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

‘Chrissy!’ she said. An explosion. I heard her swallow, as if she had been eating. ‘Chrissy! My God. Darling, is that really you?’

I opened my eyes. A tear had begun its slow traverse down the unfamiliar lines of my face.

‘Claire?’ I said. ‘Yes. It’s me. It’s Chrissy.’

‘Jesus. Fuck,’ she said, and then again. ‘Fuck!’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Roger! Rog! It’s Chrissy! On the phone!’ Suddenly loud, she said, ‘How are you? Where are you?’ and then, ‘Roger!’

‘Oh, I’m at home,’ I said.

‘Home?’

‘Yes.’

‘With Ben?’

I felt suddenly defensive. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘With Ben. Did you get my message?’

I heard an intake of breath. Surprise? Or was she smoking? ‘Yep!’ she said. ‘I would have called you back but this is the landline and you didn’t leave a number.’ She hesitated, and for a moment I wondered if there were other reasons she had not returned my call. She went on. ‘Anyway, how are you, darling? It’s so good to hear your voice!’ I didn’t know how to answer, and when I didn’t reply Claire said, ‘Where are you living?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said. I felt a surge of pleasure, certain that her question meant that she was not seeing Ben, followed by the realization that she might be asking me so that I don’t suspect the truth. I wanted so much to trust her — to know that Ben had not left me because of something he had found in her, some love to replace that which had been taken from me — because doing so meant that I could trust my husband as well. ‘Crouch End?’ I said.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘So how’s it going? How’re things?’

‘Well, you know,’ I said, ‘I can’t remember a fucking thing.’

We both laughed. It felt good, this eruption of an emotion that wasn’t grief, but it was short-lived, followed by silence.

‘You sound good,’ she said after a while. ‘Really good.’ I told her I was writing again. ‘Really? Wow. Super. What are you working on? A novel?’

‘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.’

‘OK,’ 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, 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 on to 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 goodbye and a vague promise to speak again in the future, and another avenue into my past would slam shut for ever.

‘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 didn’t 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 didn’t know why, couldn’t 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 goodbye. 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 I couldn’t say why.

‘When?’

‘This afternoon. After you rang. 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 any more.’

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 didn’t 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 ring 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t answer. ‘Claire?’ I said. ‘What might I have been doing in Brighton?’