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

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, ‘OK.’

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

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Cool. Friday? I’ll meet you at eleven. Is that OK?’

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 goodbye 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?’

He looked down into my eyes. ‘Claire?’ he said. ‘You remember her?’

I had forgotten that until recently — until the memory of the firework party, in fact — Claire had not existed to me at all. ‘Vaguely,’ I said.

He glanced away, towards the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I think she moved away. Years ago.’

I winced, as if with pain. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. I could not believe he was still lying to me. It seemed almost worse of him to lie about this than about everything else. This, surely, would be an easy thing to be honest about? The fact that Claire was still local would cause me no pain, might even be something that — were I to see her — would help my memory to improve. So why the dishonesty? A dark thought entered my head — the same black suspicion — but I pushed it away.

‘Are you positive? Where did she go?’ Tell me, I thought. It’s not too late.

‘I don’t really remember,’ he said. ‘New Zealand, I think. Or Australia.’

I felt hope slip further away, but knew what I had to do. ‘You’re certain?’ I said. I took a gamble. ‘I have this odd memory that she once told me she was thinking of moving to Barcelona for a while. Years and years ago, it must have been.’ He said nothing. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t there?’

‘You remembered that?’ he said. ‘When?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It’s just a feeling.’

He squeezed my hand. A consolation. ‘It’s probably your imagination.’

‘It felt very real, though. You’re certain it wasn’t Barcelona?’

He sighed. ‘No. Not Barcelona. It was definitely Australia. Adelaide, I think. I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.’ He shook his head. ‘Claire,’ he said, smiling. ‘I haven’t thought of her for ages. Not for years and years.’

I closed my eyes. When I opened them he was grinning at me. He looked stupid, almost. Pathetic. I wanted to slap him. ‘Ben,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper. ‘I’ve spoken to her.’

I didn’t know how he would react. He did nothing, almost as if I hadn’t spoken at all, but then his eyes flared.

‘When?’ he said. His voice was hard as glass.

I could either tell him the truth, or admit that I have been writing the story of my days. ‘This afternoon,’ I said. ‘She called me.’

‘She called you?’ he said. ‘How? How did she call you?’

I decided to lie. ‘She said you’d given her my number.’

‘What number? That’s ridiculous! How could I? You’re sure it was her?’

‘She said you spoke together, occasionally. Until fairly recently.’

He let go of my hand and it dropped into my lap, a dead weight. He stood up, rounding to face me. ‘She said what?’

‘She told me that the two of you had been in contact. Up until a few years ago.’

He leaned in close. I smelled coffee on his breath. ‘This woman just phoned you out of the blue? You’re sure it was even her?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, Ben!’ I said. ‘Who else could it have been?’ I smiled. I had never thought this conversation would be easy, but it seemed infused with a seriousness I didn’t like.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t know, but there have been people who have tried to get hold of you, in the past. The press. Journalists. People who have read about you, and what happened, and want your side of the story, or even just to nose around and find out how bad you really are, or see how much you’ve changed. They’ve pretended to be other people before, just to get you to talk. There are doctors. Quacks who think they can help you. Homeopathy. Alternative medicine. Even witch doctors.’

‘Ben,’ I said. ‘She was my best friend for years. I recognized her voice.’ His face sagged, defeated. ‘You have been speaking to her, haven’t you?’ I noticed that he was clenching and unclenching his right hand, balling it into a fist, releasing it. ‘Ben?’ I said, again.

He looked up. His face was red, his eyes moist. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK. I have spoken to Claire. She asked me to keep in touch with her, to let her know how you are. We speak every few months, just briefly.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He said nothing. ‘Ben. Why?’ Silence. ‘You just decided it was easier to keep her from me? To pretend she’d moved away? Is that it? Just like you pretended I’d never written a novel?’

‘Chris,’ he began, then, ‘What—’

‘It’s not fair, Ben,’ I said. ‘You have no right to keep these things to yourself. To tell me lies just because it’s easier for you. No right.’

He stood up. ‘Easier for me?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Easier for me? You think I told you that Claire lives abroad because it was easier for me? You’re wrong, Christine. Wrong. None of this is easy for me. None of it. I don’t tell you you’ve written a novel because I can’t bear to remember how much you wanted to write another, or to see the pain when you realize you never will. I told you that Claire lives abroad because I can’t stand to hear the pain in your voice when you realize that she abandoned you in that place. Left you there to rot, like all the others.’ He waited for a reaction. ‘Did she tell you that?’ he said when none came, and I thought, No, no she didn’t, and in fact today I read in my journal that she used to visit me all the time.

He said it again. ‘Did she tell you that? That she stopped visiting as soon as she realized that fifteen minutes after she left you’d forgotten she even existed? Sure, she might ring up at Christmas to find out how you’re doing, but it was me who stood by you, Chris. Me who visited you every single day. Me who was there, who waited, praying for you to be well enough that I could come and take you away from there, and bring you here, to live with me, in safety. Me. I didn’t lie to you because it was easy for me. Don’t you ever make the mistake of thinking that I did. Don’t you ever!’