‘I ought to get back anyway,’ I say. ‘We’re going away this weekend. To the coast. I need to pack later…’


He smiles. ‘Goodbye, Christine,’ he says. He turns to leave, but then looks back at me. 


‘Your journal has my numbers written in it,’ he says. ‘At the front. Call me if you’d like to see me again. To carry on with your treatment, I mean. OK?’


‘If?’ I say. I remember my journal, the appointments that we had pencilled in between now and the end of the year. ‘I thought we had more sessions booked?’


‘You’ll understand when you read your book,’ he says. ‘It will all make sense. I promise.’


‘OK,’ I say. I realize I trust him, and I am glad. Glad that I don’t only have my husband to rely on.


‘It’s up to you, Christine. Call me, whenever you like.’
‘I will,’ I say, and then he waves and gets into his car and, checking over his shoulder, he pulls out into the road and is gone.


I make a cup of coffee and carry it into the living room. 


From outside I hear the sound of whistling, punctured by heavy drilling and an occasional burst of staccato laughter, but even that recedes to a gentle buzz as I sit in the armchair. 


The sun shines weakly through the net curtains and I feel its dull warmth on my arms and thighs. 


I take the journal out of my bag. I feel nervous. I do not know what this book will contain. What shocks and surprises. What mysteries. 


I see the scrapbook on the coffee table. In that book is a version of my past, but one chosen by Ben. Does the book I hold contain another? I open it.


The first page is unlined. I have written my name in black ink across its centre. 


Christine Lucas. It’s a wonder I haven’t written Private! beneath it. Or Keep out!


Something has been added. Something unexpected, terrifying. More terrifying than anything else I have seen today. 


There, beneath my name, in blue ink and capital letters, are three words. DON’T TRUST BEN.


There is nothing I can do but turn the page.
I begin to read my history.