ll ever get my memory back.’ A flutter of panic reappears in my chest. What if it never comes back? What if I have to start my life again, from scratch? With strangers. I stand up and move past him, edgy, fidgety.

‘I’m sure it’ll come back,’ he says, his eyes following me. ‘You can’t stay like this forever.’

I’m not so sure. Silence hangs between us for a few moments.

‘Shall I show you some photos?’ he asks. That policewoman thought it would be a good idea.’

‘Okay, yeah, great,’ I say. ‘Maybe I’ll recognise someone or something.’ I don’t believe I will recognise anyone, but it can’t hurt to look.

He gets out his phone and I return to my seat, scooching closer to him as he scrolls through dozens of pictures of the two of us together. We look pretty loved up in most of the photos. Leaning in towards each other. Gazing into each other’s eyes. My hair is glossy and straight, my clothes figure-hugging and expensive. There are also images of our friends – happy, beautiful people hanging out in bars and restaurants, lazing on beaches, socialising on boats. We appear to be a glamorous couple, living a glamorous life. A life that anyone would be envious of. A life I can’t remember.

‘Nice photos,’ I say. But it’s as though I’m looking at pictures of someone else’s life. I feel no connection whatsoever to the girl in the photographs. No connection to this man sitting next to me.

‘What does the doctor say?’ Piers slides his phone back into his pocket. ‘Can I speak to him?’ He rises to his feet, a frown creasing up his good looks.

‘It’s a
her
.’ I say. ‘Dr Lazowski. She says my memory could come back at any time. That it was probably caused by trauma. You do know I had a bump on the back of my head?’

‘Yeah, they told me at the station. Asked me if I knew anything about it!’ He shakes his head. ‘This whole thing is crazy. There must be something the doctors can do. We should get a second opinion.’

‘Just leave it for now,’ I say, not wanting a confrontation. I haven’t got the energy for it. ‘If my memory doesn’t come back naturally after a week or so, then I can explore other options.’

‘I still don’t understand why you were on the beach. What would you have been doing there?’

‘I don’t know either,’ I say. ‘It’s part of the whole losing-my-memory thing. You can ask me anything you like, but my mind is just this great big blank.’ I’m trying not to snap, but I’m irritated with all the questions. I know he’s only trying to help, but every time I’m asked something I don’t know the answer to, it makes me want to shut down. Like it’s my fault I don’t know. Like I’m some kind of freak.

‘Sure, sure,’ he says. ‘I realise that. Sorry, babe. I’ve just been worried, you know.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I wish I could remember. It’s so frustrating.’

There’s a moment of silence. Awkward. Piers is drumming his fingers on his knees, chewing one side of his lip.

‘What about family?’ I ask. ‘Parents, brothers, sisters?’

‘Ah, um, well, your dad died a few years ago, but you didn’t really know each other. He left when you were young.’

I try to digest this information. It’s strange hearing such intimate details about my life from someone else.

‘Not knowing him never really seemed to bother you,’ Piers adds, ‘if that helps.’

‘So, I didn’t know him at all? Never even met up with him?’

‘No. Sorry, Mia.’

‘That’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s not like I remember the guy anyway.’ I give a short laugh that could so easily turn into a sob, but I won’t let it. I didn’t realise how hard this would be. I almost don’t want to find out any more, but I can’t stop myself. ‘And my mum? Is she still alive?’

‘Yes. Your mum and sister still live in London. That’s where you’re from, but you moved here a few years ago.’

Okay, well that’s good. At least I have a mum and a sister. I have a family. People who care about me. ‘Do they know I’m in hospital?’

Piers stands up and runs a finger around the neck of his shirt. ‘God, it’s warm in here,’ he says. ‘Do you have to stay?’ he asks. ‘In the hospital, I mean. Can we get you home? Talk about all this when we get back? I mean, apart from the amnesia, you’re fine, right? Things might feel more normal once you’re out of this place. It’s pretty depressing in here.’

I nod. ‘I suppose I can go. The doctor says that, apart from my memory, I’m in perfect health.’

