‘Have you sorted things out with Seth yet?’ Daisy asks, interrupting my train of thought.
At her mention of Seth, I decide not to bring up Damian, unwilling to let my mind linger on that distressing subject. Instead, I answer her question. ‘Not yet, no.’
‘Oh,Alice.’ She shoots me a sympathetic look and then gestures to the glasses and bottles on the table. ‘I got us some beers and tequila shots. In case you need them.’
‘I definitely do,’ I reply, finally sitting down heavily, exhaustion cloaking me.
We tip our shots straight back and I welcome the fiery burn in my throat followed by the slow spread of numbing alcohol into my bloodstream.
‘That’s better,’ I say, shaking my head a few times while my brain adjusts to the tequila.
Daisy’s been staying at Martin’s this week, so this is the first time I’ve talked to her properly since the weekend. She said she was giving me space, but I think she left because she felt awkward around me. To be fair to Daisy, I’d been shutting myself away in my room, not talking, so there wasn’t really anything she could do to help.
‘Thanks for dragging me out,’ I say.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come, but I couldn’t have you moping around on a Friday night, could I?’
I think back to this time last week – the evening before my wedding day. It seems like a lifetime ago. It doesn’t even feel like that excited bride-to-be was me. There’s no point in torturing myself thinking about it. That was then and this is now. My current reality is not what I was expecting, but I’m going to have to deal with it or fix it. Somehow. I miss my Seth. I want him back.
We sit sipping our beers for a moment, unsure what to say next. I never have awkward silences with Daisy, so this feels strange. I feel like it’s up to me to make the effort.
‘I went to see a clinical neuropsychologist this afternoon,’ I say.
‘Wow. Really?’ Daisy’s eyes widen. ‘That’s ... good, right? So what happened? Did it go okay?’
I pull a face and waggle my hand from side to side. ‘Yes and no.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was all a bit vague.’
‘Vague? How? Oh, I’ve already ordered your usual – chilli-cheese veggie fajitas, right?’ She takes a swig of beer.
‘Great, thanks.’ I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable. ‘Well the doctor seemed really nice. She did a series of tests to see if I’m suffering from face blindness.’
‘Oh.’ Daisy sets her beer bottle back down. ‘I’ve heard of that. Is that what she thinks you have?’ Her eyes fill with concern. ‘Is that why you couldn’t recognise Seth?’
‘My GP thought I might have it so she referred me to see this neuropsychologist.’
‘And?’ Daisy leans forward, her eyes widening further.
I wish she didn’t seem so eager to get all the gory details. I feel as though I’m in some lurid reality TV show where everyone can’t wait to watch the next instalment. But this is mylifethat’s falling apart. Seeing Daisy so interested makes me realise that everyone must be talking about me. I can just imagine the Ringwood rumour mill in action. Everyone gossiping and speculating about what really happened. Have I had a mental breakdown? Did I catch Seth cheating? Have I met someone else? And it’s not like anyone would be doing it maliciously (apart from maybe Charlotte) but they would still get an illicit thrill from talking about it.
I shouldn’t let it worry me. After all, people’s opinions aren’t going to ruin things further or make things better. It’s simplythrowaway gossip. But the thought of them doing it is yet another anxiety on top of everything else. I’ve been ignoring all the messages I’ve received this week because I can’t face the prying and pitying. And also because if I don’t know what’s going on, then what am I even supposed to tell people?
As well as all the messages from friends, my parents also won’t stop calling. I’ve sent them a few texts keeping them up to date with my appointments, but I don’t have the energy to face them again. Not after the stunt they pulled last time, ambushing me by bringing ‘Seth’ over to the flat.
‘You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,’ Daisy adds, sensing my reticence.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I lie. ‘The neuropsychologist is pretty sure I don’t have face blindness.’
‘Really?’ Daisy inhales. ‘Well that’s good news, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But if it’s not that, then what is it? They’re still going to do a brain scan to be on the safe side.’
‘Right. When’s that?’
‘Next week.’ The thought of it makes my whole body tense up. I reach for my bottle of Corona and take a swig. Despite the doctor feeling confident that I don’t have prosopagnosia, I still feel really wobbly about everything.