Before I Go to Sleep (31 page)

‘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?’

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?’