Before I Go to Sleep by S. J. Watson

Was it true? Had I learned to type? I let my fingers rest on the raised letters. They moved, effortlessly, my little fingers seeking the keys over which they belonged, the rest falling into place beside them. I closed my eyes and, without thinking, began to type, listening only to the sound of my breathing and the plastic clatter of the keys. When I had finished I looked at what I had done, at what was written in the box. I expected nonsense, but what I saw shocked me.
    The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog .
    I stared at the screen. It was true. I could touch-type. Maybe my vision was not invention but memory.
    Maybe I had written a novel.
    I ran into the bedroom. It didn’t make sense. For a moment I had the almost overwhelming feeling that I was going mad. The novel seemed to exist and not exist at the same time, to be real and also totally imaginary. I could remember nothing of it, nothing about its plot or characters, not even the reason I had given it its title, yet still it felt real, as if it beat within me like a heart.
    And why had Ben not told me? Not kept a copy on display? I pictured it, hidden in the house, wrapped in tissue, stored in a box in the loft or the cellar. Why?
    An explanation came to me. Ben had told me I had been working as a secretary. Perhaps that was why I could type: the only reason.
    I dug one of the phones out of my bag, not caring which one, hardly even caring who I rang. My husband or my doctor? Both seemed equally alien to me. I flipped it open and scrolled through the menu until I saw a name I recognized, then pressed the call button.
    ‘Dr Nash?’ I said, when the call was answered. ‘It’s Christine.’ He began to say something but I interrupted him. ‘Listen. Did I ever write anything?’
    ‘Sorry?’ he said. He sounded confused, and for a moment I had the sense I had done something terribly wrong. I wondered whether he even knew who I was, but then he said, ‘Christine?’
    I repeated what I had said. ‘I just remembered something. That I was writing something, years ago, when I first knew Ben, I think. A novel. Did I ever write a novel?’
    He didn’t seem to understand what I meant. ‘A novel?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I seem to remember wanting to be a writer, when I was little. I just wondered whether I ever wrote anything. Ben told me I worked as a secretary, but I was just thinking—’
    ‘He hasn’t told you?’ he said. ‘You were working on your second novel when you lost your memory. Your first was published. It was a success. I wouldn’t say it was a bestseller, but it was certainly a success.’
    The words spun in on each other. A novel. A success. Published. It was true, my memory had been real. I didn’t know what to say. What to think.
    I said goodbye, then came upstairs to write this.
     

     
    The bedside clock reads ten thirty. I imagine Ben will come to bed soon, but still I sit here on the edge of the bed, writing. I spoke to him after dinner. I had spent the afternoon fretful, pacing from one room to another, looking at everything as if for the first time, wondering why he would so thoroughly remove evidence of even this modest success. It didn’t make sense. Was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Had I written about him, our life together? Or was the reason something worse? Something darker I could not yet see?
    By the time he got home I had resolved to ask him directly, but now? Now that did not seem possible. It felt like I would be accusing him of lying.
    I spoke as casually as I could. ‘Ben?’ I said. ‘What did I do for a living?’ He looked up from the newspaper. ‘Did I have a job?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You worked as a secretary for a while. Just after we were married.’
    I tried to keep my voice even. ‘Really? I have the feeling I used to want to write.’
    He folded his pages together, giving me his full attention.
    ‘A feeling?’
    ‘Yes. I definitely remember loving books as a child. And I seem to have a vague memory of