Free The Man Who Forgot His Wife by John O'Farrell

just presumed she would be at home because she had been there earlier in the day. I realized that I didn’t even know if she worked or not – perhaps I had subconsciously presumed that she didn’t. I rang the doorbell again, on the unlikely off-chance that she had not heard the commotion the dog had caused downstairs, and this set the barking off all over again. I peered through the letterbox, calling an optimistic ‘Hello?’ and instantly the dog’s demeanour changed. Suddenly he was howling with joyful excitement as he recognized me; his tail was wagging so much the whole back half of his body wiggled from side to side to side. He was a big golden retriever, licking the hand that held open the letterbox, then breaking off to howl his emotional hellos, before manically kissing my hand all over again. I had never even thought about whether I liked dogs or not, but I instinctively felt affection for this one.
    ‘Hello, boy! What’s your name then? Yeah, it’s me! Remember me? Did I used to take you walkies?’
    That word made the dog even more manic, and I felt momentarily guilty for getting him so excited when I was going to have to walk away again.
    Back on the pavement I studied the house for any more clues about the people who lived there. I crossed the road to get a better view of the place. I noticed it was less well maintained than the houses around it: the paint was peeling on the balustrade, and the panels in the front door didn’t match; one was vintage patterned glass, the other was plain. Looking at this house and what it represented, I was struck by what a beautiful home we’d created. It was brimming with character, with brightly painted shutters and blooming window boxes. The quirky glazed turret that crowned the roof had space for perhaps just one person to sit and read or gaze out over the London skyline. Dormer windows peeked out from the slate-tiled roof, suggesting cosy teenage bedrooms with sloping ceilings. The middle floor had a balcony, and from the side I spotted a faded sun canopy, overlooking the back garden where a chaotic Virginia creeper was in its final blush of copper.
    I tried to imagine myself sitting out on the balcony with Maddy, sharing a chilled bottle of white wine on a summer’s night, as the kids played in the garden. Was I recovering a vague memory, or was this some idealistic fantasy that our domestic problems had made impossible? Looking at it all with fresh eyes, I couldn’t help thinking it was the old Vaughan that had needed the psychiatric help for letting all this go.
    So lost was I in speculation and fantasy that I almost didn’t notice a car drawing up a few spaces away. I felt terror-stricken and thrilled all at once when I realized who it was and dived behind a parked van. I crouched down out of sight and watched in the van’s wing mirror. Leaning out of her open window, Maddy reversed the slightly grubby car into the tightest of spaces, rather expertly, I thought, which strangely gave me a momentary flush of pride. She stepped out, wearing a funky orange coat that flared out below the waist. She looked classy and more professional than she had seemed before. Her hair was up and she wore small earrings.
    And seeing her again, I couldn’t help but feel as if some enormous administrative mistake must have occurred – that the authorities were proceeding recklessly with the wrong divorce. Surely neither of us had ever requested such a thing. Why would I want to stop being married to such a beautiful woman? Well, now was my chance to meet her properly; this was my moment to introduce myself to my wife.
    But just as I stepped out from behind the van, the passenger door of Maddy’s car opened, and now I slipped out of view again as I spied a man getting out. The two of them immediately set about taking large frames out of the back of the car and began carrying them up to the front door. Who was this? A business partner? A brother? A lover? The man was younger than