I begin to see it all. Though I have no memory, somehow I know how these things work. The casual meeting, the exchange of a drink. The appeal of talking to—confiding in—a stranger, one who does not judge or take sides, because he can’t. The gradual acceptance into confidence, leading… to what?
I have seen the photographs of the two of us, taken years ago. We look happy. It is obvious where those confidences led us. He was attractive, too. Not film-star handsome, but better-looking than most; it is not difficult to see what drew me. At some point, I must have started scanning the door anxiously as I sat trying to work, thinking more carefully about what clothes I would wear when I went to the café, whether to add a dash of perfume. And, one day, one or the other of us must have suggested we go for a walk, or to a bar, or maybe even to catch a film, and our friendship slipped over a line, into something else, something infinitely more dangerous.
I close my eyes and try to imagine it, and as I do, I begin to remember. The two of us, in bed, naked. Semen drying on my stomach, in my hair, me turning to him as he begins to laugh and kiss me again. “Mike!” I am saying. “Stop it! You have to leave soon. Ben’s back later today and I have to pick Adam up. Stop it!” But he doesn’t listen. Instead he leans in, his mustachioed face in mine, and we are kissing again, forgetting about everything, about my husband, about my child. With a sickening plunge, I realize that a memory of this day has come to me before. That day, as I had stood in the kitchen of the house I once shared with my husband, I had not been remembering my husband but my lover. The man I was fucking while my husband was at work. That’s why he had to leave that day. Not just to catch a train—but because the man I was married to would be returning home.
I open my eyes. I am back in the hotel room and he is still crouching in front of me.
“Mike,” I say. “Your name is Mike.”
“You remember!” he says. He is pleased. “Chris! You remember!”
Hate bubbles up in me. “I remember your name,” I say. “Nothing else. Just your name.”
“You don’t remember how much in love we were?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think I could ever have loved you, or surely I would remember more.”
I say it to hurt him, but his reaction surprises me. “You don’t remember Ben, though, do you? You can’t have loved him. And not Adam, either.”
“You’re sick,” I say. “How fucking dare you! Of course I loved him! He was my son!”
“Is. Is your son. But you wouldn’t recognize him if he walked in, now. Would you? You think that’s love? And where is he? And where is Ben? They walked out on you, Christine. Both of them. I’m the only one who never stopped loving you. Not even when you left me.”
It is then that it hits me, finally, properly. How else could he have known about this room, about so much of my past?
“Oh my God,” I say. “It was you! It was you who did this to me! You who attacked me!”
He moves over to me then. He wraps his arms around me, as if to embrace me, and begins to stroke my hair. “Christine, darling,” he murmurs, “don’t say that. Don’t think about it. It’ll just upset you.”
I try to push him off me, but he is strong. He squeezes me tighter.
“Let me go!” I say. “Please, let me go!” My words are lost in the folds of his shirt.
“My love,” he says. He has begun to rock me, as if soothing a baby. “My love. My sweet, my darling. You should never have left me. Don’t you see? None of this would have happened if you hadn’t left.”
Memory comes again. We are sitting in a car, at night. I am crying, and he is staring out of the window, utterly silent. “Say something,” I am saying. “Anything. Mike?”
“You don’t mean it,” he says. “You can’t.”
“I’m sorry. I love Ben. We have our problems, yes, but I love him. He’s the person I am meant to be with. I’m sorry.”
I am aware that I am trying to keep things simple, so that he will understand. I have come to realize, over the past few months with Mike, that it is better this way. Complicated things confuse him. He likes order. Routine. Things mixing in precise proportions with predictable results. Plus, I don’t want to get too mired in details.
“It’s because I came over to your house, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Chris. I won’t do that again. I promise. I just wanted to see you, and I wanted to explain to your husband—”
I interrupt him. “Ben. You can say his name. It’s Ben.”
“Ben,” he says, as if trying the word for the first time and finding it unpleasant. “I wanted to explain things to him. I wanted to tell him the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you don’t love him anymore. That you love me now. That you want to be with me. That was all I was going to say.”
I sigh. “Don’t you see that, even if it were true—which it isn’t—it’s not you who should be saying that to him? It’s me. You had no right to just turn up at the house.”
As I speak, I think about what a lucky escape I have had. Ben was in the shower, Adam playing in the dining room, and I was able to persuade Mike that he ought to go home before either of them were aware of his presence. That was the night I decided I had to end the affair.
“I have to go now,” I say. I open the car door, step out onto the gravel. “I’m sorry.”
He leans across to look at me. I think how attractive he is, that if he had been less damaged, my marriage might have been in real trouble. “Will I see you again?” he says.
“No,” I reply. “No. It’s over.”
Yet here we are now, all these years later. He is holding me again, and I understand that no matter how scared I was of him, I was not scared enough. I begin to scream.
“Darling,” he says. “Calm down.” He puts his hand over my mouth and I scream louder. “Calm down! Someone will hear you!” My head smacks backward, connects with the radiator behind me. There is no change in the music from the club next door—if anything, it is louder now. They won’t, I think. They will never hear me. I scream again.
“Stop it!” he says. He has hit me, I think, or else shaken me. I begin to panic. “Stop it!” My head hits the warm metal again and I am stunned into silence. I begin to sob.
“Let me go,” I say, pleading with him. “Please—” He relaxes his grip a little, though not enough for me to wriggle free. “How did you find me? All these years later? How did you find me?”
“Find you?” he says. “I never lost you.” My mind whirs, uncomprehending. “I watched over you. Always. I protected you.”
“You visited me? In those places? The hospital, Waring House?” I begin. “But—?”
He sighs. “Not always. They wouldn’t have let me. But I would sometimes tell them I was there to see someone else, or that I was a volunteer. Just so that I could see you, and make sure you were all right. At that last place it was easier. All those windows…”
I go cold. “You watched me?”
“I had to know you were all right, Chris. I had to protect you.”
“So you came back for me? Is that it? Wasn’t what you did here, in this room, enough?”
“When I found out that bastard had left you, I couldn’t just leave you in that place. I knew you’d want to be with me. I knew it was the best thing for you. I had to wait for a while, wait until I knew there was no one still there to try and stop me, but who else would have looked after you?”