garage. Then she went out to get food. “Decent portions,” she said, squinting at me as she left.
That gave me hours to do uninterrupted research with nobody questioning what I was doing. Rachel was sunbathing at the other end of the patio, not that she’d ever bother asking me what I was doing.
Showing an interest in someone is part one of caring about them.
I opened a browser and called up the block of flats by Royal Victoria station where Michael lives. The developers had a site with virtual tours of a “typical” flat, with mocked-up window views that made the O2 look even bigger—I suppose stupids fall for things like that. There were three local estate agents with flats in the block for sale; they cost over half a million pounds. Best of all was the land registry office, which listed all the property deals in the UK; Michael had bought the Docklands flat twenty-two months ago—a joint mortgage with Jyoti. So that confirmed when his last memory came from.
That was really satisfying for me. I was like Sherlock Holmes closing on a murder suspect. Better than that, it meant I wasn’t imagining any of this. Mum’s death hadn’t made me insane; it was all real.
I went on to GBT Venture’s site. It was surprisingly small and didn’t have any useful data. Arty pictures and flowery sentences that don’t actually mean anything—corporate puff, as Uncle Gordon calls it. I thought companies liked to brag about how big and successful they were. But nowadays everyone hates banks and The City, so I suppose GBT Venture was trying to keep a low profile.
I actually found more concrete information about Jyoti Tanark than I did Michael. I remembered she was a junior partner in a GP surgery group in Woolwich. Their website was one of those patient-friendly ones, giving lots of information about their staff. It told me she trained with the practice as a GP registrar and joined as a full-time GP two and a half years ago. She was the practice leader in inflamed joints; she spoke fluent Arabic, and her hobbies included reading and badminton.
There was a nice picture of her, smiling at the camera. Obviously that triggered the memory of her standing in the flat, framed by the window, holding her arms out to me/Michael. The smile on her face was a lot less forced than in the photo. It was like a scene from one of those rom-com films I used to watch with Mum—they were her favorite after she and Dad separated.
I realized how pretty Jyoti is; no wonder Michael didn’t stay with Karen. Jyoti’s got thick dark hair that comes down over her shoulders, and large brown eyes. She’s smart, too, and funny, and they have the same taste in music (it’s all old rubbish, from like five or six years ago). Michael was so proud and delighted that she was his girlfriend. When he was looking at her, he just kept thinking:
She’s the one.
And she kissed him. That memory keeps replaying in the front of my head. It’s not completely gross, having someone else’s tongue in your mouth. Michael rather liked it. Kissing a girlfriend is pleasant. I imagine it’s the same effect adults get from drinking alcohol: The sensation is mild, but it goes everywhere.
I glanced over at Rachel, who was lying on a sun lounger in a scarlet bikini. Actually, she’s very pretty, too. Her face is heart-shaped, which gives her a dainty chin. Her eyes are blue-gray, and her hair is blond—genuine blond; it doesn’t come from a bottle like most of the women on TV. I know that because her makeup and hair product bottles take up every surface in the bathroom. She’s a bit taller than me, almost as tall as Dad. And she’s a fitness bunny (that’s what she calls herself); she goes to her gym three or four nights a week after work. I could see how toned she was from all that exercise; her legs and tummy were all lean muscle.
“What?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to look at me.
I blushed a bit, because I must have been staring. “Nothing. Taking
That gave me hours to do uninterrupted research with nobody questioning what I was doing. Rachel was sunbathing at the other end of the patio, not that she’d ever bother asking me what I was doing.
Showing an interest in someone is part one of caring about them.
I opened a browser and called up the block of flats by Royal Victoria station where Michael lives. The developers had a site with virtual tours of a “typical” flat, with mocked-up window views that made the O2 look even bigger—I suppose stupids fall for things like that. There were three local estate agents with flats in the block for sale; they cost over half a million pounds. Best of all was the land registry office, which listed all the property deals in the UK; Michael had bought the Docklands flat twenty-two months ago—a joint mortgage with Jyoti. So that confirmed when his last memory came from.
That was really satisfying for me. I was like Sherlock Holmes closing on a murder suspect. Better than that, it meant I wasn’t imagining any of this. Mum’s death hadn’t made me insane; it was all real.
I went on to GBT Venture’s site. It was surprisingly small and didn’t have any useful data. Arty pictures and flowery sentences that don’t actually mean anything—corporate puff, as Uncle Gordon calls it. I thought companies liked to brag about how big and successful they were. But nowadays everyone hates banks and The City, so I suppose GBT Venture was trying to keep a low profile.
I actually found more concrete information about Jyoti Tanark than I did Michael. I remembered she was a junior partner in a GP surgery group in Woolwich. Their website was one of those patient-friendly ones, giving lots of information about their staff. It told me she trained with the practice as a GP registrar and joined as a full-time GP two and a half years ago. She was the practice leader in inflamed joints; she spoke fluent Arabic, and her hobbies included reading and badminton.
There was a nice picture of her, smiling at the camera. Obviously that triggered the memory of her standing in the flat, framed by the window, holding her arms out to me/Michael. The smile on her face was a lot less forced than in the photo. It was like a scene from one of those rom-com films I used to watch with Mum—they were her favorite after she and Dad separated.
I realized how pretty Jyoti is; no wonder Michael didn’t stay with Karen. Jyoti’s got thick dark hair that comes down over her shoulders, and large brown eyes. She’s smart, too, and funny, and they have the same taste in music (it’s all old rubbish, from like five or six years ago). Michael was so proud and delighted that she was his girlfriend. When he was looking at her, he just kept thinking:
She’s the one.
And she kissed him. That memory keeps replaying in the front of my head. It’s not completely gross, having someone else’s tongue in your mouth. Michael rather liked it. Kissing a girlfriend is pleasant. I imagine it’s the same effect adults get from drinking alcohol: The sensation is mild, but it goes everywhere.
I glanced over at Rachel, who was lying on a sun lounger in a scarlet bikini. Actually, she’s very pretty, too. Her face is heart-shaped, which gives her a dainty chin. Her eyes are blue-gray, and her hair is blond—genuine blond; it doesn’t come from a bottle like most of the women on TV. I know that because her makeup and hair product bottles take up every surface in the bathroom. She’s a bit taller than me, almost as tall as Dad. And she’s a fitness bunny (that’s what she calls herself); she goes to her gym three or four nights a week after work. I could see how toned she was from all that exercise; her legs and tummy were all lean muscle.
“What?” she asked, pushing her sunglasses up to look at me.
I blushed a bit, because I must have been staring. “Nothing. Taking
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