“Right. So. Somehow in the haze of it, I started telling her about how you didn’t have your memory anymore and how you had this whole idea that you were a famous actress in Hollywood and all.”

“All right,” I say. “But what’s the problem? I mean, it’s your mom. I think that’s fine.”

She makes a tight face and says, “You don’t know me mam. Apparently.”

“Well, no.”

“Did you ever see that old Norman Rockwell painting with the game of telephone and the gossip?”

“Yeah…”

“Right. Well, the one who sets it all off? That’s Kay.”

“Ah.”

“My mother.”

“She’s a big gossip, then.” I remember now from my first night, Cillian said something about bloody Kay Donahue running around unchecked.

“Yes.”

“She’s going to tell everyone?”

She shakes her head. “If she hasn’t already, I’d be stunned.”

“Okay. Huh.” I put my hands on my hips and exhale. “Isn’t that kind of fine? It’s not like it’s a secret. Cillian’s dad knows. I told Aimee earlier.”

She gasps. “Oh my God! The café with Aimee! I completely forgot. I’m a terrible friend. Was it all right?”

“Yes, actually.”

She raises her eyebrows. “… yes?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She believed me and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was kind of surprised too, but yeah. All good.”

“That woman is like a human lie detector.”

“So does that make you believe me too?”

“No.”

“Why not!”

“Because! It’s a batshit crazy thing you’re walking about here saying. I’m sorry, but I’m not as easily sold as your old friend. She’s the one who’s always going on about UFOs and things. But I? Am a bit more practical than all that. It’s never that I think you’re lyin’.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t think I’d believe it either, if I’m totally honest.”

“But like I said,” she says, “I believe that you—”

“Believe it,” I say, filling it in. “I know. And I appreciate that.”

She goes over to the kitchen and opens a drawer, then pulls out a paper carryout menu.

It’s funny, because in some way, coming to this small village is a bit like time traveling. In LA it’s almost impossible to find a tangible menu for carryout. And everyone orders everything on Caviar and DoorDash anyway.

She hands it to me. “Pick what you like, I’ll call.”

After a few minutes of perusal, I say, “Chicken tikka masala with a side of basmati.”

“Should have known,” she says.

“That what I usually get?” I ask, hesitant still to buy into this, even after all that I’ve seen.

“That’s right. I suppose you want some garlic naan as well? And some raita and lime pickle?”