Womb Room Preview

We'll be back to our normal programming with more Workman tomorrow, but just before we do that, here are the first three chapters of my new novel, The Womb Room so that you can have a quick look and see if it's for you.

If you decide it is then you can GET IT HERE!

part one

the woman in the mirror

chapter one

I opened my eyes.

I was in a bath: black sides, deep warm frothy water, individual chrome taps that looked new but were meant to look old. I drew my knees up to my breasts and enclosed them with my arms, peering through the hair on my face, then frowned, darting eyes suspiciously from one surface detail to the next. 

I didn’t recognise this place. I had no memory of coming here.

Black and red tiles alternated round each wall. Dim concealed spotlights shone against them. A black ceramic sink matched the bath. Around it were bottles of cleanser and mouthwash; toothpaste, a pair of electric brushes and a selection of soaps. None of it was familiar. I’d never seen this room before. I didn’t recall getting undressed and climbing into the bath.

I darted a look at the door, sloshing the water around me. It was closed. No one was there.

Each nail on hands and feet were decorated with faint pink varnish but I had no recollection of doing it. There were no clothes on the floor, nothing hanging anywhere; no hook behind the door. However I had arrived in that place I had come naked.

Several silver rails hung near the bath. As I got to my feet, water running off me, I took hold of a thick black towel that was big enough to put around my chest and still drop down past my knees. When I touched it I had a shiver of déjà-vu. The texture was familiar. Hesitating, I tucked it in and stepped onto the black oval mat, water dribbling down my legs and onto my feet.

The mirror above the sink was illuminated in a way that made the reversed image unearthly. I stepped to the centre of the floor and stared into it… at myself: a woman in her early thirties; attractive; fair hair a mess of dark rivulets across her forehead, running down and onto her shoulders; perhaps average height; just a slight feminine roundness to the arms, the curve of her tummy under the towel. She looked familiar but only vaguely, and her face looked off somehow, as if it were different than I remembered.

But I remembered nothing clearly.

The room was quiet: black and red tiles sucking in the light. For the second time I turned and looked toward the door and realised I had no idea what was out there. No sound. No conception of time. No windows. It could have been noon or the middle of the night. In the warm bathroom air my legs and arms were already drying. I was suddenly afraid.

I checked the towel around my chest, winding it compulsively tight then walked forward, barefoot, and reached for the door handle. I paused, the chrome hot and slightly damp within my curling palm. Then I turned it.

*  *  *

Outside was a large tastefully decorated bedroom. The bathroom was en-suite, built into a square alcove, six feet deep. I hesitated, shivering. There was no one in sight; no immediate sound of human movement.

The walls were a pale blue, the carpet plain of pattern but rich in texture and colour. The curtains were closed. It was light outside. They shimmered in a breeze that said the window was open. There were sweet natural sounds out there that meant wind and air and open space; no cars or people.

Like the texture of the towel, I felt that perhaps I did recognise something about the room but I couldn’t be sure. If it was somewhere I knew then I hadn’t been there in years. I should have been terrified but I wasn’t. I was strangely calm. If I had a concern it was the niggling sensation that there was something crucial I wasn’t considering.

I moved further into the room. The left wall was long and tall and filled with fitted wardrobes: six in a row. Each was white with gold handles. Directly to my right was a dressing table. The mirror above it was split three ways and curved in to show different angles of the person it was reflecting; owned and used by a woman clearly: make-up scattered toward the back of the flat centre section. I looked into the middle pane and suddenly saw a different reflection, a memory superimposed over the real one: me, putting make-up on; sitting in front of it, getting ready to go out; dressed in an elegant black dress, my shoulders bare; a man standing behind in a tuxedo, attaching cufflinks, his head out of view.

I stepped back, startled. The memory vanished from my mind. I looked at the wall of fitted wardrobes, back to the dressing table, then down at myself, curling my fingers up, staring mutely again at the nails that I didn’t remember painting. Then I saw movement in the corner of my eye and snapped my head round to face the bed. There was somebody in there.

