I return to the living room and pick up my own laptop from the side table next to the sofa. I take it over to the breakfast bar and sit on the stool next to the one Francesca was perched on minutes ago.
I almost feel stupid as I open it up and type ‘hypnosis’ into the search bar. But I don’t feel quite as stupid when I start clicking on some of the websites to see if what Francesca suggested is actually possible. Some of it reads like the plot of a sci-fi novel.
One man asked a therapist to totally erase the memory of his girlfriend as the thought of her caused him so much anguish. The therapist refused on ethical grounds, citing that, ‘most information stored in the mind is cross-linked to other pieces of information. If you delete one category of information then other cross-linked information becomes incomplete and confusing.’
My throat constricts as I wonder if that might have been done tome.
Another therapist says: ‘Hypnotising yourself to forget someone is a bad idea. To make someone forget something for a longer period would require a deeper state of hypnosis and more than one session. Theside effects would be an issue. It is much smarter to use hypnosis to help you deal with trauma than bury it.’
Another study on induced amnesia shows that:‘Brain functions can be disrupted for short periods of time, so that the ability to fix memories is temporarily switched off, leading to memory loss like amnesia.’
There are also positive stories about people overcoming phobias and giving up vices. Tales of giving birth with no pain, of helping to eliminate night terrors and ongoing worries. But I’m horrified to read a news article about a man who used hypnosis to rob convenience stores by putting his victims into a trance. Another where someone induced victims to willingly hand over their wallets and phones. So many terrible stories of people committing criminal acts using hypnosis, of trying to manipulate innocent people. But there’s nothing that specifically details what happened tome.
Could what Francesca told me actually be possible? Would my best friend have really attempted such a terrible thing, knowing that it could damage my mind?
I think about the Laurence from before. The one who always had my back. I have a seriously hard time imagining him doing anything so sick and twisted as messing with my memories for his own benefit, risking my mental health.
But this new Laurence ... the one who loves me so deeply ... the one who doesn’t want me going anywhere without telling him ... the one who broke the heart of the girl he was with for years ... the one who’s trained to delve into people’s minds ... the one who spent hours in the lead-up to my wedding talking to me one-on-one ... the one who later admitted it drove him crazy to see me with Seth ...
ThatLaurence, I realise with a sick feeling of dread, I can almost imagine doing something exactly like this.
Chapter Forty-Two
NOW
I’ve spent every waking moment swinging between absolute denial of Francesca’s claim, to doubting my boyfriend. I’m still unsure if the type of hypnosis Francesca was talking about is even possible and, even if it were, can I really imagine Laurence doing it?
I’m also paranoid that if he has been manipulating my mind, then what if my memories and mental state are now irreparably damaged? I know I haven’t been myself since the wedding, or even in the weeks leading up to it. I’ve had this underlying buzz of anxiety for months now. I’ve been overly tearful, melancholic, stressed. I should probably make an appointment to see a specialist, but the thought of what they might discover terrifies me.
Laurence returned from his cycling trip half an hour ago, excitedly recounting the highs and lows of the route. He’s in the shower right now while I’m taking a lasagne out of the oven. I’ve already burnt my fingers twice because I’m so preoccupied with how I’m going to raise the subject of Francesca’s visit. Right now, I honestly wish she’d never come. That she’d left me to my blissful ignorance.
‘Something smells amazing,’ Laurence says, walking into the living room. He’s wearing joggers and a T-shirt – the same ones he lent me on the day we first got together. He wraps his arms aroundme. His skin is warm, his hair damp, and he smells of mint shampoo and grapefruit shower gel.
‘I made lasagne,’ I say, wondering if he can hear the strangeness in my voice.
‘I’m so hungry. Is it ready now?’ He kisses my neck, working his way up to my mouth.
I try to kiss him back, but my mind is full of everything Francesca told me. Of the websites I’ve been trawling since she left. I pull away. ‘Come and sit down. I’ll bring it over.’
‘Amazing.’ He sits at the dark-grey circular table while I take a sharp knife from the drawer to chop up a cucumber and tomato salad.
‘Do you want wine?’ I ask.
‘Not on a work night,’ he replies.
‘That’s never stopped you before,’ I say with a half-smile.
‘Trying to stay healthy. Shall we just have water?’ he says, eyeing the chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in my hands.
‘You can. I’m having wine,’ I reply, thinking about the conversation that lies ahead.
Laurence frowns, but doesn’t say anything.
I pour myself a generous glass and take two large sips before dishing up the lasagne and adding a side of oven chips.
‘So, you heard the highlights ofmyweekend,’ he says, sipping his water. ‘How was yours?’
I take a breath and bring our plates to the table, nipping back for my wine glass and the bowl of salad. Once I’m seated, I wonder whether I should wait until after we’ve eaten to tell him about Francesca’s visit, or to just dive straight in. I still haven’t answered his question.