Page 15 of Insomnia

“An admirer. Clever Emma.” She smirks.“A toast to Emma.”

I’m so tired it takes a moment for her meaning to sink in, and when it does, I’m almost too shocked to speak. “Me? You think it’s me?”

“You both work late all the time. Neither of you is that interested in sex...”—Oh, okay Robert, that’s one for us to talk about,I think as she powers on—“and before he turned his Find my iPhone off he was always parked around here when he was telling me he was still at work.”

“It’s the center of town, Michelle! He could have been seeing anyone. It could even have been work meetings. But whatever hewas doing, he wasn’t doing me. And since it’s something you and Robert have clearly talked about, we have less sex because we’ve got a small child and I’ve got a job that makes me work twelve hours a day, and then I still have to supervise stuff at home because men are generally shit at clothes and homework and paying attention to the details, and so basically I’m bloody knackered all the time. And for the record, he’s not exactly trying to jump me every night either.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but at least there’s a hint of doubt in her expression. “So why is Julian always singing your praises?”

“I don’t know. But honest to god, Michelle, I don’t have the energy to shag my own husband, I’m certainly not making time to shag yours.”

The fight goes out of both of us, and she’s on the verge of tears. “Look,” I say. “Maybe he’s got work worries or money worries you don’t know about. Or he could be having a mid-life crisis. Youhaveto get him to talk. I can recommend a lot of great marriage therapists and counselors.”

“He’d never see one of those.”

“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that before, and then people have changed their minds.” I glance at the clock. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got a client call to do and then a conference. But what you’ve said is absolutely confidential, and if you need to come back and discuss your options, then do. Okay?”

“Thank you.” She gets up. She’s still prickly and I’m not sure she’s entirely let go of her suspicions, or maybe, and more likely, she’s embarrassed she’s raised them with me.

“Oh, and I’m sorry,” I add, as she reaches the door. “About the weekend. Snapping at Ben. I get so little time with Will, I get protective.”

She goes without saying anything more, and I’m irritated thatI tried to smooth things over. She could at least have apologized in return for snapping back.

“Emma?” Rosemary comes in. “There’s some potential client call backs for you.” She puts four phone notes on my desk, and then lingers, hesitant.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s... I’m having a problem with the letters you wanted doing. I’m not sure... well, it’s a bit odd.”

I frown. “Which one?”

She closes the door behind her. “All of them.”

“I don’t understand.” What’s she talking about? “There should be three on the tape. For the Marshall, Smith, and Michaels cases? I dictated them last night.”

She doesn’t move for a moment and I’ve never seen her look so uncomfortable. Eventually she says, “Something must have gone wrong,” before handing me the Dictaphone as if it were made of hot coals, and confused, I press play. There’s a moment of static and then a harsh, urgent whispering fills the quiet room. Rapid and angry.

“...two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and eighteen two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and eighteen two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and...”

I almost drop the small machine as I gasp. The whispering continues and I’m sure the temperature in the room drops slightly with each word.

“...eighteen two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and eighteen two hundred and twenty-two one hundred and thirteen one...”

It’s her,is my immediate thought. I’m back in my childhoodwith my mother pacing and muttering, the sequence of numbers an agitated harshly whispered mantra spewing from her mouth. It takes almost thirty seconds before the awful truth dawns on me.

It’s not her. It’sme. Barely recognizable, but me.

I click the Dictaphone off and tighten my fingers to stop the shaking in my hands showing. How can that be me? I don’t remember that. It wasletters. I dictated letters. Not that. Nothernumbers.

“It’s the same all the way through,” Rosemary says, nervous. “An hour of it.”

I force a laugh.Her numbers from my mouth.“Oh, I think I know what’s happened.” My throat is so dry I think I’m going to be sick. “It’s a meditation trick. I was doing it last night to get to sleep and I must have accidentally recorded over the letters.”

Did I even dictate the letters at all? Did I just think I did? How can I not know?

“Oh, that’s all right then.” Despite the several massive holes in my story–why would I have my Dictaphone near me when I was trying to get to sleep for one—Rosemary smiles with relief. “But how annoying.”

“I’ll get them done again before Mr. Wither’s conference this afternoon. Okay?” My grin is fixed, rictus-like, on my face.

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