Chapter 2
FAYE
The silence makes way for the sounds of the North Sea in the distance and a sense of peace floods my body. The tide washing over the coastline in relentless rhythm, refreshing and renewing.
It’s not unusual for me to find myself lost at night.
It’s called sundowning. The mind cannot disconnect and give itself to sleep; instead, it becomes more alive, working on overdrive but not functioning correctly.
I don’t need to panic or overreact. I know these things can happen.
This is just one symptom I’ll have to live with from now on.
Six months ago, I was diagnosed with young-onset dementia. It all happened a few weeks after my fiftieth birthday party.
“I am not the sum of my illness.”
It helps to say the words out loud.
Reclining against the plush sofa, I continue to listen to the sea for fifteen minutes or so.
Then I pour a glass of water and head back to bed.
The bricks and plaster and glass settle around me like an old friend.
The Palmer House is the holiday home I bought from the royalties of my third Palmer Twins book, and is the one thing I requested in the divorce settlement after Scott got his assistant pregnant.
It sits atop the Yorkshire cliffs facing the cold, blue sea that stretches beyond.
My safe haven and sanctuary, decorated and furnished exactly how I wanted it.
Unlike my life in London, which feels like a million years ago now.
The sterile house always kept perfectly clean in case Scott wanted to bring colleagues and clients over for dinner.
The Palmer House can be covered in notebooks and pens and torn out pages from magazines that remind me of the characters I’m writing.
I never imagined I would be living here alone in my fifties, but now that it’s happening, I enjoy it.
The freedom, the space to prioritise myself, the quiet.
Except for moments like this when my mind glitches.
Maybe that’s how I’ll think of sundowning from now on, a technical glitch. It makes it feel less permanent.
I sip my water and get back into bed, wondering if a noise in the house woke me up.
I don’t remember going to bed. In fact, I’m not sure I remember what I did yesterday evening at all.
Perhaps last night was so uneventful it slipped my mind, as evenings sometimes do.
I probably made a cup of hot cocoa and read a book.
Perhaps I napped. I tell myself I’ve forgotten because it was boring, not because of my broken mind.
Sinking into the bed sheets, I remind myself that this house is safe.
It always has been. Any sense of fear stems from my increasingly paranoid brain.
I stare at the ceiling, listening to the creaks and groans of this old place, remembering the family holidays, the happy times, the meals cooked here, the laughter shared. And then I sleep.
The next morning, it’s all like a dream. A wisp of something real that I can’t quite grasp onto. Perhaps it didn’t happen after all.
I quickly shower and head into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.
There’s a pleasant, salty breeze drifting into the house.
I enjoy it at first, until I realise that the windows and doors ought to be closed.
My daughter, Penny, is forever reminding me to close every window and lock every door before I go to bed, but the house can get quite stifling in these summer months.
Did I open a window while I was wandering around at night?
It turns out I not only left the bathroom window wide open but one of the patio doors too, which is swinging on its hinges.
With my heart beating quickly, I close it and lock it.
But as I’m about to return to the kitchen, the hair rises on the nape of my neck.
I feel the presence of someone behind me. An intruder.
My hands ball into fists. I turn slowly and stop.
The room is empty.
“Silly cow,” I say with a laugh and a shake of the head.
I try to brush it off, but I still can’t quite quell the sensation of being watched.
To indulge myself, and to ensure that I can tell Penny with all truthfulness that no one broke into the house, I check each room methodically.
Once I’m satisfied I’m alone, I return to the kitchen and start making breakfast.
After I’ve finished my granola and coffee, I decide to step out into the beautiful morning and do a bit of shopping in Beckthorpe village.
I’ll be okay, I tell myself, as I always do whenever I leave the house.
The roads around the Palmer House are filled with holiday cottages and small bungalows facing the coast. Their pretty front gardens often occupied by holidaymakers on their lounge chairs.
But today I head inland to the main road lined with a few shops and cafés.
Beckthorpe is small, but it has everything I need.
I’m at the corner of Summer Lane when my body tenses.
This is the place I first realised something was wrong with me.
It creeps up on me even now, like the aftertaste of rotten food.
I had been on my way to the local Co-op to pick up something for dinner.
I know these streets like the back of my hand and often meander on the way to the shops so that I can gaze in through the large, bay windows, to see cats peeking out through curtains and bookcases against walls.
It’s one of my favourite things to do. Or it used to be.
But six months ago, I lost my way home.
A morning breeze cools the sweat on the back of my neck. Hot flashes descend quickly and without warning. I peel away my cardigan to let my skin breathe, then I make my way up the hill into Beckthorpe.
I won’t get lost today. I won’t most days. I’m more than capable of living a normal life as long as I take my medication and don’t try to do too much. Obviously, that is going to change in the future, but for now, I am fine.
“Faye! I thought that was you.”
I’m a few feet from the entrance to the supermarket when I turn to see a woman smiling expectantly at me. I can’t place her name, but that isn’t the dementia. I’m bloody awful with names and always have been.
