Before I Go to Sleep (8 page)

I nodded. It could do no harm, and though part of me wanted to rush home to my journal, to write down what Ben had told me, another part of me wanted to stay, hoping he might tell me more. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s.’

He grinned, and put his arm around my shoulders. The sky was dark for a moment, and then there was a crackle and fizz, and a thin whistle as a tiny spark shot high. It hung for a slow moment before exploding in orange brilliance with an echoing bang. It was beautiful.

‘Usually we go to a display,’ said Ben. ‘One of the big organized ones. But I forgot it was tonight.’ He nuzzled my neck with his chin. ‘Is this OK?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I looked out over the city, at the explosions of colour in the air above it, at the screeching lights. ‘This is fine. This way we get to see all the displays.’

He sighed. Our breath misted in the air in front of us, each mingled with that of the other, and we sat in silence, watching the sky turn to colour and light. The smoke rose from the gardens of the city, lit with violence – with red and orange, blue and purple – and the night air turned smoky, shot through with a flinty smell, dry and metallic. I licked my lips, tasted sulphur, and as I did so another memory struck.

It was needle-sharp. The sounds were too loud, the colours too bright. I felt, not like an observer, but instead as though I was still in the middle of it. I had the sensation I was falling backwards. I gripped Ben’s hand.

I saw myself, with a woman. She has red hair, and we are standing on a rooftop, watching fireworks. I can hear the rhythmic throb of music that plays in the room beneath our feet, and a cold wind blows, sending acrid smoke floating over us. Even though I am wearing only a thin dress I feel warm, buzzing with alcohol and the joint that I am still holding between my fingers. I feel gravel under my feet and remember I have discarded my shoes and left them in this girl’s bedroom downstairs. I look across at her as she turns to face me and feel alive, dizzily happy.

‘Chrissy,’ she says, taking the joint. ‘Fancy a tab?’

I don’t know what she means, and tell her.

She laughs. ‘You know!’ she says. ‘A tab. A trip. Acid. I’m pretty sure Nige has brought some. He told me he would.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

‘C’mon! It’d be fun!’

I laugh and take the joint back, inhaling a lungful as if to prove that I am not boring. We have promised ourselves that we will never be boring.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘It’s not my scene. I think I just want to stick to this. And beer. OK?’

‘I suppose so,’ she says, looking back over the railing. I can tell she is disappointed, though not angry with me, and wonder whether she will do it anyway. Without me.

I doubt it. I have never had a friend like her before. One who knows everything about me, whom I trust, sometimes even more than I trust myself. I look at her now, her red hair wind-whipped, the end of the joint glowing in the dark. Is she happy with the way her life is turning out? Or is it too early to say?

‘Look at that!’ she says, pointing to where a Roman candle has exploded, throwing the trees into silhouette in front of its red glare. ‘Fucking beautiful, isn’t it?’

I laugh, agreeing with her, and then we stand in silence for a few more minutes, passing the joint between us. Eventually she offers me what is left of the soggy roach and, when I refuse, grinds it into the asphalt with her booted foot.

‘We should go downstairs,’ she says, grabbing my arm. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

‘Not again!’ I say, but I go anyway. We step over a couple kissing on the stairs. ‘It’s not going to be another one of those pricks from your course, is it?’

‘Fuck off!’ she says, trotting down the stairs. ‘I thought you’d love Alan!’

‘I did!’ I said. ‘Right up until the moment he told me he was in love with a guy called Kristian.’

‘Yes, well,’ she laughs. ‘How was I supposed to know that Alan would decide to choose you to come out to? This one’s different. You’ll love him. I know it. Just say hello. There’s no pressure.’

‘OK,’ I say. I push the door open and we go into the party.

The room is large, with concrete walls and unshaded light-bulbs hanging from the ceiling. We make our way to the kitchen area and get ourselves a beer, then find a spot over by the window. ‘So where’s this guy, then?’ I say, but she doesn’t hear me. I feel the buzz of the alcohol and the weed and begin to dance. The room is full of people, dressed mostly in black. Fucking art students, I think.

Someone comes over and stands in front of us. I recognize him. Keith. We’ve met before, at a different party, where we ended up kissing in one of the bedrooms. Now, though, he’s talking to my friend, pointing to one of her paintings that hangs on the wall in the living room. I wonder whether he’s decided to ignore me, or can’t remember having met me before. Either way, I think, he’s a jerk. I finish my beer.

‘Want another?’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ says my friend. ‘Want to get them while I deal with Keith? And then I’ll introduce you to that bloke I mentioned. OK?’

I laugh. ‘OK. Whatever.’ I wander off, into the kitchen.

A voice, then. Loud in my ear. ‘Christine! Chris! Are you OK?’ I felt confused; the voice sounded familiar. I opened my eyes. With a start I realized I was outside, in the night air, on Parliament Hill, with Ben calling my name and fireworks in front of me turning the sky the colour of blood. ‘You had your eyes closed,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. My head spun, I could hardly breathe. I turned away from my husband, pretending to watch the rest of the display. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing. I’m fine. I’m fine.’

‘You’re shivering,’ he said. ‘Are you cold? Do you want to go home?’

I realized I was. I did. I wanted to record what I had just seen.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Do you mind?’

