- •I close my eyes. Even as my mind tries to reject this information I know, somewhere, that it is true. I hear myself start to cry again, and as I do so this
- •I follow him down. He shows me a living room – a brown sofa and matching chairs, a flat screen bolted to the wall which he tells me is a television –
- •I say yes, and we walk into the park. A path circles its edge, and there is a children’s playground nearby, next to a hut from which I see people
- •I smile, and look down, at my hands holding the hot drink, at the gold wedding band, at the short nails, at my legs, crossed politely. I don’t recognize
- •If that was what it took. I said I would explain to you why I wanted you to come and see me, and what I thought I could offer you.’
- •I don’t say anything. I take a sip of my drink and look around the café. It is almost empty. There are voices from a small kitchen at the back, the
- •I nod. ‘And the other?’
- •It difficult, but watching it now all I could see was my wrinkled fingers and the glint of the wedding ring on my left hand. When I had finished he seemed
- •I said yes. I wondered where he had got these photos, how much he knew of my life that I didn’t know myself.
- •In grease, an egg and some bread had been fried and sat on the side. As I ate he explained how I survive my life.
- •I look at my watch. If I write quickly I should have time.
- •I said nothing. The city sprawled before us under the low cloud. It seemed peaceful. And smaller than I imagined; I could see all the way across it to
- •I laughed. ‘Really?’ I couldn’t imagine myself as intimidating.
- •I tried to picture the scene, to remember the two of us, young, in a library, surrounded by soggy papers, laughing. I could not, and felt the hot stab of
- •I laugh. ‘ok. Whatever.’ I wander off, into the kitchen.
- •I thanked her and, for no reason I knew, and as if it explained what I had just done, told her my father was dead. ‘Fuck …’ she said, and, in what
- •I remembered all this. It exhausted me, this effort of will to search the void of my memory, trying to find any tiny detail that might trigger a
- •I nodded. Hearing him say it cemented it somehow, made it seem more real. It was almost as if the fact he was a doctor gave his words an
- •I don’t know what I expected him to do, or say. I suppose part of me wanted him to tell me how wrong I am, to try and convince me that my life is
- •I looked at the journals, stacked in haphazard piles on the shelves around the office. Is this how he intended to further his career, or make it more
- •I said goodbye, then came upstairs to write this.
- •In front of him. I felt awkward. Unsure how much to say.
- •It had felt true, though. I told myself that. Plus I could touch-type. Or I had written that I could …
- •I pull on my jeans. ‘No,’ I say, reaching for a t-shirt. ‘Get up. Please?’
- •I swallowed hard. What would they show me? Who? How bad could it be?
- •In my hand.
- •I nodded. An old friend. I knew that, of course – it was her name I so wanted.
- •I felt my mind begin to close down, to empty itself, to retreat into nothingness. ‘I never even knew him,’ I said.
- •I don’t know why, but as I read it my world seemed to collapse. Grief exploded in my chest like a grenade. I had been feeling calm – not happy, not
- •It doesn’t seem possible. My best friend, I had written, after remembering her on Parliament Hill, and I had felt the same sensation of closeness
- •I felt a sudden flush of love. Though I have barely remembered any of our time, our life, together – and tomorrow even that will have gone – I sensed
- •I looked at the boy. He had moved, was trying once again to push himself round, his legs barely reaching the ground from where he stood on the
- •I looked at him. He had said it with no sense of pain, or disappointment. For him it was a simple statement of fact. For a moment the roundabout
- •I tried to keep smiling, my voice cheery. ‘I bet she’s joking, though.’
- •It. ‘Thank God!’
- •I did this a memory was floating through me. I saw myself rolling on stockings, snapping home the fasteners on a suspender belt, hooking up a bra, but it
- •I heard his key in the lock, the door pushed open, feet being wiped on the mat. A whistle? Or was that the sound of my breathing, hard and heavy?
- •I stood up then, and went over to him. ‘Kiss me,’ I said, and, though I hadn’t exactly planned it, it felt like the right thing to do, and so I put my arms
- •I realized I do not have ambition. I cannot. All I want is to feel normal. To live like everybody else, with experience building on experience, each day
- •I looked there first. I pulled out the top drawer slowly, quietly. It was full of papers, in files labelled Home, Work, Finance. I flicked past the binders.
