The Forgetting Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE FORGETTING

  ‘The Forgetting is mysterious, deeply moving, impossible to put down – and its killer twist left me gasping. Brilliant. Hannah Beckerman’s best book yet.’

  —Alex Michaelides

  ‘The Forgetting had me absolutely gripped from start to finish, and has one of the best story twists I have ever read. This brilliant and disturbing tale grabbed me from page one and I was completely hooked. I love Hannah’s writing – clever, insightful, eloquent and empathetic. Utterly compelling, compulsive reading and superb writing. I could not put it down!’

  —Ruth Jones

  ‘I’m SO wowed! I literally gasped when I realised the twist. How clever, how very clever. It’s brilliant. So very effective. This is an excellent, important novel.’

  —Marian Keyes

  ‘This book is amazing! It’s deliciously sinister, deeply twisty, and HUGELY addictive. I love the disquietness of it so much, and Hannah writes into the dark corners of the characters’ minds so beautifully.’

  —Joanna Cannon

  ‘A tense, stylish thriller. Beautifully written and utterly compelling, with an important message at its heart. It’s fantastic.’

  —Louise O’Neill

  ‘Absolutely compulsive, wonderfully plotted with a story that resonates long after you turn the final page. It’s gripping, surprising, interesting, relevant. I was hooked.’

  —Rosamund Lupton

  ALSO BY HANNAH BECKERMAN

  The Dead Wife’s Handbook

  If Only I Could Tell You

  The Impossible Truths of Love

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2023 by Hannah Beckerman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542030380

  ISBN-10: 1542030382

  Cover design by Liron Gilenberg

  For Adam and Aurelia:

  the loves of my life

  CONTENTS

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  LIVVY BRISTOL

  ANNA LONDON

  ANNA LONDON

  ANNA LONDON

  ANNA LONDON

  ANNA LONDON

  ANNA LONDON

  EPILOGUE FIVE MONTHS LATER

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANNA

  LONDON

  When I open my eyes, nothing is familiar.

  Light falls in parallel strips across the ceiling. Square white tiles, puckered with small black holes, form neat grids. A metal rail hangs above me, curved like the broad sweep of an arm.

  My eyes blink against the too-bright light. My head is heavy, as if I have awoken from a leaden sleep.

  Muffled sounds become louder in my ears, more distinct: the clatter of metal, the ringing of a phone, the murmur of voices.

  I breathe, and my breath is hot against my face.

  On the periphery of my vision, a plastic dome curves above my nose. I breathe again, watch the transparent mask mist over, feel the heat rebound against my skin.

  ‘Hello, my love. How are you feeling?’

  A man’s face hovers over me, so close his features are blurred at the edges.

  I try to swallow, but there is no moisture in my mouth, the muscles in my throat contracting without purpose: tensing, tightening, a sensation of choking.

  ‘You’re okay. Just breathe normally.’ The man rests a hand on my arm and it is hot, clammy, my skin flinching in response.

  ‘Where am I?’ The words are like sandpaper in my throat.

  ‘You’re in hospital. I’m going to get someone to come and look at you. I’ll be back in a minute.’ The man’s fretful tone is at odds with the reassurance of his words.

  As he leaves, the dial is turned up on my senses: the pale blue curtain surrounding my bed; the beeping of a monitor beside me; the rigidity at the back of my neck, aching and stiff.

  There is a swish of the cubicle curtain, a change in the direction of air. A new face appears above mine: young, female, wearing a blue nurse’s tunic with white piping around the collar. Behind her, the man hovers, knitting his fingers, a frown pinching the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Can you hear me, Anna?’ The nurse speaks loudly, enunciating every syllable as though testing the shape of them in her mouth.

  I nod, not wanting the sandpaper to scratch the walls of my throat again.

  ‘Anna, my name’s Fran, I’m one of the nurses here. Do you know where you are?’

  I shake my head. I am in a hospital, that much is clear. But I do not know where, which one.

  ‘You’re in Charing Cross Hospital, in Hammersmith. Do you remember what happened?’

  The question snags in my mind, like the sleeve of a jumper caught on a rusty nail. I close my eyes, search for the drawer containing the answer to the nurse’s question.

  ‘Anna? Do you know why you’re here?’

  Opening my eyes, the skin tightens across my forehead. Looking at the nurse, then at the man standing behind her, fear pools in the back of my throat.

  I do not know why I am here.

  Air sucks in through my lips, leaks out into the mask covering my nose, my mouth. Particles of moisture settle on my skin: damp and hot. I search in my mind for words to form an explanation but find only a blank slate.

