Read Online Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: S. J. Watson
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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
‘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
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