- •I looked away. My eyes rested on the photograph of the two of us that sat on the sideboard. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I know I wasn’t always like this.
- •I didn’t have to go. Dr Nash didn’t force me to agree to the trip. But, though I can’t remember doing so – can’t remember much at all, in fact – I must have
- •I thought of the picture I’d seen. The image was burned into me. Who did that to me? Why? I remembered the memory I’d had of the hotel room. It
- •I read my journal. They feel real. I remember Claire. Adam. My mother. But they’re like threads I can’t keep hold of. Balloons that float into the sky before I
- •It is there that memory fails me again. Though I remember looking at his face, I cannot remember what I saw. It is featureless, a blank. As if unable
- •I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.
- •I realized it could not have been him. He would barely have been born.
- •I wrote that an hour ago, but now I am not so sure. I think about Adam. I have read about the photographs in the metal box, yet still there are no pictures of
- •I found myself closing my eyes as he spoke. Images floated through me – images of Adam, and me, and Ben – but I couldn’t say whether they were
- •It was there. At the bottom of the box, inside an envelope. A photocopy of a news article, folded, its edges crisp. I knew what it was, almost before I
- •I began to tidy the papers away. I should have trusted him, I thought. All along. I should have believed that he was keeping things from me only
- •I must have sounded upset, because she said, ‘Chrissy darling, whatever’s wrong?’
- •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
- •I wondered what she meant, but didn’t ask her. It can wait, I thought. There were more important things I needed to know.
- •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
- •I had been looking for it.
- •I stood up and turned to face her. I didn’t know if I would have preferred to turn and run myself, so vast was the chasm between us, but then she held
- •I said nothing. Instead I tried to imagine what it must have been like, to have seen my child every day, back when the phrase every day had some
- •I tried to picture myself, arguing with Ben, looking after a baby, trying to write. I imagined bottles of milk, or Adam at my breast. Dirty nappies.
- •I interrupted. ‘I was seeing someone.’
- •I was sobbing now, my body heaving, gasping for breath. Crying for all the years that I had lost, and for all those that I would continue to lose
- •I wondered what had been so special about the man in the café. Claire had said that I’d told her he was nice. Attractive. Was that all it was? Was I
- •I felt a surge of love for my husband. Real. Unforced. Despite everything, he had taken me in. Looked after me.
- •I could see it all. The hand on the shoulder, then the hug. The mouths that find each other through the tears, the moment when guilt and the certainty
- •I looked at her. I still didn’t feel angry. I couldn’t. Perhaps if she had told me that they were still sleeping together I might have felt differently. What
- •I think that’s when things started to get difficult. You loved Adam so much. It shone out of your eyes when we arrived, and he would run
- •I have been wrong. I have made a mistake. Again and again and again I have made it; who knows how many times? My husband is my protector,
- •I go downstairs and make myself a drink. Boiling water, a teabag. Don’t let it stew too long, and don’t compress the bag with the back of the spoon
- •I want to trust him now. No more lies.
- •I look at him. I can see that he doesn’t want to tell me. The man who wrote the letter, the man who believed in me and cared for me, and who, in the
- •I close the book.
- •I close my eyes. I think back to what I read about our son this afternoon and an image explodes in front of me – Adam as a toddler pushing the blue
- •I am silent. I can think of nothing to say. We both know how senseless it would be for me to try to defend myself, to tell him that he is wrong. We both
- •I tried to remember. Had I written about our first conversation?
- •I felt his hands grip tight, his fingers and nails digging into my skin even through the cotton of my blouse.
- •Images entered my head, of Adam as he might be now, fragments of scenes I may have missed, but none would hold. Each image
- •I fell silent. Nothing made sense. Yet she was right. I have only been keeping my journal for a couple of weeks. Before that, anything
- •I focus on the picture. Images come to me; the two of us, a sunny afternoon. We’d hired a boat somewhere. I don’t know where.
- •Image came to me. A man with narrow, dark-rimmed glasses and black hair. Ben. I say his name again, as if to lock the image in my mind. ‘Ben.’