  The nurse smiles. ‘Don’t worry. You were involved in a road traffic accident earlier today. You’ve been unconscious for . . . just over four hours. But you’re awake now, so that’s a really good sign. Let’s take a look at you, shall we?’

  She bustles around me – shining a light in my eyes, pushing buttons on the monitor, writing notes on a clipboard – but I cannot concentrate on what she is doing because there is something amiss and I do not know what it is, only that there is a void in my head, a vacant space that I sense was once full but has now been emptied. It is a feeling of being untethered from my thoughts, as though something was stolen from me while I was sleeping and I do not know what it was or how to get it back.

  ‘That’s all looking fine. Your blood pressure and pulse are good, and your pupils aren’t dilated. How does your head feel – pretty sore, I imagine?’

  There is such heaviness in my head I am not sure where the weight ends and the pain begins. I nod, and my brain seems to lurch from one side of my cranium to the other.

  ‘And what about your vision? Any blurriness?’

  I blink to be sure, slide my eyes slowly from left to right, manage a meagre shake of the head.

  ‘Okay, well, don’t try to sit up just yet. Let’s take the oxygen mask off and see how that feels.’

  She slides a hand beneath my head, lifts the mask from my face, cool air rushing to meet my skin.

  ‘Is that okay?’

  My head is too heavy to nod again. I pull my lips towards reassurance, blink forcibly by way of response. The nurse’s eyes return to the monitor, studying the numbers, and she writes again on the clipboard.

  ‘Is she going to be okay?’ The anonymous man stands at the end of my bed, his voice hesitant, cautious.

  ‘There’s nothing immediately concerning. All her vital signs look good. But she’s had a significant concussion so we’ll want to keep her under observation for a while.’ The nurse turns back to me. ‘I’ll get the doctor to come and look at you now. Try not to worry – you’re over the worst.’

  The nurse disappears through the blue curtain. The man steps towards the side of the bed, takes hold of my hand, raises it to his lips. I sna
tch my hand free, not wanting this stranger to touch me, aware suddenly of my vulnerability beneath the thin hospital gown and stark white single sheet. ‘Who are you?’ The words scrape at my throat, as if hauling their way up the scree slope of a mountain.

  The man looks at me with mournful eyes, breathes deeply before replying. ‘It’s me, Anna. I’m your husband.’

  I stare at the face of the man leaning over me – the lines around his eyes, the thick eyebrows, the firm slant of his nose – and panic tightens its grip around my throat.

  I have no recollection of ever seeing him before.

  LIVVY

  BRISTOL

  ‘Happy Birthday dear Bea-ee,

  Happy Birthday to you! ’

  Livvy looked around the gastropub table at a dozen of her sister’s closest friends, Bea sitting at the head, basking in the attention.

  A hand rested gently on the nape of Livvy’s neck, and she turned, found Dominic leaning towards her. He whispered in her ear. ‘You look beautiful. You should wear your hair up more often. It really suits you.’ He kissed her, just above her collarbone, his breath warm against her skin.

  ‘Honestly, you two. Most couples forget how to be affectionate the moment they have kids. You’re still like a pair of newly-weds. It’s very cute.’ Bea’s oldest school friend, Sara, smiled at them.

  ‘What can I say? I’m a very lucky man.’ Dominic stretched an arm across the back of Livvy’s chair, rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘Livvy’s my rock, my soulmate and my conscience all rolled into one.’

  ‘Stop! You’re making me blush.’

  ‘Take the compliment, Livvy.’ Sara thanked the waiter as he removed her plate. ‘It’s rare to see people our age as loved up as you two. It’s a good reminder to the rest of us not to get too complacent.’

  Livvy turned to look at Dominic, thought about how much her life had changed in the past eighteen months.

  Almost two years ago, she had sat on the sofa in Bea’s flat, grieving the end of her previous relationship. For five years she had been convinced that she and Tom would one day get married, have children, grow old together. But then Tom had announced his desire for them both to give up work, go travelling overseas indefinitely, and when Livvy had told him she wasn’t keen – she loved her job and didn’t want to derail her career – Tom had accused her of being unadventurous, had said he’d never seen a long-term future for them anyway. He’d moved out within days, and Livvy had been left with the fear that she might never – having turned thirty-seven earlier that year – get married or have children.

  Three months later, she had been attending a conference on sustainable construction, representing the environmental think tank where she worked, when a man – tall, silver streaks in his hair, a slightly weather-beaten face – had struck up a conversation with her. His name was Dominic, he was a structural engineer, and over the course of the weekend he had repeatedly stopped to engage her in conversation.

  On the final evening of the conference, he had sought her out, asked if she’d like to have dinner with him the following week. Their first date had been at a Michelin-starred tapas restaurant, Dominic having remembered Livvy mentioning her love of Spanish food.

