Read Online Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S. J. Watson
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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.
‘I’m very tired, Ben,’ I said.
He lowered his voice, and began to murmur. ‘I know, my darling,’ he said. He kissed me, softly on the cheek, my lips, my eyes. ‘I know.’ His hand moved lower, beneath the covers, and I felt a wave of anxiety begin to build within me, almost panic.
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I grabbed his hand and stopped its descent. I resisted the urge to fling it away as if it were revolting and stroked it instead. ‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘Not tonight. OK?’
He said nothing, but withdrew his hand and lay on his back. Disappointment came off him in waves. I didn’t know what to say. Some part of me thought I should apologize, but some larger part told me I had done nothing wrong. And so we lay in silence, in bed but not touching, and I wondered how often this happens. How often he comes to bed and craves sex, whether I ever want it myself, or even feel able to give it to him, and if this is always what happens, this awkward silence, if I do not.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ he said,
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.
‘I’m very tired, Ben,’ I said.
He lowered his voice, and began to murmur. ‘I know, my darling,’ he said. He kissed me, softly on the cheek, my lips, my eyes. ‘I know.’ His hand moved lower, beneath the covers, and I felt a wave of anxiety begin to build within me, almost panic.
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I grabbed his hand and stopped its descent. I resisted the urge to fling it away as if it were revolting and stroked it instead. ‘I’m tired,’ I said. ‘Not tonight. OK?’
He said nothing, but withdrew his hand and lay on his back. Disappointment came off him in waves. I didn’t know what to say. Some part of me thought I should apologize, but some larger part told me I had done nothing wrong. And so we lay in silence, in bed but not touching, and I wondered how often this happens. How often he comes to bed and craves sex, whether I ever want it myself, or even feel able to give it to him, and if this is always what happens, this awkward silence, if I do not.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ he said,
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