The bed was huge, with an ornate wrought iron bed head. A cream-coloured duvet was piled over the sleeping form beneath. Man-sounds came from under the covers: deep slow breath going in; holding; then coming out again; asleep. Not five feet away, I stood naked beneath my towel. Subconsciously, I drew my knees together and clasped for the already tightened knot along the towel’s upper line.

He was heavily built. His body took up weight and volume on the far side of the mattress. The bed reached out into the centre of the room, the iron bed head against the wall, a set of drawers on either side of it; a pair of lamps. It was still quite dark, despite the morning light. I couldn’t make out his features. I reached for the lamp closest to me, paused, then clicked it on.

He was in his late thirties with dark hair and huge muscular shoulders. Even in sleep, unflinching from the light, there was something regal in his brow and chin; his moustache. A quiver of physical attraction rippled in my chest and stomach, surprising me.

On the closest drawers was a framed photograph standing upright. It was a head and shoulders wedding picture. The man in the bed was one of the faces. The woman in the mirror was the other. We were both smiling happily. I wore a white gown with a flouncy veil. The man wore an unusual gold morning suit with gilded patterns. We looked content, showing off a set of matching wedding rings.

I looked from the picture to the man in the bed then back again. Afraid he would stir, I clicked off the light; but remained where I was, mesmerised. He was my husband; I must have promised to spend my entire life with him; but I recalled no pictures of that life together. He was a stranger to me. He looked peaceful in his sleep and he looked good. Impulsively, I wanted to crawl in with him and feel my body against his under the covers. I wanted his arms around and holding me. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know him. I had to get out of there. I didn’t recognise any of this. I turned my back on him and walked to the door. 

“Gemma?”

I froze, my fingers only just brushing the doorknob. Gemma. Until he said it I hadn’t realised that I didn’t remember my own name.

The man in the bed groaned, mumbling something and rolled over.

My name was Gemma.

“It’s only six thirty,” he said. “Are you coming back to bed?” His voice was sleepy, almost incomprehensible.

I started to shiver again, still standing beside the door. I waited for him to speak but he remained silent except for the same long intakes of breath and the slow exhalations.

I found myself a step closer without even realising I was taking it and then another. Then another. The towel dropped straight down around my hips as I released it. The light chill from the open window touched my stomach and breasts. The same niggling was there. I was missing something. I was taking this all too easily. Something important was being overlooked. But it was a vague sense, not enough to make me turn away.

In the picture on the cabinet we were both of us smiling: husband and wife.

Nervous, I lifted the covers back. His chest was bare; partly covered in thick curly hair. I wanted to feel it against my cheek. I started to lower the duvet back down without getting in then raised it before I could think a second thought and climbed in beside him.

chapter two

The man who was meant to be my husband rolled over to face me and shunted his body closer, sliding a massive arm around my waist. He shunted again, mumbling something and pressed the entire length of his body against my back, bringing his thighs in behind my bent legs. He was as naked as I was. The temperature of his flesh – the contrast to mine – was profound.

I looked to the wedding picture for reassurance. From my angle in the bed I could no longer see the front of it. Just visible in the gloom there was some slanted writing on the reverse side, forming a triangle in the upper left corner. I couldn’t read it. I couldn’t get close enough because of the arms around me.

I made myself relax, drawing in a breath. I counted it, holding, then let it out slowly, trying to match my pace to the man’s; to my husband’s. I hadn’t realised how tense I’d become.

The uneasiness was still there but as I started to let go, it lost its power. He was my husband, whether I remembered him or not. Being in his arms took the worry away. I felt like I’d been missing it for years; being surrounded by a body so strong and powerful. I wanted to let go; to be protected. I didn’t know why but I was desperate for it.

His hand very lightly stroked my waist. The sudden sensation made me jerk, partly from shock but also because of the tiny electric shock that ran from where his fingers touched me to my crotch. He did nothing else for a moment then he applied gentle pressure to my shoulder, beckoning me to turn. I locked up for a second; unable to go with it then I let myself be moved. He smiled and touched my cheek. I smiled back nervously. The sense that I was taking this all too easily returned briefly; then his lips touched mine and my eyes closed.

