Late Night Upset...

I returned this on Monday from a week in Edinburgh, seeing shows and visiting family with my family. Before that I had been, for a week, in Paris, observing the city and staying with a friend.
I was whacked out from jet-lag after not being able to get to sleep until hours like 6AM local time. It's been hard adjusting to living back in the UK, seeing things differently, accepting my family and friends not being remotely the same as those I'd spent so much time with...
Each morning I'd swan downstairs in this Parisian apartment, attempting to put on a face of action, wanting to sit around and do nothing but trying to force myself to care about art galleries and European culture. It seems my efforts did not convince her or my Freudian self.

We had dinner tonight, just the two of us, her husband being at the ever-present gym. We bought the ingredients in the upmarket, overpriced supermarket in the centre of the city before taking the train back to her suburban house. The evening was quiet, especially when she told me how I, separated by a floor and several rooms from her, woke her up three times that week, crying in my sleep.

I didn't know.

I don't remember these things, I have a reputation for not remembering my dreams and I, as per usual, have no recollection of this.

She tells me how she was woken by my sobs in the middle of the night and came to my room to see what was the matter, to attempt to comfort me only to find I was deep asleep, though clearly still wracked with grief.

How does one respond to this? What exactly was I supposed to say to the revelation that my unconscious mind was not coping as bravely and steadfastly as the image my waking brain managed to impress on the world.

I didn't know what to say. What can I say?