“No, we hadn’t got that far. I know he plays the cello,” Olivia answered a bit defensively, because Harriet had sort of made it sound as if she should have known. As if she shouldn’t go out with a man for a drink without knowing his occupation.
“He only started in September. He’s living with his sister, who has kids at the school. A boy in year two, I think, and another in nursery.”
“Yes, I know that.” Sort of. She knew he had a sister and a nephew. “That hardly seems objectionable, though.”
“Nooo…” Harriet sounded so uncharacteristically hesitant that Olivia felt a sudden, very real clutch of fear.
“Don’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to know. Not like this. It’s not fair to Simon. He’s not a serial killer or something, is he?”
“Not a serial killer,” Harriet allowed, in a tone that suggested he was somewhere a little bit beneath that. Good grief. Olivia turned away, not trusting the expression on her face, and busied herself with wiping the counter of crumbs that had scattered there after she’d cut into the Victoria sponge cake.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to pour cold water all over your excitement.”
Except, of course, she already had. “It’s fine,” Olivia said, even though it wasn’t. It probably wasn’t reasonable, but she felt a little miffed with Harriet for reacting the way she had, even as she battled a deepening unease over whatever it was Harriet—and Simon—weren’t saying.
Harriet bit her lip, looking both guilty and miserable. “I shouldn’t have said anything…”
No, she really shouldn’t have. “It’s fine,” Olivia said firmly. “Now let me show you how the cupcake promotion works.”
Ten minutes later Olivia was driving towards Witney, the rolling fields on either side of the road sparkling with frost on a crisp and sunny winter’s morning, the Lea River glittering alongside. The sight of the Cotswolds in all of their natural glory made Olivia’s spirits lift a little, even as she dreaded what lay ahead.
Last night, after Simon had left, she’d done an Internet search on these types of tests and cringed inwardly at how patronising they seemed, even though she knew they weren’t intended to be. But drawing a clock? Recalling the date, or an address you’d be told moments before? Of course her mother could do those things, and it was an insult to her to think otherwise.
And yet…why did Olivia feel dread rather than relief? What was she so afraid of?
Her mother was waiting outside the building as Olivia pulled up. She sat on a stone bench, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her coat zipped up to her chin. She looked remarkably composed, more so than Olivia had seen her in a while, and she felt a flicker of hope, even though she couldn’t articulate what it was exactly that she was hoping for.
“Hey, Mum.” She jumped out of the car and hurried around to open the passenger side.
“Thank you, darling, but I’m not an invalid. Not yet.” Her mother’s voice was tart but she was smiling.
“Sorry, just trying to help.”
“I know.” As Olivia climbed back into the driver’s side her mother reached over and patted her hand. “I fear, Olivia, that this is going to be much harder for you than it is for me.”
Her stomach plunged unpleasantly at that quietly stated remark. “What do you mean, Mum?”
“I knew this was coming. I tried to pretend it wasn’t, but I knew all the same.” Tina gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m afraid that you didn’t.”
Olivia swallowed hard, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she navigated the narrow road out of Witney. “Do you mean you knew you were having trouble with your memory?”
“Yes, among other things.”
Pain lanced through her, along with fear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it out loud, or even to myself. We can all be quite good at self-deception when we choose to.”
“Oh, Mum.”
“It’s all right.” Tina squared her shoulders. “I’ve lived a good life. I’ve followed my dreams—in having you, in opening Tea on the Lea. I don’t regret anything.”
A lump was forming in Olivia’s throat with every word her mother spoke. “Don’t make it sound as if—as if you’re dying, Mum.”
“I know I’m not dying,” Tina said briskly. “Yet, anyway.”
“Mum—”
“But things are going to change,” her mother cut across her, her voice gentle but firm. “They already have, even if we’ve both closed our eyes to it.”
Olivia struggled to know how to respond. Yes, they’d changed, but how could her mother be having such a calm and knowledgeable conversation about the decline of her own mind? It didn’t make sense.
“Let’s see what the doctor says,” she said finally, and her mother just smiled.
Olivia hadn’t been to the GP very often since moving to Wychwood—a chest cold once and her tri-annual cervical smear—but now as she sat on one of the vinyl-padded chairs she took in the noticeboard full of messages for memory clinics and dementia support groups, often accompanied by photos of cheerful-looking seniors and chirpy slogans such as “I Live One Day at a Time” and “Memories are Worth Fighting For.” They made her want to cry. She so wasn’t ready for this.
“Tina James?” The nurse at the door to the examination rooms was smiling and friendly as both Olivia and her mother rose and followed her down the hall.
“So you’ve been referred for a cognitive test,” the GP, one Olivia hadn’t met before, asked as he scanned her mother’s notes on his computer. “After receiving a burn on your forearm?”
“Yes.” Tina sat in the chair next to his desk, her coat and bag on her lap. Olivia sat in the plastic chair opposite, everything inside her wound far too tightly.
“And do you feel you’ve been having problems with your memory?” The doctor gave her mother a kind but direct look.
“I think I
