Second Life (14 page)

‘It might just be some weirdo.’

‘It might, I guess.’

‘Have you talked to Adrienne?’

‘No,’ I say. I’d meant to the other night, but was worried she already thought I
was crazy.

‘What are you going to do?’

I tell her I don’t know. ‘But it feels so real. I swear. I’m not crazy.’

‘Of course not,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think that for a second. Also, it’s a pretty
logical response to what’s happened.’

I’m relieved. Even if Anna is humouring me, at least she’s doing that rather than
trying to convince me I’m mistaken, or insane.

‘How’re things with that guy? The one you’ve been messaging. The one you think might
have something to do with Kate.’

‘Lukas?’

Should I tell her? Or will she just tell me to give the information to the police
and then walk away?

‘Not sure,’ I say. I give her some details. More than I gave Adrienne, but not everything.
‘We’re messaging occasionally. There’s something about him. Something I can’t quite
put my finger on. It’s probably nothing . . .’

Is it, though? He’s still pursuing me. Or I’m pursuing him; I can’t tell. Either
way, I’ve turned my camera on, too, now.
Last night. Just for a moment, less than
a minute. But I’ve let him see me.

Yet I don’t tell her that.

‘Well, I heard back from that guy I messaged. The one from Kate’s list? Harenglish.’

‘You did?’

And you didn’t tell me? I think, I guess he must have had nothing to do with it.

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing much. But he said he isn’t looking to meet people, not in real life. He’s
online for a bit of fun. Sexy chats, he said. But online only. He loves his wife
too much to risk anything else.’

‘You believe him?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

It’s the day of Carla’s party. She lives miles away, halfway to Guildford. Hugh drives,
Connor sits behind me, listening to music on his iPod, far too loud. Last year we’d
all enjoyed the day; I’d taken a salad I’d made – grilled aubergines, a salmon with
preserved lemons – and even bought a new dress. Connor had got on well with the neighbour’s
children, Hugh had enjoyed relaxing with his colleagues. Now, I don’t want to be
here; I’d had to be persuaded. ‘It’ll be fun,’ said Hugh. ‘Connor will get to see
his friends, and it’ll be a chance for you to show him how well you’re coping.’

Am I coping, though? I think about Lukas. He’s at a wedding today, and last night
I gave him my number, after we’d talked, after I’d told him about the man I thought
I’d seen outside my window, after he’d given me his.

Now I wish I hadn’t. I feel bad enough about leading him on.

I turn to look at Hugh. Lukas had said he wished he could
protect me, that he’d never
let anyone hurt me. I’d felt safe. But my husband? He’s sitting forward, his eyes
fixed on the road. It’s how I imagine he looks in theatre. Scalpel in hand, crouching
over a body that’s been split like a gutted fish. Would he protect me? Of course
not. He thinks I’m making it up.

Carla greets us with a flurry of smiles and kisses then takes us through the house
to the patio. Hugh goes over to Carla’s husband, Connor towards a picnic blanket
where the other kids are clustered. I spot Maria and Paddy standing with a few others
and join them.

Maria embraces me, then her husband does. They’re talking about work; Maria mentions
the conference in Geneva. She begins to describe the work she presented – she mentions
anterior descending arteries, calcification, ischaemia – and the others either nod
or look confused. There’s an older man standing next to Paddy and I remember him
from last year, a barrister, from Dunfermline, and when Maria finishes he says, ‘Sounds
utterly impenetrable!’ and everyone laughs. A moment later he turns to me.

‘And how do you fit in? Do you butcher people for a living, too?’

There’s a moment of silence. Kate hadn’t been butchered, but still the word stings.
An image of my sister comes and I can’t shake it away. I open my mouth to answer
but no words come.

Paddy tries to rescue me.

‘Julia’s a photographer.’ He smiles and turns to me. ‘Very talented.’

I try to smile, but I can’t. I’m still looking at Kate, her flesh torn, exposed,
dying. The man I’m being introduced to has his hand out, he’s smiling.