‘Cool. Shall I speak to someone?’ He rises to his feet. ‘The policewoman, or your doctor? Shall I get you out of here?’

Should he? Am I ready to leave? After a moment, I nod. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Let’s talk to them. See if they’ll let me go home.’

I wonder if I’m making the right decision.

Chapter Six

Piers drives me in his brand new Porsche Cayenne. I may not remember anything about my life, but I know enough to realise this is an expensive vehicle. I feel mildly self-conscious wearing a pair of pale blue jersey shorts and matching t-shirt. They’re actually pyjamas that Piers bought me from the hospital shop, but he said they look fine and that no one would be able to tell the difference. I’ll take his word for it, but I do wish he’d brought me some proper clothes from home. Dr. Lazowski wasn’t entirely happy about me leaving today. She almost glared at Piers when he requested it. But she finally agreed to discharge me on the condition that I come back tomorrow for a follow-up consultation to see how I’m coping without the hospital’s support.

Now, as we leave the hospital behind, I stare out of the window, taking in the urban scenery, desperate to see if I can recognise anything. But it’s all a nondescript sea of cars, roads and houses. Bland petrol stations and parades of shops. Nothing I recognise. Nothing I’m able to latch onto. The traffic is heavy. A heat haze shimmers up from the tarmac, making things seem even more surreal. Piers keeps darting glances across at me. I can tell he’s worried. Uneasy. His attempts at conversation are wasted. I can’t think of anything to say to him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, leaving the hospital so soon. I don’t know this man, even if he is my boyfriend.

After fifteen minutes or so, we come to a prettier place. A small town centre with boutiques and cafes. Piers tells me this is Christchurch. The town where I live. I sit up a little straighter in my seat, paying more attention to my surroundings. Although it’s unfamiliar, I feel a little less tense, a little more relaxed. I think I might like it here.

‘Do you live here, too?’ I ask. ‘In Christchurch, I mean.’

‘I live in Bournemouth,’ he replies. ‘Not too far away.’

‘Near the hospital?’

‘God, no,’ he replies. ‘That area’s a dump. I live in Westbourne.’

Up ahead I see a no-through road crammed with charming black and white shop fronts. Behind these quaint old buildings sits a beautiful old church.

‘Wow,’ I say.

‘What? Oh, yeah, that’s Christchurch Priory,’ Piers says, as he swings the vehicle down an impossibly narrow lane lined with tiny cottages. The road becomes even narrower as the pavement disappears, and a family on foot have to press themselves back against one of the houses to make way for us. ‘Nearly there,’ he says, making a sharp left turn.

Suddenly the road opens up. Before us sits a huge grassed area with a traditional bandstand. Beyond that, a wide river teeming with boats and wildfowl. It’s beautiful. Like something out of a picture book.

‘Is this where I live?’ I ask.

‘On the quay, yeah. We’re about ten seconds away from your pad. Or we would be if it wasn’t for these idiots.’ Piers has had to slow right down to make way for several groups of people who are ambling along in the middle of the road. ‘Tourists,’ Piers grumbles. ‘They don’t seem to realise that roads are for cars. It’s always a nightmare getting to your place in the summer.’

My nerves lessen as I soak up our surroundings. The sunshine, the people on the green, the boats on the river, the swans and ducks. Restaurants and cafes. It really is picture perfect. Especially after the drab, sterile hospital ward.

Piers turns left into a lane made up of cobblestones. It doesn’t look like a road you should be allowed to drive on, and there are even more people down here to negotiate our way around. We pass an outdoor art exhibition in the grounds of an old mill house. Directly after this, Piers turns right and we drive across a small bridge leading into what appears to be a private residential complex.

‘I live here?’

‘You do.’

I gaze at the row of riverfront properties as we cruise past. Three and four-storey townhouses with parking underneath and their own moorings. Piers swings the Porsche into a parking bay next to a pale blue Mini Cooper.

‘Home,’ he says. ‘And that’s your Mini, in case you were wondering.’

