Losing My Identity Read online

  Leila sat propped against her pillows, impatient. When she’d apologised to Hari for having to miss their usual exertions on Saturday night (she was probably still delirious), he laughed and said it didn’t matter, he didn’t want to cook his tender parts. Only he’d put it a lot more crudely and succinctly. She sniggered at the memory.

  He’d texted her again. Anything you particularly fancy for dinner? She texted back: You. She pictured him doing the eyebrow thing, then giggling to himself.

  And she realised fully for the first time that she wasn’t being disloyal to Sam’s memory, because it was so very different. Hari was the diametric opposite: stable and solid and patient and focused.

  She visualised him at that moment. He’d be cruising the fruit and veg section in Waitrose on Byres Road, selecting the materials for dinner with that expression of concentration that was almost a frown. For the checkout girl, he’d produce one of those sudden smiles that was like the lights coming on after a power-cut. The one that almost made Leila’s knees buckle that first night at choir practice. Did it have the same effect on other women? She’d never given it much thought, because she’d not felt he looked at other women since they’d been together.

  She curled her toes in anticipation.

  Today, he was wearing one of the pale blue shirts that made him look so delectable.

  When he came in, he’d drop the bags of shopping in the kitchen, then come through to the bedroom, and lay a cool, competent professional hand on Leila’s brow to make sure all trace of fever was gone.

  And she’d seize hold of his tie, and draw him down beside her. She had plans. There was lost time to make up for.

  Later that night, Hari and Leila sat over a delayed – a very delayed – supper, both in dressing gowns, their chairs drawn so close together that their thighs touched.

  Hari slid his arm round her shoulders. ‘Well, Leila Ghazali, are you in love at last?’

  ‘Might be. I’ll need to give it some thought. Hari,’ she added after a moment.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘What’s your son’s name? I realised you’ve never mentioned it.’

  He sighed just audibly. ‘Rahul.’

  ‘And you really don’t…?’

  He laid his finger across her lips. ‘Shh. I really don’t.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Does it trouble you?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Maybe when you and I are settled in our new home then.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  And she rested her head against his shoulder and snuggled closer still.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks are due to Helen Baggott for editing, and to Linda White for beta-reading.

  And many thanks to Glasgow-based artist Bryan Evans for permission to use Down Ashton Lane on the front cover. Prints of this painting, and many other prints and original works are available from Bryan via his website: bryanevans.com

  About the Author

  Fiona Cameron is a former lecturer and journalist. She was born in Glasgow, and now lives in Galloway, SW Scotland.

  Also by Fiona Cameron

  WHITE CRANES DANCING

  THE SWAN WIDOW

  CONTAINMENT (these 3 re also published on Kindle in a box set as the BALVAIG TRILOGY

  BY HEART

  A WAY OF KNOWING

  A SENSIBLE WOMAN

  PERMACULTURE

  Her website is at www.fionacameronwriter.com, and her Twitter feed @fionacamwriter.