  Everything with Dominic had been uncomplicated from the outset. There had never been any fears about whether he was going to call, whether or not she would see him again. He had worn his heart on his sleeve, made it abundantly clear how much he liked her. His attentiveness was unlike anything she’d experienced before. He’d listened intently to everything she’d had to say and asked questions in order to hear her opinions, not – like so many other men she knew – so that he could glaze over until it was his turn to speak again. His genuine interest in her thoughts and feelings had been almost revelatory.

  By their third date, they had begun to confide in one another with an intimacy that belied the length of their acquaintance. Dominic was charming, funny and emotionally honest, and the ten-year age gap between them was barely noticeable.

  But discovering she was pregnant twelve weeks into their relationship had not been part of the plan. It had been Bea to whom Livvy had first turned, arriving at her flat one morning, panic-stricken and bleary-eyed. And it had been Bea who had advised caution. ‘I know you’ve always wanted a child, but is this really the best way? Do you really want to tie yourself for the rest of your life to a man you hardly know? You could be co-parenting with him for the next eighteen years. That seems like a pretty big risk given you’ve only known him a few months.’

  That evening, Livvy had arrived at Dominic’s two-bedroom Georgian house in Clifton, mouth dry, hands shaking, and delivered the news, fearing rejection. Instead, Dominic had wrapped his arms around her, reminded her that he loved her, and asked her to marry him.

  Now, just over a year later, and with a six-month-old son, Livvy sometimes felt that she had packed more into the past eighteen months of her life than the previous eighteen years.

  ‘Bea mentioned that you’re going to be working away for a while, Dominic. How are you both going to manage that with a young baby?’

  Dominic shrugged. ‘It’s not ideal, obviously, and I’m going to miss them both. But it’s not forever. And we’ll still have weekends together.’ Dominic’s smile was wide, encouraging, and Livvy tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow, Dominic would begin a new job that would take him away from her and Leo every week for the next four months.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. As you say, it’s only temporary, and you’re such a solid couple.’ Sara took the napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. ‘And Leo’s still so young, he’ll be fine.’

  As if in Pavlovian response, Livvy glanced down at the screen of her phone, checked that there were no messages from her mum. It was the first time she’d ever left Leo for an evening. A few times recently, Bea had suggested that she and Livvy go out for dinner, but Livvy had wavered, wondered if it was too soon, and Dominic had reassured her there was no rush. She couldn’t have missed tonight though; she hadn’t missed a single one of Bea’s birthday celebrations since they were children. And yet, even though she knew Leo would be fine with her parents, the experience of being apart from him was like having twine wrapped around her heart and tugged with gentle persistence.

  Next to her, Dominic pushed back his chair, got to his feet, chimed his knife against his glass.

  He smiled broadly, looked down one end of the table and then the other. ‘I know you’ve all known Bea a lot longer than I have, but I just wanted to say that it’s a real pleasure to be here tonight, celebrating my sister-in-law’s birthday with you all. So please join me in raising a glass and wishing Bea the happiest of birthdays, and many more to come.’

  Dominic raised his glass to a chorus of well-wishing. Livvy glanced across the table in time to see a tight smile stiffen the corners of her sister’s lips. Disappointment twisted in Livvy’s stomach. She didn’t understand the tension between Dominic and Bea, wished they could like each other as much as she loved them both. But ever since Livvy had first introduced them sixteen months ago, she had been aware of an underlying friction between them, valiantly shrouded beneath exaggerated politeness.

  Dominic sat back down, tilted his head towards Livvy. ‘What do you think about heading off soon?’

  ‘We can’t leave before dessert.’

  ‘Straight after then?’ He kissed her cheek, skimmed a thumb across her bare knee. ‘I’m sure Bea will understand, given the circumstances.’

  Livvy felt a knot pull taut inside her chest at the thought of Dominic’s departure the next day. ‘Soon after, I promise.’

  ANNA

  LONDON

  The man looks at me, and I cannot tell whether he is angry or sad.

  ‘Take a deep breath, my love. Don’t get upset. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  I try to breathe but it is as though something is pressing down hard on my windpipe and I cannot get sufficient air into my lungs. There is a part of me that does not want to be instructed what to do by this man who claims to be my husband but whom I do not recall ever having seen before. I just want someone to explain why I am here and what is going on.

  The curtain is pulled back and a young woman enters, hair knotted in a bun at the nape of her neck, stethoscope slung around the shoulders of her white coat.

  ‘Mrs Bradshaw? My name’s Dr Okonjo. I understand you’ve had a sustained period of concussion. How are you feeling now?’