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

And that meant the number was Claire’s. Dr Nash had really called me. Ben and I had been divorced.

I want to call Dr Nash now. I want to ask him what to do, or, better, to ask him to do it for me. But for how long can I be a visitor in my own life? Passive? I need to take control. The thought crosses my mind that I may never see Dr Nash again — not now that I have told him of my feelings, my crush — but I don’t let it take root. Either way, I need to speak to Claire myself.

But what will I say? There seems to be so much for us to talk about, and yet so little. So much history between us, but none of it known to me.

I think of what Dr Nash had told me about why Ben and I separated. Something to do with Claire .

It all makes sense. Years ago, when I needed him most but understood him least, my husband divorced me, and now we are back together he is telling me that my best friend moved to the other side of the world before any of this happened.

Is that why I can’t call her? Because I am afraid that she might have more to hide than I have even begun to imagine? Is that why Ben seems less than keen for me to remember more? Is that even why he has been suggesting that any attempts at treatment are futile, so that I will never be able to link memory to memory and know what has been happening?

I cannot imagine he would do that. Nobody would. It is a ridiculous thing. I think of what Dr Nash told me about my time in the hospital. You were claiming the doctors were conspiring against you , he said. Exhibiting symptoms of paranoia .

I wonder if that is what I am doing again now.

Suddenly a memory floods me. It strikes almost violently, rising up from the emptiness of my past to send me tumbling back, but then just as quickly disappears. Claire and me, another party. ‘Christ,’ she is saying. ‘It’s so annoying! You know what I think is wrong? Everyone’s so bloody hung up on sex. It’s just animals copulating, y’know? No matter how much we try and dance round it and dress it up as something else. That’s all it is.’

Is it possible that with me stuck in my own hell Claire and Ben have sought solace in each other?

I look down. The phone lies dead in my lap. I have no idea where Ben really goes when he leaves every morning, or where he might stop off on the way home. It might be anywhere. And I have no opportunity to build suspicion on suspicion, to link one fact to another. Even if one day I were to discover Claire and Ben in bed, the next I would forget what I had seen. I am the perfect person on whom to cheat. Perhaps they are still seeing each other. Perhaps I have already discovered them, and forgotten.

I think this, and yet, somehow, I don’t think this. I trust Ben, and yet I don’t. It’s perfectly possible to hold two opposing points of view in the mind at once, oscillating between them.

But why would he lie? He just thinks he’s doing the right thing, I keep telling myself. He’s protecting you. Keeping from you the things that you don’t need to know.

I dialled the number, of course. There was no way I could have not done so. It rang for a while, and then there was a click, and a voice. ‘Hi,’ it said. ‘Please leave a message.’

I knew the voice at once. It was Claire’s. Unmistakable.

I left her a message. Please call me , I said. It’s Christine .

I went downstairs. I had done all I could do.

I waited. For an hour that turned into two. I spent the time writing in my journal, and when she didn’t ring I made a sandwich and ate it in the living room. While I was in the kitchen — wiping down the work surface, sweeping crumbs into my palm, preparing to empty them into the sink — the doorbell rang. The noise startled me. I put down the sponge, dried my hands on the teatowel that hung from the handle of the oven and went to see who it was.

Through the frosted glass I could see the outline of a man. Not uniformed, he was instead wearing what looked like a suit, a tie. Ben? I thought, before realizing he would still be at work. I opened the door.

It was Dr Nash. I knew, partly because it could be no one else, but partly because — though when I read about him this morning I couldn’t picture him, and though my husband had remained unfamiliar to me even once I had been told who he was — I recognized him. His hair was short, parted, his tie loose and untidy, a jumper sat beneath a jacket that it didn’t match.

He must have seen the look of surprise on my face. ‘Christine?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’ I didn’t open the door more than a fraction.

‘It’s me. Ed. Ed Nash. Dr Nash?’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I …’

‘Did you read your journal?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m fine.’

He lowered his voice. ‘Is Ben home?’

‘No. No, he’s not. It’s just, well, I wasn’t expecting you. Did we have a meeting arranged?’

He held back for a moment, a fraction of a second, enough to disrupt the rhythm of our exchange. We had not, I knew that. Or at least I had not written of one.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Did you not write it down?’

I hadn’t, but I said nothing. We stood across the threshold of the house that I still don’t think of as my home, looking at each other. ‘Can I come in?’ he asked.

I didn’t answer at first. I wasn’t sure I wanted to invite him in. It seemed wrong somehow. A betrayal.

But of what? Ben’s trust? I didn’t know how much that mattered to me any more. Not after his lies. Lies that I had spent most of my morning reading.

‘Yes,’ I said. I opened the door. He nodded as he stepped into the house, glancing left and right as he did so. I took his jacket and hung it on the coat rack next to a mac that I guessed must be mine. ‘In there,’ I said, pointing to the living room, and he went through.

I made us both a drink, gave his to him, sat opposite with mine. He didn’t speak, and I took a slow sip, waiting as he did the same. He put his cup down on the coffee table between us.

‘You don’t remember asking me to come round?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘When?’

His answer chilled me. ‘This morning. When I rang to tell you where to find your journal.’

I could remember nothing of him calling that morning, and still can’t, even now he has gone.

I thought of other things I had written of. A plate of melon I couldn’t remember ordering. A cookie I hadn’t asked for.

‘I don’t remember,’ I said. A panic began to rise within me.

Concern flashed on his face. ‘Have you slept at all today? Anything more than a quick doze?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘no. Not at all. I just can’t remember. When was it? When?’

‘Christine,’ he said. ‘Calm down. It’s probably nothing.’

‘But what if — I don’t—’

‘Christine, please. It doesn’t mean anything. You just forgot, that’s all. Everyone forgets things sometimes.’

‘But whole conversations? It must have only been a couple of hours ago!’

‘Yes,’ he said. He spoke softly, trying to calm me, but didn’t move from where he sat. ‘But you have been through a lot, lately. Your memory has always been variable. Forgetting one thing doesn’t mean that you’re deteriorating, that you won’t get better again. OK?’ I nodded, trying to believe him, desperate to. ‘You asked me here because you wanted to speak to Claire, but weren’t sure you could. And you wanted me to speak to Ben on your behalf.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes. You said you didn’t think you could do it yourself.’

I looked at him, thought of all the things I had written. I realized I didn’t believe him. I must have found my journal myself. I hadn’t asked him here today. I didn’t want him to talk to Ben. Why would I, when I had decided to say nothing to Ben myself yet? And why would I tell him I needed him here to help me speak to Claire, when I had already phoned her myself and left a message?