- •I shift further back, sliding on my haunches. I hit something solid and feel the warm, sticky radiator behind me. I realize I am under the window at the
- •It for a while, at least since I first told him about it a week ago. ‘How long have you been reading my journal?’
- •I wanted to kiss you, there and then, but I couldn’t, and because I didn’t want you to think that I’d run across the road just to help you I went into the café too,
- •I shake my head. I have decided to let him speak. I want to find out everything he has to say.
- •I am incredulous. ‘You want me to remember?’
- •I still don’t know what he wants from me.
- •I cough, a dry, heaving retch, swallowed by the sock balled in my throat. I am beginning to choke. I think of my son. I will never see him now, though
- •I am lying down. I have been asleep, but not for long. I can remember who I am, where I have been. I can hear noise, the roar of traffic, a siren that is
- •I don’t want to think about where I’d be.
- •I think of this man discovering my journal, reading it every day. Why didn’t he destroy it?
- •I lay back. I felt tired. Exhausted. I wanted only to sleep, but was frightened to. Frightened of what I might forget.
- •I shook my head. ‘He burned it. That’s what caused the fire.’
- •I look at my sleeping husband, silhouetted in the dim room. I remember us meeting, that night of the party, the night I watched the fireworks with
I was sobbing now, my body heaving, gasping for breath. Crying for all the years that I had lost, and for all those that I would continue to lose
between now and the day that I died. Crying because, however hard it had been for her to tell me about the affair, and my marriage, and my son, she
would have to do it all again tomorrow. Crying mostly, though, because I had brought all this on myself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Claire stood up and came round the table. She crouched beside me, her arm around my shoulder, and I rested my head against hers. ‘There,
there,’ she said as I sobbed. ‘It’s all right, Chrissy darling. I’m here now. I’m here.’
We left the café. As if unwilling to be outdone, Toby had become boisterously noisy after my own outburst – he threw his colouring book on the floor, along
with a plastic cup of juice. Claire cleaned up and then said, ‘I need to get some air. Shall we?’
Now we sat on one of the benches that overlooked the park. Our knees were angled towards each other, and Claire held my hands in hers, stroking
them as if they were cold.
‘Did I—’ I began. ‘Did I have lots of affairs?’
She shook her head. ‘No. None. We had fun at university, you know? But no more than most. And once you met Ben that stopped. You were always
faithful to him.’
I wondered what had been so special about the man in the café. Claire had said that I’d told her he was nice. Attractive. Was that all it was? Was I
really so shallow?
My husband was both of those things, I thought. If only I’d been content with what I had.
‘Ben knew I was having an affair?’
‘Not at first. No. Not until you were found. It was a dreadful shock for him. For all of us. At first it looked as though you might not even live. Later, Ben
asked me if I knew why you’d been in Brighton. I told him. I had to. I’d already told the police all I knew. I had no choice but to tell Ben.’
Guilt punctured me once more as I thought of my husband, of the father of my son, trying to work out why his dying wife had turned up miles away
from home. How could I do this to him?
‘He forgave you, though,’ said Claire. ‘He never held it against you, ever. All he cared about was that you lived, and that you got better. He would
have given everything for that. Everything. Nothing else mattered.’
I felt a surge of love for my husband. Real. Unforced. Despite everything, he had taken me in. Looked after me.
‘Will you talk to him?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Of course! But about what?’
‘He’s not telling me the truth,’ I said. ‘Or not always, anyway. He’s trying to protect me. He tells me what he thinks I can cope with, what he thinks I
want to hear.’
‘Ben wouldn’t do that,’ she said. ‘He loves you. He always has.’
‘Well, he is,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know I know. He doesn’t know I’m writing things down. He doesn’t tell me about Adam, other than when I remember
him and ask. He doesn’t tell me he left me. He tells me you live on the other side of the world. He doesn’t think I can cope. He’s given up on me, Claire.
Whatever he used to be like, he’s given up on me. He doesn’t want me to see a doctor because he doesn’t think I will ever get any better, but I’ve been
seeing one, Claire. A Dr Nash. In secret. I can’t even tell Ben.’
Claire’s face fell. She looked disappointed. In me, I suppose. ‘That’s not good,’ she said. ‘You ought to tell him. He loves you. He trusts you.’
