‘No she’s never been married,’ interrupted my mother. ‘But she’s had her heart broken. Remember that awful Mitch chap? He was a disaster.’

NEW YEAR 2005

50

Rebecca

The panic attack hit, unbidden, without warning. The cosy warmth of the cinema had morphed into a red-hot furnace, its heat suffocating. My heart pounded in my chest and drummed in my ears. The darkness no longer offered a balm to the outside world. I struggled to stand, desperately battling to unwind Arthur’s tentacles from my shoulders.

‘I need some air. I feel woozy,’ I whispered as I pushed him back down onto his seat. I needed to be alone, to think. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

Arthur stood, to audible groans from the people behind. He was stubborn, determined to follow. I forced myself to pucker my lips in a kiss, assuring him I’d be back, and staggered over the limbs stretched out across my path; tree roots teasing me to trip. A concerned usherette led me to the foyer and offered me a random seat when she witnessed my distress. I didn’t sit down but instead went outside. The air was bitter and shocked me back to the present.

Mitch was here. He was in the cinema. Ten years of memories flooded back; abandonment, loss, rape, Australia and even Arthur vied for prominence. I felt I was drowning as I gagged for air.

‘Rebecca.’ It was Arthur. ‘Are you okay?’ I knew in that one instance that the charade of Arthur and I was over. He had become like an irritant on my skin.

‘I’m fine. I got a bit too hot. I need the loo.’

Pushing his persistent arms away took all of my strength. I battled past, back inside, to find the toilets. I didn’t know what to do.

I was aware of Arthur watching me. He seemed unusually flustered. Decency made me turn round and proffer a token smile. I didn’t want him to take the blame for my distress.

I came back out into the foyer as if in a fog. The lights were going up in the cinema and I could hear music as the credits rolled. The muted chatter grew louder as the audience gathered up their belongings and headed towards the exits.

Sometimes we don’t know what to do. Carefully drawn-up plans of practised speeches would be gone with the wind had I ever bothered to rehearse. I hadn’t, because I was resigned that you weren’t coming back; that I would never see you again.

As you strolled out into the foyer, unfolding your jacket and knotting your cream cashmere scarf against the cold, I gripped the wall, and hesitated. Then I walked forward, slowly, as if floating in a dream.

‘Mitch.’

‘Rebecca.’