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

He’s lying . I wondered what other reasons he might have for coming. What he might not feel able to tell me.

I have no memory, but I am not stupid. ‘Why are you really here?’ I said. He shifted in his chair. Possibly he just wanted to see inside the place where I live. Or possibly to see me, one more time, before I speak to Ben. ‘Are you worried that Ben won’t let me see you after I tell him about us?’

Another thought comes. Perhaps he is not writing a research paper at all. Perhaps he has other reasons for wanting to spend so much of his time with me. I push it from my mind.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not it at all. I came because you asked me to. Besides, you’ve decided not to tell Ben that you’re seeing me. Not until you’ve spoken to Claire. Remember?’

I shook my head. I didn’t remember. I did not know what he was talking about.

‘Claire is fucking my husband,’ I said.

He looked shocked. ‘Christine,’ he said. ‘I—’

‘He’s treating me like I’m stupid,’ I said. ‘Lying to me about anything and everything. Well, I’m not stupid.’

‘I know you’re not stupid,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think—’

‘They’ve been fucking for years,’ I said. ‘It explains everything. Why he tells me she moved away. Why I haven’t seen her even though she’s supposedly my best friend.’

‘Christine,’ he said. ‘You’re not thinking straight.’ He came and sat beside me on the sofa. ‘Ben loves you. I know. I’ve spoken to him, when I wanted to persuade him to let me see you. He was totally loyal. Totally. He told me that he’d lost you once and didn’t want to lose you again. That he’d watched you suffer whenever people tried to treat you and wouldn’t see you in pain any more. He loves you. It’s obvious. He’s trying to protect you. From the truth, I suppose.’

I thought of what I had read this morning. Of the divorce. ‘But he left me. To be with her.’

‘Christine,’ he said. ‘You’re not thinking. If that was true, why would he bring you back? Back here? He would have just left you in Waring House. But he hasn’t. He looks after you. Every day.’

I felt myself collapse, folding in on myself. I felt as if I understood his words, yet at the same time didn’t. I felt the warmth his body gave off, saw the kindness in his eyes. He smiled as I looked at him. He seemed to become bigger, until his body was all I could see, his breathing all I could hear. He spoke, but I didn’t hear what he said. I heard only one word. Love .

I didn’t intend to do what I did. I didn’t plan it. It happened suddenly, my life shifting like a stuck lid that finally gives. In a moment all I could feel were my lips on his, my arms around his neck. His hair was damp and I neither understood nor cared why. I wanted to speak, to tell him what I felt, but I did not, because to do so would have been to stop kissing him, to end the moment that I wanted to go on for ever. I felt like a woman, finally. In control. Though I must have done so, I can remember — have written about no other time when I have kissed anyone but my husband; it might as well have been the first.

I don’t know how long it lasted. I don’t even know how it happened, how I went from sitting there, on the sofa next to him, diminished, so small that I felt I might disappear, to kissing him. I don’t remember willing it, which is not to say I don’t remember wanting it. I don’t remember it beginning. I remember only that I went from one state to another, with nothing in between, with no opportunity for conscious thought, no decision.

He did not push me away roughly. He was gentle. He gave me that, at least. He did not insult me by asking me what I was doing, much less what I thought I was doing. He simply removed first his lips from mine, then my hands from where they had come to rest on his shoulder, and, softly, said, ‘No.’

I was stunned. At what I had done? Or his reaction to it? I cannot say. It felt only that, for a moment, I had been somewhere else and a new Christine had stepped in, taken me over completely, and then vanished. I was not horrified, though. Not even disappointed. I was glad. Glad that, because of her, something had happened.

He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and I couldn’t tell what he felt. Anger? Pity? Regret? Any of those things might be possible. Perhaps the expression I saw was a mixture of all three. He was still holding my hands and he put them back in my lap, then let them go. ‘I’m sorry, Christine,’ he said again.

I didn’t know what to say. What to do. I was silent, about to apologize myself, and then I said, ‘Ed. I love you.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Christine,’ he began, ‘I—’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Don’t. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it too.’ He frowned. ‘You know you love me.’

‘Christine,’ he said. ‘Please, you’re … you’re …’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Crazy?’

‘No. Confused. You’re confused.’

I laughed. ‘“Confused”?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You don’t love me. You remember we talked about confabulation? It’s quite common with people who—’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I know. I remember. With people who have no memory. Is that what you think this is?’

‘It’s possible. Perfectly possible.’

I hated him then. He thought he knew everything, knew me better than I did myself. All he really knew was my condition.

‘I’m not stupid,’ I said.

‘I know. I know that, Christine. I don’t think you are. I just think—’

‘You must love me.’

He sighed. I was frustrating him, now. Wearing his patience thin.

‘Why else have you been coming here so much? Driving me around London. Do you do that with all your patients?’

‘Yes,’ he began, then, ‘well, no. Not exactly.’

‘Then why?’

‘I’ve been trying to help you,’ he said.

‘Is that all?’

A pause, then he said, ‘Well, no. I’ve been writing a paper, too. A scientific paper—’

‘Studying me?’

‘Sort of,’ he said.

I tried to push what he was saying from my mind. ‘But you didn’t tell me that Ben and I were separated,’ I said. ‘Why? Why didn’t you do that?’

‘I didn’t know!’ he said. ‘No other reason. It wasn’t in your file and Ben didn’t tell me. I didn’t know!’ I was silent. He moved, as if to take my hands again, then stopped, scratching his forehead instead. ‘I would have told you. If I’d known.’

‘Would you?’ I said. ‘Like you told me about Adam?’

He looked hurt. ‘Christine, please.’

‘Why did you keep him from me?’ I said. ‘You’re as bad as Ben!’

‘Jesus, Christine,’ he said. ‘We’ve been through this. I did what I thought was best. Ben wasn’t telling you about Adam. I couldn’t tell you. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t have been ethical.’

I laughed. A hollow, snorting laugh. ‘Ethical? What is ethical about keeping him from me?’

‘It was down to Ben to decide whether to tell you about Adam. Not me. I suggested you keep a journal, though. So that you could write down what you’d learned. I thought that was for the best.’

‘How about the attack, then? You were quite happy for me to go on thinking I’d been involved in a hit-and-run accident!’

‘Christine, no. No, I wasn’t. Ben told you that. I didn’t know that’s what he was saying to you. How could I?’

I thought of what I had seen. Orange-scented baths and hands around my throat. The feeling that I couldn’t breathe. The man whose face remained a mystery. I began to cry. ‘Then why did you tell me at all?’ I said.

He spoke kindly, but still didn’t touch me. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I didn’t tell you that you were attacked. That, you remembered yourself.’ He was right, of course. I felt angry. ‘Christine, I—’