‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said. I felt a surge of pleasure, certain that her question meant that she was not seeing Ben, followed by the realization that she might be asking me so that I don’t suspect the truth. I wanted so much to trust her – to know that Ben had not left me because of something he had found in her, some love to replace that which had been taken from me – because doing so meant that I could trust my husband as well. ‘Crouch End?’ I said.
‘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 mo
re, 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?’
‘Chris,’ he began, then, ‘What—’
‘It’s not fair, Ben,’ I said. ‘You have no right to keep these things to yourself. To tell me lies just because it’s easier for you. No right.’
He stood up. ‘Easier for me?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Easier for me? You think I told you that Claire lives abroad because it was easier for me? You’re wrong, Christine. Wrong. None of this is easy for me. None of it. I don’t tell you you’ve written a novel because I can’t bear to remember how much you wanted to write another, or to see the pain when you realize you never will. I told you that Claire lives abroad because I can’t stand to hear the pain in your voice when you realize that she abandoned you in that place. Left you there to rot, like all the others.’ He waited for a reaction. ‘Did she tell you that?’ he said when none came, and I thought, No, no she didn’t, and in fact today I read in my journal that she used to visit me all the time.
He said it again. ‘Did she tell you that? That she stopped visiting as soon as she realized that fifteen minutes after she left you’d forgotten she even existed? Sure, she might ring up at Christmas to find out how you’re doing, but it was me who stood by you, Chris. Me who visited you every single day. Me who was there, who waited, praying for you to be well enough that I could come and take you away from there, and bring you here, to live with me, in safety. Me. I didn’t lie to you because it was easy for me. Don’t you ever make the mistake of thinking that I did. Don’t you ever!’
I remembered reading what Dr Nash had told me. I looked him in the eye. Except you didn’t, I thought. You didn’t stand by me.
‘Claire said you divorced me.’
He froze, then stepped back, as if punched. His mouth opened, then closed. It was almost comical. At last a single word escaped.
‘Bitch.’
His face melted into fury. I thought he was going to hit me, but found I didn’t care.
‘Did you divorce me?’ I said. ‘Is it true?’
‘Darling—’
I stood up. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Tell me!’ We stood, opposite each other. I didn’t know what he was going to do, didn’t know what I wanted him to do. I only knew I needed him to be honest. To tell me no more lies. ‘I just want the truth.’
He stepped forward and fell to his knees in front of me, grasping for my hands. ‘Darling—’
‘Did you divorce me? Is it true, Ben? Tell me!’ His head dropped, then he looked up at me, his eyes wide, frightened. ‘Ben!’ I shouted. He began to cry. ‘Ben. She told me about Adam, too. She told me we had a son. I know he’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought it was for the best.’ And then, through gentle sobs, he said he would tell me everything.
The light had faded completely, night replacing dusk. Ben switched on a lamp and we sat in its rosy glow, opposite each other, across the dining table.
There was a pile of photographs between us, the same ones I had looked at earlier. I feigned surprise as he passed each one to me, telling me of its origins. He lingered on the photos of our wedding – telling me what an amazing day it had been, how special, explaining how beautiful I had looked – but then began to get upset. ‘I never stopped loving you, Christine,’ he said. ‘You have to believe that. It was your illness. You had to go into that place, and, well … I couldn’t … I couldn’t bear it. I would’ve followed you. I would’ve done anything to get you back. Anything. But they … they wouldn’t … I couldn’t see you … they said it was for the best.’
‘Who?’ I said. ‘Who said?’ He was silent. ‘The doctors?’
He looked up at me. He was crying, his eyes circled with red.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. The doctors. They said it was for the best. It was the only way …’ He wiped away a tear. ‘I did as they told me. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d fought for you. I was weak, and stupid.’ His voice softened to a whisper. ‘I stopped seeing you, yes,’ he said, ‘but for your own sake. Even though it nearly killed me, I did it for you, Christine. You have to believe me. You, and our son. But I never divorced you. Not really. Not here.’ He leaned over and took my hand, pressing it to his shirt. ‘Here, we’ve always been married. We’ve always been together.’ I felt warm cotton, damp with sweat. The quick beat of his heart. Love.
I have been so foolish, I thought. I have allowed myself to believe he did these things to hurt me, when really he tells me he has done them out of love. I should not condemn him. Instead I should try to understand.
‘I forgive you,’ I said.
Thursday, 22 November
Today, when I woke up, I opened my eyes and saw a man sitting on a chair in the room in which I found myself. He was sitting perfectly still. Watching me. Waiting.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t know who he was, but I didn’t panic. Some part of me knew that everything was all right. That he had a right to be there.
‘Who are you?’ I said. ‘How did I get here?’ He told me. I felt no horror, no disbelief. I understood. I went to the bathroom and approached my reflection as I might a long-forgotten relative, or the ghost of my mother. Cautious. Curious. I dressed, getting used to my body’s new dimensions and unexpected behaviours, and then ate breakfast, dimly aware that, once, there might have been three places at the table. I kissed my husband goodbye and it didn’t feel wrong to do so; then, without knowing why, I opened the shoebox in the wardrobe, and found this journal. I knew straight away what it was. I had been looking for it.