It felt so old; so comfortable and welcome. It felt like a sensation remembered from “the good old days,” that lived up exactly to the memory and improved upon it.

His hand moved further down, probing, testing, caressing. There was another moment’s tension, then it was gone as he drew me closer, pressing me to his chest. He kissed me again on the lips then worked down my cheek and onto my neck; then further down to my breast. I moaned, giving into it, and the moment I did – the moment I really let myself go – I felt a jolt of pleasure so intense that I couldn’t believe I was experiencing it for real; like it was the first time I had ever had such a total release of ecstasy.

His hands moved over my body, touching; teasing in ways so tender and perfect; like he knew exactly where to go and when; like we’d made love a thousand times before. When he finally slid inside me I cried out with a passion that surprised me, and a name – his name – rose up and burst from my lips, the memory unleashed.

“Anthony!”

My husband.

And despite how sure I was at another level that I didn’t know this man, I realised completely that I loved him.

*  *  *

It was only when I was alone again that the niggling thought came back, telling me I had missed something.

I lay on my back, the bed covers down at my feet, feeling exhausted but good. The curtains were open. Outside, the treetops were swaying just a little. The sky was morning blue. There were no visible clouds. The sound of Anthony's shower was dulled but still pleasantly audible through the bathroom door. I liked to hear it. It kept him present.

As I lay there, my thoughts drifted back: Waking up in the bath. Not knowing who or where I was. Looking at my reflection in the darkly lit mirror. Finding a man in my bed. Discovering he was my husband. I could have died asleep in the deep bath water. But then I wasn't sure if I had really even been asleep.

I turned over onto my side, remembering the wedding picture and reached for it. The back was brown, taped shut. Someone had written a slanting series of words in one corner.

Gemma and Ant. The happy day. Best wishes for a long and prosperous life.

I said the names out loud. “Gemma and Ant.” It gave no real chink of memory, although I was sure now that this had to all be real. He was my husband. I was his wife. My name was Gemma. These all seemed like obvious facts. It didn’t matter if my connection to them was absent. They were still clearly true.

But the niggling thought was still there.

I flipped the picture back over and looked at the smiling faces and the wedding rings. We looked so happy and a lot younger than we were now. I wasn’t much over twenty in the photo, if that. Without a reference to my exact age now I couldn’t be sure how long we’d been married.

The noise of the shower fluctuated and stopped. I turned languidly, replacing the picture where it was, brushing back a lick of hair from my face. Anthony came through, still rubbing the towel snake-fashion around his neck and the back of his shoulders. I got to my feet and embraced him, kissing him hard. “I want you to wake me up like that every day Ant,” I said.

He frowned and pulled his head back in mock scrutinisation. “Are you serious?”

I paused and then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, breaking off to continue drying as I admired his muscular back. “It's just that I thought....”

“What?”

He stopped drying and turned to face me. “I half expected you to bite my arm off when I touched you.”

For a moment I cocked my head to the side, confused.

“But I'd love to,” he said, coming closer again, touching my hip. He lifted my hand and took the fingers in his. The delicacy of my skin there seemed to fascinate him. He almost smiled. Then he looked at me again, this time so much closer to my face. “I'd love to Gemma.”

He kissed my hand, pressing the palm against his cheek, eyes closed. We embraced in a way that seemed strange and unfamiliar but beautiful as well. Then, as he pressed my body up against his, it came to me: the niggling question that hadn’t been clear before. It lodged itself into the front of my mind blocking everything else out.

That something had to have caused this memory loss; something that happened to me.

I’d been so caught up that it hadn’t occurred to me to ask.

But the question was still out there, waiting for an answer.

chapter three

Anthony was downstairs or up, I didn't know; but he was out of our bedroom. I was in the bathroom, fully aware that I was playing for time.

I wasn’t ready to leave the small area of the house I’d explored so far. Somewhere out there was the reason that I had lost my memory. I was afraid of what might happen if I faced it again.