‘Will you excuse me?’ I say. ‘I’m just going to the bathroom.’

I lock the door behind me and lean against it. I inhale deeply then step forward.
The window is open; laughter drifts up from the patio below.

I shouldn’t have come here, I should’ve made an excuse. I’m sick of pretending everything’s
normal, when it isn’t. I take out my phone. It’s automatic, instinctive, I’m not
sure why I do it, but I’m glad. I’ve had a message from Lukas.

‘The wedding’s fun. I’m drunk already. Thinking of you.’

Despite the blackness I’m feeling, joy rushes in, as if to disinfect a wound. It’s
not because the message is from him, I tell myself. It’s the simple thrill of being
wanted.

By now I know how Kate would’ve replied. ‘I’m at a dreadful party,’ I type. ‘Wish
you were here . . .’

I press send. I rinse my hands in cold water then splash some on my face and my neck.
It trickles down, under my dress to the small of my back, lighting up my skin. I
look out of the window.

Connor is outside. He’s sitting on the grass with another boy and a girl. They’re
laughing at something; he seems particularly close to the girl. I realize it won’t
be long until he’s dating, then having sex, and then part of him will be lost to
me for ever. It’s necessary, but it fills me with sadness.

He lifts his hand to wave at his father. It strikes me how much he looks like Kate,
when she was his age. They have the same slight roundness to their face, the same
half-grin that can disappear and reappear in an instant.

He looks like his mother. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Yet it is, and it hurts.

I rejoin the group, but I can’t tune into the conversation. Why had I been so excited
to get Lukas’s message? Why had I replied to him? The questions circle and after
a minute or two I excuse myself and go to say hello to Connor. He’s with his friends,
I’m interrupting him, and I feel bad. I move on, to the summer house tucked away
at the side of the garden, between the house and the gate that leads to where the
cars are parked. It’s octagonal and painted mint green, filled with cushions. When
I get there I see that the doors are open, and that it’s empty.

I sit down and lean back against the wood. The babble of conversation continues.
I close my eyes. The smell is of recently varnished wood; it reminds me of the only
childhood holiday I can remember from when my mother was alive, a chalet we rented
in the Forest of Dean. I can picture her, standing at the stove, boiling water for
my father’s coffee while I fed Kate. She’s singing along to a radio, humming to herself,
and Kate is giggling at something. We were all alive, then, and mostly happy. But
that was before the slow process of dislocation that ended only when my sister’s
death left me totally alone.

I want a drink. Right now. I want a drink and, worse, more dangerous, I think I deserve
one.

A shadow falls across my face. I open my eyes; there’s a figure in the doorway in
front of me, silhouetted against the afternoon light. It takes me only a moment to
realize it’s Paddy.

‘Hi!’ He sounds bright but his enthusiasm is slightly forced. ‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’ He steps forward. He stumbles on the low step. He’s drunker than I’d
thought.

‘How’s it going?’ He holds out one of the two glasses of wine he’s brought from the
house. ‘I thought you might want this.’

I do, I think. I do.

But I know I have to ignore it.

He puts the glass on the floor, where I can reach it. Ride it out, I tell myself.
Ride it out. He sits down on the bench. He’s right next to me, so close we’re touching.

‘They’re still talking shop. Do they ever stop?’

I shrug. I don’t want to be drawn into this. Us versus them. The surgeons and their
spouses, who are almost always wives.

‘It’s their job.’

‘Why do we do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘These parties? D’you enjoy them?’

I decide to be honest. ‘Not altogether. I don’t like being around drunk people. Not
with my addiction.’

He looks surprised, yet he must know. We’ve talked about the fact I don’t drink,
albeit obliquely. ‘Your addiction?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘I didn’t know.’

We’re silent for a while, then he slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans, his
movements slow and uncoordinated. ‘Smoke?’

I reach to take a cigarette from him. ‘Thanks.’ The air between us feels solid. Loaded.
Something has to happen, or something will break. A resolve, or a defence. One of
us has to speak.