On the way home I thought back to the vision I had seen as we watched the fireworks. It had shocked me with its clarity, its hard edges. It had caught me, sucked me into it as if I were living it again. I felt everything, tasted everything. The cool air and the fizz of the beer. The burn of the weed at the back of my throat. Keith’s saliva, warm on my tongue. It felt real, almost more real than the life I had opened my eyes to when it vanished.

I didn’t know exactly when it was from. University, I supposed, or just after. The party I had seen myself at was the kind I imagined a student would enjoy. It did not have the feel of responsibility. It was carefree. Light.

And, though I could not remember her name, this woman was important to me. My best friend. For ever, I had thought, and even though I didn’t know who she was I had felt a sense of security with her, of safety.

I wondered briefly if we might still be close, and tried to talk to Ben about it as we drove. He was quiet – not unhappy, but distracted. For a moment I considered telling him everything about the vision, but instead I asked him who my friends were, when we met.

‘You had lots of friends,’ he said. ‘You were very popular.’

‘Did I have a best friend? Someone special?’

He glanced over at me then. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think so. Not particularly.’

I wondered why I couldn’t remember this woman’s name, yet had recalled Keith, and Alan.

‘You’re sure?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure.’ He turned back to face the road. It began to rain. Light from the shops, and from the neon signs above them, was reflected in the road. There is so much I want to ask him, I thought, but I said nothing and, after a few more minutes, it was too late. We were home, and he had begun cooking. It was too late.

As soon as I had finished writing, Ben called me down to our dinner. He had set the table and poured glasses of white wine, but I was not hungry and the fish was dry. I left most of my meal. Then – as Ben had cooked – I offered to wash up. I carried the plates through and ran hot water into the sink, all the time hoping that later I would be able to make an excuse and come upstairs to read my journal and perhaps write some more. But I could not – to spend so much time alone in our room would arouse suspicion – and so we spent the evening in front of the television.

I could not relax. I thought of my journal and watched the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece creep from nine, to ten, to ten thirty. Finally, as they approached eleven, I realized I would have no more time tonight, and said, ‘I think I’m going to turn in. It’s been a long day.’

He smiled, tilting his head. ‘OK, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll be up in a moment.’

I nodded and said OK, but as I left the room I felt a creeping dread. This man is my husband, I told myself, I am married to him, yet still I felt somehow as if going to bed with him was wrong. I could not remember ever having done so before, and did not know what to expect.

In the bathroom I used the toilet and brushed my teeth without looking at the mirror, or the photos arranged around it. I went into the bedroom and found my nightie folded on my pillow and began to get undressed. I wanted to be ready before he came in, to be under the covers. For a moment I had the absurd idea that I could pretend to be asleep.

I took off my pullover and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw the cream bra I had put on this morning and, as I did so, had a fleeting vision of myself as a child, asking my mother why she wore one when I did not, and her telling me that one day I would. And now that day was here, and it had not come gradually, but instantly. Here, even more obviously than the lines on my face and wrinkles on my hands, was the fact that I was not a girl any more but a woman. Here, in the soft plumpness of my breasts.

I pulled the nightie over my head and flattened it down. I reached underneath it and unhooked my bra, feeling the weight of my chest as I did so, and then unzipped my trousers and stepped out of them. I did not want to examine my body further, not tonight, and so, once I had peeled off the tights and knickers I had put on this morning, I slipped between the covers and, closing my eyes, turned on to my side.

I heard the clock downstairs chime, then a moment later Ben came into the room. I didn’t move but listened to him undress, then felt the sag of the bed as he sat on its edge. He was still for a moment, and then I felt his hand, heavy on my hip.

‘Christine?’ he said, half whispering. ‘Are you awake?’ I murmured that I was. ‘You remembered a friend today?’ he said. I opened my eyes and turned on to my back. I could see the broad expanse of his bare back, the fine hair that was scattered over his shoulders.

‘Yes,’ I said.

He turned to me. ‘What did you remember?’

I told him, though only vaguely. ‘A party,’ I said. ‘We were both students, I think.’

He stood up then and turned to get into bed. I saw that he was naked. His penis swung from its dark nest of hair and I had to suppress the urge to giggle. I could not remember ever seeing male genitals before, not even in books, yet they were not unfamiliar to me. I wondered how much of them I knew, what experiences I might have had. Almost involuntarily, I looked away.

‘You’ve remembered that party before,’ he said as he pulled back the bedclothes. ‘It comes to you fairly often, I think. You have certain memories that seem to crop up regularly.’

I sighed.
So it’s nothing new
, he seemed to be saying.
Nothing to get excited about
. He lay beside me and pulled the covers over us both. He didn’t turn out the light.

‘Do I remember things often?’ I said.

‘Yes. A few things. Most days.’

‘The same things?’

He turned to face me, propping himself on his elbow. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Usually. Yes. It’s rare there’s a surprise.’

I looked away from his face and up to the ceiling. ‘Do I ever remember you?’

He turned to me. ‘No,’ he said. He took my hand. Squeezed it. ‘But that’s OK. I love you. It’s OK.’

‘I must be a dreadful burden to you,’ I said.

He moved his hand and began to stroke my arm. There was a crackle of static. I flinched. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. I love you.’

He twisted his body into mine then, and kissed my lips.

I closed my eyes. Confused. Did he want to have sex? To me he was a stranger; though intellectually I knew we got into bed together every night, had done so since we were married, still my body had known him for less than a day.