Chapter 3
FAYE
Penny calls first.
“Mum, I’m coming up. I need—”
“I’m fine,” I interject.
“But the photo—”
“It’s not me, Pen.” I sigh. “It… it can’t be.”
“Mum, it’s obviously you! Your face—”
“You’re wrong.” My voice begins to tremble. I take a deep breath.
The photograph in the article is quite clear.
It isn’t grainy or open to interpretation.
It is taken in a good light on one of the streets nearby.
And along with its clarity, it’s deeply disturbing.
There I am, walking along the pavement wearing nothing but a white shirt smeared with dirt and a pair of grey knickers. My hair is dishevelled, my face afraid.
I know how it must seem to her, but this cannot be me. There is no way in hell that I would walk around like that and not remember it. There’s just no way.
“Mum, come on,” Penny says gently. “It’s you.”
There are tears in my eyes as I walk away from the kitchen, pull open the patio doors and step outside, staring at the blue horizon beyond the house.
“Penny, please,” I say. “You’re jumping to conclusions. I know why you don’t believe me. I know that I have had some frightening episodes and believe me, I understand my diagnosis, but can we please consider that someone has faked that photo.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Perhaps Penny is examining the photo again. Then she says, in a quiet voice, “It doesn’t look fake to me. I’m sorry, Mum, but it just doesn’t.”
I close my eyes and hold back a sob. Nothing I say is going to convince her, and why should it?
Penny sniffs before continuing. “I know you would never, ever walk around like that. But there will be times now when you do things and say things that aren’t you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not there yet, Penny. I’m not lost. It’s still early. I still have time before all that. You know that.”
“Do I? The doctor said nothing was definite about the progress of the disease. It’s different for everyone. And what if they made a mistake? Maybe it’s further along than she thought?”
I think about my encounter with Tina but don’t mention it. “Maybe,” I say. “Fuck. I can’t believe this photo is in the news under my name! Can they do that? Without me confirming it? Look, I have to go. I need to call my agent and put out some sort of statement.”
“Mum, are you sure you’re okay?”
First a witness of me on the moors and now photographic evidence. Am I being stubborn? Should I accept that I had an episode and forget about defending myself? I know my mind is becoming less and less reliable, but I feel so sure about this. Every part of my body clenches up tightly.
“Pen, I promise you I’m okay.”
“Are you still going on your date?” she asks.
I consider that for a moment. “I guess so. Unless he’s seen the photo. In which case, I’d be surprised if he even shows up.”
“Well then he won’t be worth it,” she says. “Speak later, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, before hanging up.
About a year ago, Penny decided she wanted to leave her apprenticeship at a finance company in London and work in York.
She even lived with me for a few weeks before moving into a flat in Malton.
The job didn’t last though. Since then, she has worked in the York dungeons, as part of a team of wedding planners at Howsham and at a Dracula-themed bar in Whitby.
We joke that she’s making her way around North Yorkshire.
It’s been nice having her living nearby, but sometimes I worry that she’s staying in the area because of me.
I hate the idea that I’m holding her back, that she’s not doing what she really wants because of me, and yet there’s a part of me, the selfish part, that wants to keep her close forever.
I slump down on a patio chair and stare out at the sea.
Seagulls swoop and squawk over the cliffs.
Bees buzz around the roses at the bottom of the garden.
Usually this view would calm me, but not today.
I think about every doctor explaining this illness to me.
Paranoia, forgetfulness, confusion, stubbornness, changes in personality: all these symptoms track with dementia and every single one suggests I’m wrong about this, and that I was out there roaming the moors.
At one of my group support sessions another woman with dementia shared how she forgot to put on her trousers after coming out of a shop changing room.
Is this really so different? If I was presented with this photo and told the person in it had dementia, I would think that it all makes sense.
I’m not there yet.
At least, I don’t want to be there yet.
As a writer of mysteries for teenagers, I decide to approach this like my crime-fighting twin-sister characters. I need to examine the evidence. Penny thought the photo seemed genuine. I check it again. She’s right. If it is a fake, it’s a very good one.
I read some of the comments on the news article. It appears my readers have found it already. A case for the Palmer Twins. What happened to Faye Mathis? A night of partying or a night of burying bodies? I wish it was a night of partying.
Having written bestsellers for years, I am a public figure.
Not a very famous one – but my image is available online.
Anyone could find my official author photos from over the years and put it through one of those AI programs. They could create a false narrative.
I don’t know why anyone would, but it’s possible.
Next, I call my agent. It’s time to implement some damage control.
The receptionist answers and puts me through. I’ve had the same agent for over twenty years now and we’ve never had any major issues. I meet the deadlines set by my publisher and Shalina negotiates the contracts.
“Faye. Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It has to be some sort of… what do they call it?” I hesitate, searching for the right phrase. Many words and phrases take longer to find now. “Deep fake?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “You really think so? You don’t think… I mean it couldn’t be… um, related to your diagnosis?”
I want to tell her to save the walking on eggshells, to get rid of that tentative tone.
“I’m not there yet.” I close my eyes. I’m starting to get tired and my thoughts fracture away from each other. “I’m on medication that slows down my condition. I know everyone will assume that I’m crazy but if that was me in the photo, I would remember.”
“Okay,” Shalina says. I can tell she isn’t completely convinced.
