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?

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.’

Вы читаете Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel
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