“Oh, hi!” I say cheerfully, trying to conceal my confusion. I know this woman’s face, but where from?
She’s younger than I am, around forty I’d say, with highlighted hair and a thin nose.
“You look better than you did earlier,” she says. “Had you been out for a hike?”
I shake my head slightly. “Umm… I’m so sorry I don’t know what you’re—”
“I saw you up on the coastal path. The one near Seeley Moor.” She frowns. “We had a chat?”
I remember where I know her from now. The Red Lion. Years ago, when Scott and I were still together, we used to go there a lot. She worked there. But what is she talking about now?
“Are you sure it was me?” I ask, finally remembering that her name is Tina, and she always forgot my ice.
Tina frowns slightly. “I… I mean, yeah. It was definitely you. I’d know that hair anywhere! But you were a little… dishevelled. Actually, I was worried about you. I asked if you wanted to come home for a cuppa, but you were adamant that you wanted to stay outside.”
“What time was this?” I ask.
“Oh, early this morning. About dawn. I was walking Roger Moore.”
I shake my head. “Excuse me?”
She laughs. “I thought I’d brought him to the Red Lion but maybe I didn’t. Roger Moore is our yellow Lab. Ten years old and still acts like a puppy. I have to walk him twice a day or he chews up the sofa cushions.”
I smile and nod while heat spreads across my skin.
A hot flash or perhaps it’s shame this time.
There’s a chance I did go for a walk at dawn.
Seeley Moor is only about fifteen minutes from my house by foot.
But I was in my kitchen making breakfast at 8 a.m. I didn’t get up early enough to have seen Tina. Did I?
“Sorry,” Tina says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I realise that my expression must be one of shock, or fear.
I try to rearrange my features. “Don’t worry about it.
I guess I was still half asleep this morning.
No more late nights for me.” I laugh, and swipe my arm as though wiping away everything that came before this point in our conversation. “How are you? Are you keeping well?”
Tina starts telling me about the new extension they’re having done and the havoc it’s playing on her and her husband’s lives.
And Roger Moore’s life, probably. I smile and nod but in my heart, I’m deeply disturbed and all I can do is picture myself wandering on the moors without even knowing I was there.
Tina says her goodbyes and I head into the Co-op, now on the back foot, like I have a long list of groceries to buy but I’ve left the list at home.
How have I forgotten going for a walk? I thought this medication was helping me.
Since it was prescribed by the doctor – after many, many tests – I started to feel better.
I’ve been driving to and from my mum’s house, handling my shopping and cooking my meals.
All are aspects of life that can be impaired by dementia, but I’ve been coping well.
Perhaps this disease is progressing faster than I anticipated.
I can’t bear the thought. She’s wrong. She has to be.
After all, Tina only ever saw me in a dingy pub after the sun had gone down.
She most likely mistook me for someone else.
Why should I doubt my own mind just because this person thinks every redheaded woman is me?
Moving quickly, I grab the items I need and head to the till.
I run a packet of ibuprofen, a pint of milk and a can of deodorant through the self-service and wait for the teenage staff member to confirm I’m old enough to buy painkillers.
Once I’ve paid, I hurry out of the shop and down the hill to the Palmer House, walking briskly along Summer Lane.
Back home, as I put away the milk, I see a text from Penny on my phone.
Hey Mum, thought I’d check in and see how you’re doing. Let me know how the date goes tonight. Exciting! Please text me when you get home though, ok? Love you!
It’s a perfectly lovely message and I should be grateful my daughter – who, now in her twenties has her own life to live – cares enough to check in.
And yet I know why she is and it’s stifling.
Like this house without the windows open.
It’s not her fault. I know that. She loves me and she’s worried about me.
But I don’t want anyone to worry about me.
I think ahead to my plans for the evening. My first date in over twenty years. He’s thirty-seven, called Alistair and works at a design agency.
Of course, I haven’t told him that I have young-onset dementia. Obviously, he’ll go running for the hills as soon as I mention it, which is probably why I’m putting off telling him. It isn’t really first-date material, is it?
Nice to meet you, I’m Faye, I’m fifty, divorced and sometimes I forget how to make a cup of tea. I like long walks on the beach and forgetting who I am in the middle of the night.
Even thinking about it makes my chest tight. Which is why I need some actual fun. I need to get to know someone who has no idea what I’m going through.
It’s like I’m being suffocated by medication and doctor’s appointments and the concern on people’s faces. I need this date with Alistair. I need to be with someone who makes me feel young. I deserve conversation and flirting and adventure and, yes, sex. I want those things.
I’m in the process of composing a reply to Penny when I notice a text from my stepson, Nathan.
What the hell is this? Sorry, but I think you need help.
The terse tone gets my hackles up. Nathan has never been known for his tact. No, he definitely learned his manners from Scott, not me.
Intrigued, I tap the link in the message and gasp when it opens.
A local news article loads, filled with ads around the side bar. But what catches my attention is my name in the headline. Then, as I scroll slightly further down, I see the photograph. My heart stops as I stare at the image.
This can’t be right. It can’t be.