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

me, and too snappily dressed to be a delivery man. He was very matter-of-fact about the job in hand, stacking the frames up by the front door and then going back for more. Was Maddy a painter? An art dealer? Why hadn’t Gary and Linda mentioned any of this? Or, rather, why hadn’t I asked? Crouched down on the pavement out of view, I felt increasingly uncomfortable and slightly dizzy, but I was transfixed as I eagerly scanned the situation for any further clues. He definitely knew her, but there was nothing to suggest that these two were in any sort of relationship. He was comfortable handling heavy-looking frames; my guess was that she had bought them off him and now he was helping to deliver them. But that was a more personal service than you’d expect from a high-street picture framer. I wanted to see if this man followed her into the house or whether he made his own way back.
    Maddy unlocked the front door and patted the excited dog, who circled her, wagging his backside and emitting the extended howl with which he had greeted me. I was relieved to see that the family dog showed no affection for the man who was moving the larger frames into the hall. The dog manically sniffed the air as she went inside, but instead of following her, he started down the steps. Maddy called his name, but the dog had got the scent of something, and then I saw the panic in her face as he headed towards the road, ignoring her calls. She put down a smaller picture and started to chase after him; I could tell this behaviour was out of character, but the dog had clearly got something in his nostrils and looked unstoppable.
    And that was the moment I realized that the scent the dog had picked up was mine. He could still smell the missing member of the family who’d been here a minute earlier, and he was running across the road towards where I was hiding. Maddy was following and would find me lurking there, and my first encounter with her since my breakdown would be as some creepy stalker with a bizarre mental illness. Behind me was a shady passageway that led down the side of the house opposite ours. I ran down there and dived around the back of a wooden shed. Almost immediately the dog caught up with me, excitedly wagging his tail and jumping up to try to lick my face.
    ‘Woody! Woody!’ Maddy was desperately calling, getting closer.
    ‘Go home, Woody,’ I whispered, but the dog took no notice.
    ‘Woody – come here!’ she shouted, getting closer.
    ‘WOODY, YOU BAD DOG!’ I scolded in hushed desperation. ‘GO HOME NOW, YOU BAD DOG, GO HOME!’ and, amazingly, a rather disappointed Woody turned around and scampered back in the direction he had come. I heard her say, ‘There you are, you naughty dog!’ and it was weird hearing her voice. She had a slight northern accent, Liverpool maybe – it was hard to tell.
    But I was safe. She wouldn’t come down here, so I could wait a while until she was inside and then perhaps I should just slip away. I realized that more than anything I had just wanted to see her again, and now the idea of giving her bad news filled me with dread. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on the creosote-scented shed as I let out a huge sigh of relief.
    ‘Excuse me, what are you doing in my garden?’ said an indignant upper-class voice. I turned round to see a rotund, ruddy figure in his early sixties armed with what looked like a gin and tonic. ‘Oh, Vaughan, it’s you! Sorry, I thought it might be some sort of intruder. How the bloody hell are you? Haven’t seen you for ages.’
    ‘Oh, er – hello!’
    ‘I think I know …’ said this rather self-consciously raffish figure with a cravat under his open-neck shirt ‘… I know why you’re here.’ My mind was racing. How much did he know? Had he seen me spying on my own wife?
    ‘Do you?’ I stammered.
    ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be!’ And with an expectant grin he gave me a knowing nod.
    ‘Er – Shakespeare?’
    ‘The bard himself! You