‘Listen—’ I begin, but at the exact same moment he speaks, too. I don’t catch what
he says and ask him to repeat it.

‘It’s just . . .’ he begins. His head lowers, he falters again.

‘What? What is it?’ I realize I know what he’s about to say. ‘It’s just . . . what?’

From nowhere, I see Lukas. I imagine him kissing me. I think of my fantasy, I want
it to be lust, pure lust, that
threatens to crack my head against the wall behind
me. I want his hands on me, desperate, pushing up my dress. I want to feel the desire
to give in, to let him do what he likes.

I want to feel longing so strong that it turns into need, unstoppable need.

‘Paddy—?’ I begin, but he interrupts me.

‘I just wanted to say I think you’re very beautiful.’ He takes my hand quickly, and
I let him. I’m both shocked and not shocked at the same time. Part of me had known
he’d say this to me, sooner or later.

Again I think of Lukas. His words, in someone else’s mouth. It occurs that if Paddy
were to look up, take the back of my neck with his hand, kiss me, I wouldn’t stop
him. Not if he does it now. This is the moment when I’m weak enough, but it won’t
last.

An absurd thought comes. It’s you, I think. You standing outside my bedroom window,
both there and not there . . .

And then he does it. He kisses me. There’s no groping, no urgent pushing into my
clothes. It’s almost juvenile. It lasts for a few moments, and then we separate.
I look at him. The world is still, the chatter from the party a distant murmur. This
is the moment when we will either kiss again – this time with more urgency, more
passion – or else one of us will look away and the moment will be over, lost for
ever.

His eyes narrow. Something’s wrong. He was looking at me, but now he’s not. He’s
looking over my shoulder.

I turn round to follow his gaze. Someone’s there.

Connor.

I stand up. The glass of wine that Paddy had been holding spills, soaking my dress,
but I barely notice it. ‘Stay here!’ I hiss, forcing the door open. I begin to run.
Paddy calls after me, but I ignore him, too.

‘Connor!’ I shout, once I’m outside. He’s walking away, back towards his father.
‘Connor!’

He stops, then turns to face me. His face is inscrutable. ‘Mum! You’re there! I couldn’t
find you.’

I catch up with him. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, or whether I’m imagining
it.

‘What’s up?’

‘Dad sent me to look for you. He’s making a speech or something.’

‘Right.’ I feel terrible, worse than if he’d just come out and said it.
I saw you
kissing that guy. I’m telling Dad you’re cheating on him.
At least then I’d know.

But he says nothing. He’s impassive and unreadable. This is it, I think. I’ve screwed
up. One indiscretion, in all this time, and my son has to be there to see it. It
seems unfair, yet at the same time I deserve it.

‘I’ll be there in a second,’ I say.

Once he’s gone I go back to Paddy. ‘Fuck!’

‘Did he see us?’

I don’t answer. I need to think.

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t see us.’ I run my fingers through my hair. ‘Shit
. . . !’

He moves towards me. I’m not sure what he’s going to do, but then he takes my hand.
‘It’ll be fine.’ His hand goes to my face, as if to stroke it.

‘Paddy, no!’

‘What’s the problem . . . ?’

The problem? I want to say. My husband. My son. My dead sister.

‘I like you. You like me. Come on . . .’

I remind myself he’s drunk.

‘No.’

‘Julia—’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Paddy, I’ll never sleep with you. Ever.’

He looks wounded, as though I’ve slapped him.

‘Paddy—’ I begin, but he interrupts me.

‘You really think you’re something special, don’t you?’

I try to stay calm.

‘Paddy. You’ve had a lot to drink. Let’s just go back and forget all about this.
Okay?’

He looks at me. His eyes are cold.

‘Fuck you,’ he says.

Chapter Thirteen

It’s three in the morning. It must be, maybe later. It’s too hot, my skin is heavy.
I can hear the soft sound of summer rain against the window. I’m exhausted, yet sleep
has never felt further away.