The Memory Game

‘A friend.’

‘Just a friend?’

‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

‘At least tell me if it is serious.’

‘There’s no “it”. I haven’t seen Caspar for weeks. All right?’

‘Don’t get ratty with me, Janey.’

‘Don’t call me Janey.’

He cut himself two wedges of cheese, and took a couple of cheese biscuits from the tin.

‘Don’t you think I have a right to know?’

‘No, I don’t.’

This was better – my feeling about the inevitability of our marriage was dissipating; I wished that the evening was over now. I wanted to be drinking tea in bed, with a thriller.

Claud balanced some goat’s cheese on a water biscuit and popped it into his mouth. He chewed several times.

‘The thing is, I still feel married to you,’ he said quite calmly. ‘I still feel you’re my wife, that I’m your husband.’

‘Well, you…’

‘Let me finish.’ He didn’t seem to notice that now was not the time; that any possibilities had already dribbled away from the evening. ‘I’ve felt that more strongly since Dad confessed. We’ve been through terrible times, the worst times it’s possible to go through, and we’ve helped each other. I have helped you, haven’t I?’ I nodded, mute. ‘I won’t lie to you: one of the reasons I have pulled through this – this horror – is the hope that it might bring us back together. Oh look, we’re middle-aged now, Jane; we should be kind to each other, not pull away. We belong together; us and the boys.’ I stiffened when he mentioned the boys – that was playing dirty, using them. He didn’t notice my withdrawal. ‘We should be a family. Don’t you feel that too?’

But I had no chance to reply. He stood up, walked round the table and took my face in his hands; he didn’t seem excited or upset, just very determined, as if he felt that he’d managed to work everything else out and now he was going to get this settled as well. He was too near me, out of focus, and I could smell his wine-and-garlic breath. I pushed him away.

‘No, please Claud. It won’t work.’ I was shaking. ‘It’s my fault; it’s true that we’ve been closer recently, and been kind to each other. And then I invited you over here, and of course you thought…’

‘Stop. Don’t say a word more.’ Two hectic spots had appeared on his pale face. He grabbed his overcoat. ‘Not a word. Not now. Just think about it, will you? I didn’t mean to rush things like that. I didn’t want to alarm you.’ As if I was a shy animal, who needed coaxing. He stood for a moment in the doorway. ‘Goodbye.’ He hesitated. ‘Darling.’

I had felt no desire, I thought, as I cleared away the plates, wrapped the cheeses in their waxy papers. None at all. Instead, I’d felt a kind of dreary panic: I couldn’t just go back to my old life, as if I’d suffered a mid-life crisis and then recovered equilibrium. Claud had called us middle-aged and of course it was true. But I didn’t feel it.

‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

Caspar slid into the seat opposite me; he didn’t touch me.

‘I’ve only just arrived myself.’

We were both being warily polite. I held out the wine list, and he took it carefully, so our fingers didn’t touch.

‘I’ve ordered a pinot noir,’ I said.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Shall we get something to drink as well?’ He looked up and caught my eye. ‘Haven’t you missed my irresistible humour?’

I shook my head disapprovingly. ‘Is that an example of it?’

‘Well, I haven’t been using it much.’

The wine arrived and we sipped it gravely. I lit a cigarette and found that my hands were gently trembling. Caspar’s expression darkened slightly.

‘Would you rather that I asked you resentfully why you suddenly dropped me without any explanation and then suddenly rang up again?’

‘You can ask. I don’t want you to be resentful.’

‘How are you, Jane?’

I had forgotten, in the weeks in which I had kept away from Caspar, the quality of his attention. When he looked at me, I felt as if he were really looking; his gaze was a kind of scrutiny. When he asked me how I was, I knew the question wasn’t rhetorical, he really wanted to know. I took a deep breath.

‘Not at my best, I guess. You know…’

He nodded. ‘Has the press attention died down?’

‘Yes, a bit. But the trial’s still to come, so it’ll get worse again, I suppose.’

‘And will you have to give evidence?’

‘Probably not. Unless Alan suddenly changes his mind again and pleads not guilty. Then it all hangs on me.’

‘Will you tell me about it?’ His question was phrased just right. If he’d said ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ I’d have felt he was offering to help me and probably would have closed down on him. As it was, I found that I did, very much, want to explain what I had gone through. After all, I hadn’t quite explained it to myself, yet. I needed this conversation.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call,’ I said impulsively.

Caspar smiled. ‘I’m glad that you’re sorry, but it’s all right,’ he replied. He studied the menu. ‘Let’s have some dips and some olives. I’ve hardly eaten anything since breakfast.’

I told Caspar everything. I described my childhood, our friendship with the Martellos (I skated over Theo) and the disappearance of Natalie. I told him how I’d married Claud young, and how my long marriage had over the years invisibly eroded, like a sandcastle flattening back into the rippled surface of a beach. I told him how I had finally left Claud, and then I described finding Natalie’s body. Caspar was a good listener. When I paused to light a cigarette, he ordered another bottle of wine.

I said I had realised that I was profoundly unhappy, and that after a few false starts (I offered up my first aborted attempt at analysis but didn’t mention the one-night stand with William), I had started therapy with Alex Dermot-Brown.

‘What did you want from therapy?’ Caspar enquired.

‘Some kind of control over my life, I guess. I felt I was in a mess and didn’t really know how to get out of it. Later, it became more of a search for the truth about my past.’

‘That’s a big thing to search for,’ said Caspar mildly.

I tried to tell him about the therapy, but that was more difficult; the illuminations I’d received on the couch slipped away from me, like beads of mercury under the press of a finger.

‘He helped me find a narrative to my life,’ I said ineptly, echoing what Alex had once said to me.

‘I’ve always thought,’ responded Caspar, ‘that the great appeal of psychoanalysis is that it enables us to tell the story of our own life.’

I couldn’t tell whether he was criticising or complimenting me – probably neither.

‘It’s hard to talk about it now; it’s weirdly hard to remember it as a chronology,’ I admitted. ‘It’s more like a kind of space, where I explored myself. I don’t know if I’ll continue with it, though – I don’t know what it would be for. Also’ – the wine bar was filling up now; I had to raise my voice against the hum and chink of a day ending – ‘also, it’s quite scary. I mean, I never really thought before how much pain people can carry around with them and still cope. And I’m still not sure whether dredging up memories and re-opening wounds is always right. Sometimes, horror should be left buried.’ I shuddered. ‘Not in my case, of course. But I think some things don’t need to be explained. And sometimes damage should be left in sealed containers, like nuclear waste. That’s heresy to therapists, of course. Except sceptical ones like Alex.’

‘I’m glad you’re sceptical too,’ said Caspar. ‘And I’m glad that you haven’t used the word empower.’

I laughed. Then I told him about the group I’d been to, and he didn’t say anything at all.