S. Watson - Before I Go to Sleep - A Novel

I closed my eyes and tried to will the vision back. I tried to see the fish, the wine, my husband with a moustache, naked, his penis bobbing, but nothing would come. The memory had gone, evaporated as if it had never existed, or had been burned away by the present.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. I—’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Amanda. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I remembered something,’ I said. I saw Amanda’s hands fly to her mouth, her expression change to one of delight.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘That’s wonderful! What? What did you remember?’

‘Please—’ said Dr Nash. He stepped forward, taking my arm. Broken glass crunched at his feet.

‘My husband,’ I said. ‘Here. I remembered my husband—’

Amanda’s expression fell. Is that all? she seemed to be saying.

‘Dr Nash?’ I said. ‘I remembered Ben!’ I began to shake.

‘Good,’ said Dr Nash. ‘Good! That’s excellent!’

Together, they led me through to the living room. I sat on the sofa. Amanda handed me a mug of hot tea, a biscuit on a plate. She doesn’t understand, I thought. She can’t. I have remembered Ben. Me, when I was young. The two of us, together. I know we were in love. I no longer have to take his word for it. It is important. Far more important than she can ever know.

I felt excited, all the way home. Lit with nervous energy. I looked at the world outside — the strange, mysterious, unfamiliar world — and in it I did not see threat, but possibility. Dr Nash told me he thought we were really getting somewhere. He seemed excited. This is good , he kept saying. This is good . I wasn’t sure whether he meant it was good for me or for him, for his career. He said he’d like to arrange a scan and, almost without thinking, I agreed. He gave me a mobile phone, too, telling me it used to belong to his girlfriend. It looked different from the one Ben had given me. It was smaller, and the casing flipped open to reveal a keypad and screen inside. A spare , he said. You can ring me any time. Any time it’s important. And keep it with you. I’ll call you on it to remind you about your journal . That was hours ago. Now I realize he gave it to me so that he could phone me without Ben knowing. He’d even said as much. I rang the other day and Ben answered. It might get awkward. This will make things easier . I took it without question.

I have remembered Ben. Remembered that I loved him. He will be home, soon. Perhaps later, when we go to bed, I will make amends for last night’s neglect. I feel alive. Buzzing with potential.

It is the afternoon. Soon Ben will be home from another day at work. I sit with this journal in front of me. A man — Dr Nash — called me at lunchtime and told me where to find it. I was sitting in the living room when he rang, and at first did not believe that he knew who I was. Look in the shoebox in the wardrobe , he’d said eventually. You’ll find a book . I hadn’t believed him, but he had stayed on the line while I looked, and he was right. My journal was there, wrapped in tissue. I lifted it out as if it were fragile and then, once I had said goodbye to Dr Nash, I knelt by the wardrobe and read it. Every word.

I was nervous, though I didn’t know why. The journal felt forbidden, dangerous, though this was perhaps only because of the care with which I’d hidden it. I glanced up repeatedly from its pages to check the time, even closed it quickly and put it back in its tissue when there was the sound of a car outside the house. But now I am calm. I am writing this in the window of the bedroom, in the bay. It feels familiar here, somehow, as if this is a place where I sit often. I can see down the street, in one direction to a row of tall trees behind which a park can be glimpsed, in the other to a row of houses and another, busier road. I realize that, though I may choose to keep my journal secret from Ben, nothing terrible would happen if he were to find it. He is my husband. I can trust him.

I read again of the excitement I felt on the way home yesterday. It has disappeared. Now I feel content. Still. Cars pass. Occasionally someone walks by, a man, whistling, or a young mother taking her child to the park and then, later, away from it. In the distance a plane, coming in to land, seems almost to be stationary.

The houses opposite are empty, the street quiet apart from the whistling man and the bark of an unhappy dog. The commotion of the morning, with its symphony of closing doors and sing-song goodbyes and revved engines, has disappeared. I feel alone in the world.

It begins to rain. Large droplets spatter the window in front of my face, hang for a moment, and then, joined by others, begin their slow slide down the pane. I put my hand up to the cold glass.

So much separates me from the rest of the world.

I read of visiting the home I had shared with my husband. Was it really only yesterday those words were written? They do not feel as if they belong to me. I read of the day I had remembered too. Of kissing my husband — in the house we bought together, so long ago — and when I close my eyes I can see it again. It is dim at first, unfocused, but then the image shimmers and resolves, snapping to sharpness with an almost overwhelming intensity. My husband, tearing at my clothes. Ben, holding me, his kisses becoming more urgent, deeper. I remember we neither ate the fish nor drank the wine; instead, when we had finished making love we stayed in bed for as long as we could, our legs entwined, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair, semen drying on my stomach. We were silent. Happiness surrounded us like a cloud.

‘I love you,’ he said. He was whispering, as if he had never said those words before, and, though he must have done so many times, they sounded new. Forbidden and dangerous.

I looked up at him, at the stubble on his chin, the flesh of his lips and the outline of his nose above them. ‘I love you too,’ I said, whispering into his chest as if the words were fragile. He squeezed my body to his, then, and kissed me, softly. The top of my head, my brow. I closed my eyes and he kissed my eyelids, barely brushing them with his lips. I felt safe, at home. I felt as if here, against his body, was the only place in which I belonged. The only place I had ever wanted to be. We lay in silence for a while, holding each other, our skin merging, our breathing synchronized. I felt as if silence might allow the moment to last for ever, which would still not be enough.

Ben broke the spell. ‘I have to leave,’ he said, and I opened my eyes and took his hand in mine. It felt warm. Soft. I brought it to my mouth and kissed it. The taste of glass, and earth.

‘Already?’ I said.

He kissed me again. ‘Yes. It’s later than you think. I’ll miss my train.’

I felt my body plunge. Separation seemed unthinkable. Unbearable. ‘Stay a bit longer?’ I said. ‘Get the next one?’

He laughed. ‘I can’t, Chris,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

I kissed him again. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know.’

I showered, after he left. I took my time, soaping myself slowly, feeling the water on my skin as if it were a new sensation. In the bedroom I sprayed myself with perfume and put on my nightdress and a gown, and then I went downstairs, into the dining room.

It was dark. I turned on the light. On the table in front of me was a typewriter, threaded with blank paper, and next to it a shallow stack of pages, turned face down. I sat down, in front of the machine. I began to type. Chapter Two .

I paused then. I could not think what to write next, how to begin. I sighed, resting my fingers on the keyboard. It felt natural beneath me, cool and smooth, contoured to my fingertips. I closed my eyes and typed again.