“Right. So, I did get an email from the journalist asking for a comment. Only things were manic here this morning and I didn’t quite know what was going on.
We can comment now if you want. I just need to know what kind of statement we’re putting out.
Because if you’d like to disclose your condition then it would be best to do that in a way that makes you feel comfortable. ”
I consider it for a moment, and then say, “No. No… I don’t think I want to do that.” The strength of feeling takes me aback. I hadn’t realised how much I don’t want my private business to become public.
“Are you sure? It might work in your favour. You’ll be given a lot more grace by the general public. You could even go on TV and talk about it. Be one of those heroes who speaks out about the things we don’t usually talk about. Like the celebrities talking about menopause now.”
I almost groan. “With me it’s a two-for-one special. You get menopausal and crazy. But no. It’s not for me.”
She laughs. “Okay, got it. You don’t fancy being called ‘brave’.”
“No. This is private. I just want to get on with the next Palmer Twins book.”
“How’s it going?” she asks. “Want me to read anything?”
I don’t want to tell her that I haven’t even started it yet.
The last book ended on a cliffhanger. I killed off Marigold Palmer and brought her back as a ghost to haunt her sister, Daisy.
Eventually they’ll fight crime together as girl and ghost, but for now Daisy needs to work out who murdered Marigold.
The only thing is, I don’t even know yet.
“It’s going well.” I bluff. “I’ll give you an update in a couple of weeks.”
“What about the memoir you were working on?” she asks.
When I received the diagnosis, I suddenly became filled with this deep sense of nostalgia.
Anything to do with my childhood. I wanted to relive it all, encapsulate and commemorate it before the strands of the past became untethered.
It had been a long time since I’d sat down and written for the sake of writing, but this family history memoir consumed me for a few weeks.
That is, until I reached the point where I needed to delve into a part of my childhood that was too painful.
“I wrote a few chapters but hit a bit of a dead end. I need to speak to Mum because there’s a lot I can’t remember.” I realise how that comes across and quickly add, “Because it was a long time ago. Not because of… you know…”
“Okay,” Shalina says. “Well, Elaine said they’d be honoured to publish it once it’s finished. Take your time with them both. Don’t rush it. You’re due a break.”
I want to tell Shalina that I don’t want a break, but I bite my tongue.
“So… the statement is that it isn’t you in the photo? Or no statement at all?” she asks.
I hesitate for a moment. “No statement. Let them speculate. I’m going to get on with my life and forget all about this.”
“Good for you,” Shalina says. “Stay safe, okay?”
“I will.”
I hang up.
Zooming in and out of the photo, I search for anomalies.
But the slight curve of my stomach, the black bra, the white shirt open at the neck…
it all seems familiar. Or are the clothes just generic items of clothing?
It is odd for me to wear a black bra and a white top together.
I’m usually careful not to let my bra show through.
There’s mud on the shirt and what looks to be “my” face.
The strawberry blonde hair is completely mussed and almost brown with dirt. This person has clearly fallen over.
I research AI pictures, finding excellent dupes with the tiniest of tells.
Hands, usually. This picture has no indication it’s been doctored.
Nothing in the background seems distorted.
Every part of the image flows seamlessly into the next.
After examining it over and over again, I have to come to the same conclusion as Penny: this picture is real.
I hurry into the house, suddenly afraid that I have this all wrong.
Upstairs, I tip out the laundry basket and search through it, throwing clothes across the floor.
With a sigh of relief, I come to the end.
The clothes in the picture are not in my laundry basket.
If I had worn them, surely I would have put the clothes in the basket?
That’s a good sign, but it isn’t enough. If I truly believe that the photo is a fake, I need to prove it. I just have no idea how.
I have a few hours before I need to start getting ready for my date so I go and make a snack.
In the cupboard, I look for my favourite rye crackers to have with a bit of cheddar, but I’m out.
I could have sworn I bought two new packets the other day but it’s just another indication that I’m losing my grip on everyday tasks.
What will be next? Before I can dwell too much on the negativity of that train of thought, I decide to distract myself.
I head to my study, sit down at my desk and open the file named “Family Memoir”.
I find the last paragraph. The part that made it too difficult to continue. Old wounds picked open like a scab best left alone.
When I was sixteen, my parents sat me down on the sofa and told me something that turned my whole world upside down.
I had just come back from school and found my mother, red-eyed and worried.
I knew she’d been crying, and my usually unflappable dad looked stressed.
At first, I thought someone had died, but what they told me was almost worse than that.
My life up until then, my childhood, my very existence, had all been a lie. I was adopted.
I take a deep breath and feel the anguish of that moment as if it was yesterday. I was so shocked, so sad not to be the real flesh and blood daughter of my parents, it took me a long time to get my head round it. And now it’s stopping me from making any progress with this memoir.
I start to type.
I had always been a happy, confident child, but in that moment, I suddenly questioned everything about myself. I didn’t know who I was or where I came from. Who did I look like? Who was my real family and why didn’t they want me?
As I re-read what I’ve just written, my eyes linger on the words “my real family”, and a thought filters in through the noise in my mind.
It’s a mad idea, which I almost dismiss right away.
But I can’t help exploring it.
I don’t know anything about my biological relatives. I don’t know my birth mother and I don’t know if I have any brothers or sisters. For all I know, I could have a twin out there.
Is that crazy?
It’s no crazier than walking around outside without trousers on.