I opened the bathroom door and walked straight to the wall of wardrobes. The first one I tried was Anthony's: expensive suits lined up like empty people, casual clothes on wide mahogany shelves that pulled out for easy access. I ran the fabric of one of the suits through my fingers before shutting the door and trying the next.

I wasn't exactly sure what to expect inside; what kind of clothes I owned. There was still a great absence in my mind where my self-image should have been. It struck me suddenly how dangerous that absence could be. This house, my face, even my name, seemed unfamiliar. How could I be sure that I was acting the way I was meant to?

When I opened the wardrobe door I was confronted with a wall of flowery dresses, alive with verdant undergrowth. Not what I was expecting. Past the initial shock I found dresses and slacks and pullovers that were slightly plainer. It was all of a certain image: very feminine. It would define a certain character. I didn’t feel right taking any of them; like I was stealing someone else’s property.

I reached for one of the drawers. It was locked. There was a keyhole but no key. I frowned, curious, then tried the next. That one opened without trouble. Inside were a plain white sleeveless top and a pair of shorts. I took them with me through to the bathroom and put them on in front of the full length mirror behind the door.

My hair was brushed and dry, parted down the middle, framing my face. It was straight and fair, resting just on my shoulders. I looked like a housewife. It was odd; like I was pretending to be someone else. I wasn’t though, surely. This was my life. These were my clothes. But it still didn’t feel right.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly then I opened the door and walked into the bedroom. Immediately I trod on something: a lipstick with the lid missing. The word ELEGANCE was etched round its base in tall gold letters. The dark red business end was mashed in. It was totally ruined, flakes chipped and breaking away as I turned it. It was a nice colour. It was a shame.

I walked through into the bedroom itself and threw the lipstick into the waste bin next to the dressing table. As I bent back up and looked at the mirror I turned rigid.

In dark red lipstick across the central dressing table panel were letters clumsily scraped out like an epitaph, spelling a single word:

WARNING.

*  *  *

I hated the feeling: weakness in my knees and tension laced into the muscles of my back.

I stared at the ugly red letters on the mirror, fingers lightly touching my cheek, feeling flushed and uncomfortable. I’d been reeling already from my sense of disassociation. This rude scrawl tipped me over an edge I hadn't realised I was close to. It actually made me afraid and physically nauseous.

I knew it was just a joke or a trick. I knew there was logic behind it somewhere; there had to be; but I felt irrational and uneasy. I couldn’t help it. Scenarios of prankster break-ins were the least paranoid of the thoughts in my head. After the severe uneasiness of waking up with no personal memories, I had just started to relax. This threw me straight back into the limbo I’d come from.

I focused past the letters on the mirror and caught sight of my own reflection; the fear all across my face. The jitters were swallowed by irritation. I stuck my fists on my hips and frowned at the warning, really angry with myself for being scared as much as I was at whoever did it. Then I went to the bathroom to get a damp cloth.

The darkness gobbled me up again, immediately calming; just like returning to the womb. I sighed, smiling to myself, then spoke aloud.

“The Womb Room.”

It was the perfect name.

There was no cloth by the basin. I pulled at my lip, scanning for one elsewhere then got down on my knees and started looking through the cupboard beneath the sink. The clutter inside was a complete contradiction to the pristine shadows of the rest of the room. Yet another thing I didn't remember. I couldn't recall ever looking through these shelves before. It struck me as odd that the façade should be so different than the hidden areas, but there was no obvious reason why.

It took five minutes, all told, to empty everything out and put it back neater than before. I enjoyed doing it; part of my housewife duty, if that was what I was. It seemed that I craved order and sanity, more so now that I felt so close to the edge of it.

Cloth in hand, I stood up and frowned again as I started back through, thinking about the gaudy letters. I got a spurt of anger directed at Anthony. I couldn't imagine why he would have done it but who else was there, realistically? 

In the bedroom I stopped short, losing my balance a fraction. For the second time that morning I stared, open mouthed. The letters on the mirror had gone!

You can get the rest of the book here!