I gaze up at the narrow white building. Now we’re here, my nerves have resurfaced with a vengeance. Although this place is spectacular, I still don’t recognise any of it. And I can’t shake the feeling that this must be a joke, or some kind of elaborate hoax. That Piers, and the house, and this pretty town in the sunshine will all disappear in a puff of smoke, and I will be left alone on a cold beach with nothing and no one.

He turns off the engine, its soft thrum replaced by the gurgle and splash of the river, the screech and squawk of waterfowl, the boat masts clanking, the shouts and laughter of children in the distance. None of it familiar.

‘Here,’ Piers says, handing me something. I look down at my hand to see a set of keys. ‘They’re mine,’ he says. ‘You’ve got a spare set in the kitchen drawer.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But you’ll need to change the locks, babe,’ he says. ‘I guess you must have lost your keys along with your phone and stuff.’

I nod, wrapping my fingers around the cold keys.

‘Shall we?’ He opens his car door.

As I open mine, a wall of heat hits me, along with the damp smell of the river, mixed with diesel oil and barbeques. I follow Piers to what must be my front door. He’s waiting for me to open it, but instead, I hand him back the keys, too disorientated to even attempt unlocking it. He does the honours and I follow him into a cool, dim entrance hall. I watch as he disables the alarm. ‘I’ll give you the code later,’ he says.

‘I must have a good job to afford this place,’ I say.

‘Actually, you’re not working at the moment.’

‘What?’ I stop in my tracks. ‘How come? What do I normally do?’

‘You used to be a primary school teacher.’

‘“Used to be?” Why aren’t I working now? How come I can afford to live here? Teachers don’t get paid that much, surely.’

‘Let’s talk about all that later,’ he says.

There are so many questions flailing around in my head that I’m getting brain-ache again. He’s already halfway up the stairs, but I’m curious about the rooms down here. ‘Piers, what’s in there?’ I point to a door ahead of me.

He stops and turns. That’s your office. It opens onto the garden. Well, I say “garden”, it’s really just a courtyard. The other door leads to the garage, and there’s a loo through there. Do you want to see?’

‘That’s okay, I’ll look later.’ I follow him up the stairs to the first floor, expecting to see a kitchen or a lounge.

‘Your bedroom, and a spare bedroom,’ Piers says, pointing at two doors off the landing through which I glimpse cream carpets and plump, cushion-strewn beds.

He continues on up to the second floor. I follow dutifully behind. When he reaches the top, he turns and catches hold of my hand. ‘Welcome home, Mia. I missed you.’ He pulls me towards him and leans in to kiss me.

I jerk back and turn my head so his kiss grazes my ear.

‘Mia . . .’ he says. ‘I . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Piers’ I say. ‘I can’t . . . I don’t know you yet.’ Even his name sounds strange on my tongue.

His cheeks and neck flush red. He looks angry, but I guess he could simply be embarrassed. He has to understand that whatever our relationship used to be, it’s changed. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a stranger.

I extricate my hand from his, and step away, turning to look at the room, trying to think of something to say that will break the tension. It’s a wonderful light-filled space up here. One half is a sumptuous sitting room with a cream corner sofa, a leather chesterfield, deep cushions and a thick cream rug. The other half is an open-plan kitchen dining room. French windows lead onto a wide balcony with views over the river and fields beyond.

‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s some view.’

‘It’s stuffy up here,’ he says, pulling at the neck of his polo-shirt. ‘I’ll let some air in.’ Piers strides over to the doors and tugs them open. A warm breeze winds its way over to me. ‘Glass of vino?’ he asks.

Good, we’re going to ignore the awkward kiss. That’s fine by me. ‘Sounds good,’ I say, relieved. I take a couple of steps toward the open doors, enjoying the cooler air. I desperately want to change out of these horrid pyjamas. I’m also craving a shower. To be honest, I wish Piers would just leave. I need to get my bearings and be alone for a while. How can I phrase it without sounding rude and ungrateful?

He strolls over to the kitchen area where he takes a couple of glasses from a cupboard and places them on the black marble counter top. I watch as he expertly opens a bottle of red wine. His eyes are focused on what he’s doing, he doesn’t look up at me once.

Okay, I decide, we’ll have one glass of wine together and then I’ll ask him to give me some space.