‘I can’t. He only admitted he was still in touch with you the other day. Until then he’d been saying he hadn’t spoken to you in years.’
Her expression of disapproval changed. For the first time I could see that she was surprised.
‘Chrissy!’
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I know he loves me. But I need him to be honest with me. About everything. I don’t know my own past. And only he can help me. I
need him to help me.’
‘Then you should just talk to him. Trust him.’
‘But how can I?’ I said. ‘With all the things he’s lied to me about? How can I?’
She squeezed my hands in hers. ‘Chrissy, Ben loves you. You know he does. He loves you more than life itself. He always has.’
‘But—’ I began, but she interrupted.
‘You have to trust him. Believe me. You can sort everything out, but you have to tell him the truth. Tell him about Dr Nash. Tell him what you’ve been
writing. It’s the only way.’
Somewhere, deep down, I knew she was right, but still I could not convince myself I should tell Ben about my journal.
‘But he might want to read what I’ve written.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘There’s nothing in there you wouldn’t want him to see, is there?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Is there? Chrissy?’
I looked away. We didn’t speak, and then she opened her bag.
‘Chrissy,’ she said. ‘I’m going to give you something. Ben gave it to me, when he decided he needed to leave you.’ She took out an envelope and
handed it to me. It was creased, but still sealed. ‘He told me it explained everything.’ I stared at it. My name was written on the front in capitals. ‘He asked
me to give it to you, if I ever thought you were well enough to read it.’ I looked up at her, feeling every emotion at once. Excitement, and fear. ‘I think it’s
time you read it,’ she said.
I took it from her, and put it in my bag. Though I didn’t know why, I didn’t want to read it there, in front of Claire. Perhaps I was worried that she would
be able to read its contents reflected in my face, and they would no longer be mine to own.
‘Thank you,’ I said. She did not smile.
‘Chrissy,’ she said. She looked down, at her hands. ‘There’s a reason Ben tells you I moved away.’ I felt my world begin to change, though in what
way I was not yet certain. ‘I have to tell you something. About why we lost touch.’
I knew then. Without her saying anything, I knew. The missing piece of the puzzle, the reason Ben had gone, the reason my best friend had
disappeared from my life and my husband had lied about why this had happened. I had been right. All along. I had been right.
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Oh God. It’s true. You’re seeing Ben. You’re fucking my husband.’
She looked up, horrified. ‘No!’ she said. ‘No!’
A certainty overtook me. I wanted to shout Liar! but I did not. I was about to ask her again what she wanted to tell me when she wiped something
from her eye. A tear? I don’t know.
‘Not now,’ she whispered, then looked back to the hands in her lap. ‘But we were once.’
Of all the emotions I might have expected to feel, relief wasn’t one of them. But it was true: I felt relieved. Because she was being honest? Because now I
had an explanation for everything, one that I could believe? I’m not sure. But the anger that I may have felt was not there; neither was the pain. Perhaps I
was happy to feel a tiny spark of jealousy, concrete proof that I loved my husband. Perhaps I was just relieved that Ben had an infidelity to go with my own,
that we were equal now. Quits.
‘Tell me,’ I whispered.
She did not look up. ‘We were always close,’ she said, softly. ‘The three of us, I mean. You. Me. Ben. But there had never been anything between
me and him. You must believe that. Never.’ I told her to go on. ‘After your accident I tried to help out in whatever way I could. You can imagine how terribly
difficult it was for Ben. Just on a practical level if nothing else. Having to look after Adam … I did what I could. We spent a lot of time together. But we
didn’t sleep together. Not then. I swear, Chrissy.’
‘So when?’ I said. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Just before you were moved to Waring House,’ she said.
‘You were at your worst. Adam was being difficult. Things were tough.’ She looked away. ‘Ben was drinking. Not too much, but enough. He wasn’t coping.
One night we got back from visiting you. I put Adam to bed. Ben was in the living room crying. “I can’t do it,” he kept saying. “I can’t keep doing this. I love
her, but it’s killing me.”’
The wind gusted up the hill. Cold. Biting. I pulled my coat around my body.
‘I sat next to him. And …’