Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel

I looked at the sanded floorboards and white walls, at the cream sofa, the modern-art prints that hung on the wall. I thought of the house I had left this morning; it could not have been more different.

‘Do you remember how it looked when you moved in?’ said Dr Nash.

She sighed. ‘Only vaguely, I’m afraid. It was carpeted. A kind of biscuit colour, I think. And there was wallpaper. Sort of striped, if I remember.’ I tried to picture the room as she’d described it. Nothing came. ‘There was a fireplace we had removed, too. I wish we hadn’t, now. It was an original feature.’

‘Christine?’ said Dr Nash. ‘Anything?’ When I shook my head he said, ‘Do you think we could look round the rest of the house?’

We went upstairs. There were two bedrooms. ‘Giles works from home a good deal,’ she said as we went in the one at the front of the house. It was dominated by a desk, filing cabinets and books. ‘I think the previous owners must have used this as their bedroom.’ She looked at me, but I said nothing. ‘It’s a little bigger than the other room, but Giles can’t sleep in here. Because of the traffic.’ There was a pause. ‘He’s an architect.’ Again, I said nothing. ‘It’s quite a coincidence,’ she continued, ‘because the man we bought the house from was also an architect. We met him when we came round to look at the place. They got on quite well. I think we knocked him down by a few thousand just because of the connection.’ Another pause. I wondered if she was expecting to be congratulated. ‘Giles is setting up his own practice.’

An architect, I thought. Not a teacher, like Ben. These can’t have been the people that he sold the house to. I tried to imagine the room with a bed instead of the glass-topped desk, carpet and wallpaper replacing the stripped boards and white walls.

Dr Nash turned to face me. ‘Anything?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.’

We looked in the other bedroom, the bathroom. Nothing came to me and so we went downstairs, into the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ said Amanda. ‘It’s really not a problem. It’s made already.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said. The room was harsh. Hard-edged. The units were chrome and white, and the worktop looked like poured concrete. A bowl of limes provided the only colour. ‘I think we ought to leave soon,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ said Amanda. Her breezy efficiency seemed to have vanished, replaced by a look of disappointment. I felt guilty; she had obviously hoped that a visit to her home would be the miracle that cured me. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’ I said.

She brightened immediately. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘Let me get you one!’ She handed me a glass and it was then, as I took it from her, that I saw it.

Amanda and Dr Nash had both disappeared. I was alone. On the worktop I saw an uncooked fish, wet and glistening, lying on an oval plate. I heard a voice. A man’s voice. It was Ben’s voice, I thought, but younger, somehow. ‘White wine,’ it said, ‘or red?’ and I turned and saw him coming into a kitchen. It was the same kitchen — the one I was standing in with Dr Nash and Amanda — but it had different-coloured paint on the walls. Ben was holding a bottle of wine in each hand, and it was the same Ben, but slimmer, with less grey in his hair, and he had a moustache. He was naked, and his penis was semi-erect, bobbing comically as he walked. His skin was smooth, taut over the muscles of his arms and chest, and I felt the sharp tug of lust. I saw myself gasp, but I was laughing.

‘White, I think?’ he said, and he laughed with me, and then he put both bottles down on the table and came over to where I stood. His arms encircled me, and then I was closing my eyes, and my mouth opened, as if involuntarily, and I was kissing him, and he me, and I could feel his penis pressing into my crotch and my hand moving towards it. And, even as I was kissing him, I was thinking, I must remember this, how this feels. I must put this in my book. This is what I want to write.

I fell into him then, pressing my body against his, and his hands began to tear at my dress, groping for the zip. ‘Stop it!’ I said. ‘Don’t—’ But even though I was saying no, asking him to stop, I felt as though I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone before. ‘Upstairs,’ I said, ‘quick.’ And then we were leaving the kitchen, tearing at our clothes as we went, and heading up to the bedroom with the grey carpet and blue-patterned wallpaper, and all the time I was thinking, Yes, this is what I ought to be writing about in my next novel, this is the feeling I want to capture.

I stumbled. The sound of breaking glass, and the image in front of me vanished. It was as if the spool of film had run through, the images on the screen replaced with a flickering light and the shadows of dust motes. I opened my eyes.

I was still there, in that kitchen, but now it was Dr Nash standing in front of me, and Amanda a little way past him, and they were both looking at me, concerned and anxious. I realized I had dropped the glass.

‘Christine,’ said Dr Nash. ‘Christine, are you OK?’

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to feel. It was the first time — as far as I knew — I had ever remembered my husband.

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.

Tuesday, 13 November

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.