Steven Watson - Before I Go to Sleep

“No,” I said. “It’d be kind of hard to write a novel when I can’t remember anything from one day to the next.” Silence. “I’m just writing about what’s happening to me.”

“Okay,” she said, then nothing. I wondered if perhaps she did not entirely understand my situation, and worried about her tone. It sounded cool. I wondered how things had been left, the last time we saw each other. “So what is happening with you?” she said then.

What to say? I had an urge to let her see my journal, to let her read it all for herself, but of course I could not. Or not yet, anyway. There seemed to be too much to say, too much I wanted to know. My whole life.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s difficult…”

I must have sounded upset, because she said, “Chrissy, darling. Whatever’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine. I just…” The sentence petered out.

“Darling?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I thought of Dr. Nash, of the things I’d said to him. Could I be sure that he wouldn’t talk to Ben? “I just feel confused. I think I’ve done something stupid.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Another silence—a calculation?—and then she said, “Listen. Can I speak to Ben?”

“He’s out,” I said. I felt relieved that our discussion seemed to have moved onto something concrete, factual. “At work.”

“Right,” said Claire. Another silence. The conversation felt suddenly absurd.

“I need to see you,” I said.

“ ‘Need’?” she said. “Not ‘want’?”

“No,” I began. “Obviously I want…”

“Relax, Chrissy,” she said. “I’m kidding. I want to see you, too. I’m dying to.”

I felt relieved. I had had the idea that our talk might limp to a halt, end with a polite good-bye and a vague promise to speak again in the future, and another avenue into my past would slam shut forever.

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Chrissy,” she said. “I’ve been missing you so much. Every day. Every single day I’ve been waiting for this bloody phone to ring, hoping it would be you, never for a second thinking it would be.” She paused. “How… how is your memory now? How much do you know?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Better than it has been, I think. But I still don’t remember much.” I thought of all the things I’d written down, all the images of me and Claire. “I remember a party,” I said. “Fireworks on a rooftop. You painting. Me studying. But nothing after that, really.”

“Ah!” she said. “The big night! Jesus, that seems like a long time ago! There’s a lot I need to fill you in on. A lot.”

I wondered what she meant, but did not ask her. It can wait, I thought. There were more important things I needed to know.

“Did you ever move away?” I said. “Abroad?”

She laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “For about six months. I met this bloke, years ago. It was a disaster.”

“Where?” I said. “Where did you go?”

“Barcelona,” she replied. “Why?”

“Oh,” I said. “It’s nothing.” I felt defensive, embarrassed to not know these details of my friend’s life. “It’s just something someone told me. They said you’d been to New Zealand. They must have made a mistake.”

“New Zealand?” she said, laughing. “Nope. Not been there. Ever.”

So Ben had lied to me about that, too. I still did not know why, could not think of a reason he would feel the need to remove Claire from my life so thoroughly. Was it just like everything else he had lied about, or chosen not to tell me? Was it for my own benefit?

It was something else I would have to ask him, when we had the conversation I now knew we must. When I tell him all that I know, and how I have found it out.

We spoke some more, our conversation punctuated by long gaps and desperate rushes. Claire told me she had married, then divorced, and now was living with Roger. “He’s an academic,” she said. “Psychology. Bugger wants me to marry him, which I shan’t in a hurry. But I love him.”

It felt good to talk to her, to listen to her voice. It seemed easy, familiar. Almost like coming home. She demanded little, seeming to understand that I had little to give. Eventually, she stopped and I thought she might be about to say good-bye. I realized that neither of us had mentioned Adam.

“So,” she said instead. “Tell me about Ben. How long have you been, well…”

“Back together?” I said. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know we’d ever been apart.”

“I tried to call him,” she said. I felt myself tense, though could not say why.

“When?”

“This afternoon. After you called. I guessed that he must have given you my number. He didn’t answer, but then I only have an old work number. They said he’s not there anymore.”

I felt a creeping dread. I looked around the bedroom, alien and unfamiliar. I felt sure she was lying.

“Do you speak to him often?” I said.

“No. Not lately.” A new tone entered her voice. Hushed. I did not like it. “Not for a few years.” She hesitated. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

I was afraid. Afraid that Claire would tell Ben that I had called her, before I had a chance to speak to him.

“Please don’t call him,” I said. “Please don’t tell him I’ve called you.”

“Chrissy!” she said. “Why ever not?”

“I’d just rather you didn’t.”

She sighed heavily, then sounded cross. “Look. What on earth is going on?”

“I can’t explain,” I said.

“Try.”

I could not bring myself to mention Adam, but I told her about Dr. Nash, and about the memory of the hotel room, and how Ben insists that I had a car accident. “I think he’s not telling me the truth because he knows it would upset me,” I said. She did not answer. “Claire?” I said. “What might I have been doing in Brighton?”

Silence stretched between us. “Chrissy,” she said. “If you really want to know, then I’ll tell you. Or as much as I know, anyway. But not over the phone. When we meet. I promise.”

The truth. It hung in front of me, glistening, so close I could almost reach out and take it.

“When can you come over?” I said. “Today? Tonight?”

“I’d rather not come to you,” she said. “If you don’t mind?”

“Why not?”

“I just think… well… it’s better if we meet somewhere else? I can take you for a coffee?”

There was a jollity in her voice, but it seemed forced. False. I wondered what she was frightened of, but said, “Okay.”

“Alexandra Palace?” she said. “Is that all right? You should be able to get there easily enough from Crouch End.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Cool. Friday? I’ll meet you at eleven. Is that okay?”

I told her it was. It would have to be. “I’ll be fine,” I said. She told me which buses I would need and I wrote the details on a slip of paper. Then, after we’d chatted for a few minutes more, we said good-bye and I took out my journal and began to write.

“Ben?” I said when he got home. He was sitting in the armchair in the living room, reading the newspaper. He looked tired, as if he’d not slept well. “Do you trust me?” I said.

He looked up. His eyes sparked into life, lit with love, but also something else. Something that looked almost like fear. Not surprising, I suppose; the question is usually asked before an admission that such trust is misplaced. He swept his hair back from his forehead.

“Of course, darling,” he said. He came over and perched on the arm of my chair, taking one of my hands between his. “Of course.”

I was suddenly unsure whether I wanted to continue. “Do you talk to Claire?”