Second Life (17 page)

I force myself to laugh. ‘No?’

‘No. You’re the first person I’ve met.’

‘Really?’

‘I swear.’

I realize I believe him. He never talked to Kate. Disappointment begins to build.

‘But you talk to people on there?’

‘A few. Not that many.’

I know what I have to do. I take out my phone and unlock the screen. I’m smiling,
trying to keep it light. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny . . .’ I’m saying ‘. . . such a coincidence
. . . She’d love it if . . .’

I hold my phone out to him. I’ve opened a picture of Kate. I force myself to speak.

‘This is her. My friend.’

Silence. I look straight at him as he takes my phone in his hand.

‘Have you chatted to her?’

His face is expressionless. I’m aware that the next emotion that flashes in his eyes
will tell me the truth. I’ve sprung the photo on him, he’s unprepared. If he’s ever
seen Kate before he’ll give himself away. He has to.

There’s a long moment, then his face breaks into a grin. He looks at me. He’s shaking
his head, laughing. ‘Never seen her online, no. But she looks like fun.’

I can see that he’s telling the truth. I’m certain of it. More disappointment slides
in, yet it’s muted, and mixed with relief. ‘She is!’ I say. I force myself to smile
and put my phone away. I begin to babble. ‘To be honest, she doesn’t go online
that
much. Not any more . . . in fact, I’m not sure she ever did, really . . .’

Lukas is laughing. I worry that he can tell something’s wrong. ‘It would have been
quite a coincidence! Shall we get another drink?’

I say no. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

I try to calm down.

‘So how about you? Do you meet up with many people you speak to online?’

‘No, not really. No.’

‘But you met with me.’

‘Yes. Yes I did.’

He takes my hand again. He’s looking me in the eye.

I can hardly breathe. He didn’t know my sister. He never met her.

‘Why?’

I should stand up. I know that. I should walk away, tell him I’m going to the bathroom,
never come back. It’d be easy enough; he doesn’t know where I live.

I will, I tell myself. Soon.

‘I like you, I guess.’

‘And I like you.’

He leans towards me. He sighs. I can feel his breath on my cheek.

‘I like you a great deal.’

I can feel the warmth of his skin, I can smell his aftershave, mingled with sweat.
He’s opened me. Something I’ve been holding in check for weeks, months, years, is
flooding me.

‘Let’s go upstairs.’

‘No. No, I’m sorry—’

‘Jayne . . .’ He’s almost whispering. ‘Beautiful Jayne . . . I’ll be gone tomorrow.
This is our one chance. You want it, don’t you? You want me?’

I look back at him. I feel more alive than I can remember. I don’t want it to stop.
Not yet. It can’t be over.

I nod.

‘Yes.’

He’s kissing me, his hands are around my waist, he’s pulling me towards him and yet
at the same time pushing me back, back, back towards the bed. I fall backwards on
to it and then he’s on top of me and I’m pulling the shirt from his trousers, unbuttoning
it blindly and with clumsy hands, and his hands are on my chest, and then his mouth,
and it’s all sweat and fury and I don’t resist, because there’s no point, that line
is already crossed, it was crossed when I walked up to him in the bar, crossed when
I left the house to come here, crossed when I said, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’ll come and
meet you,’ and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. My betrayal has been gradual
but inexorable, the sweep of the hand on a clock, and it’s led me here, to this afternoon.
And right now, with his hands on my naked flesh, and mine on his, with his prick
stiffening between my legs, I’m not sorry. I have no regrets at all. I realize how
stupid I’ve been. All along, from the very beginning, this is what it’d been about.

When we finish we lie on our backs, side by side. The afterglow. But it’s awkward
somehow; I understand now why it’s called the little death, but even if that’s true
at least it means I was alive before.

He turns to face me. He props his head on his arm, and again I’m aware of the years
between us, the fact that he’s Kate’s age, more or less. His skin is taut and firm,
his muscles flex when he moves, visible, alive. As we made love I’d been shocked
by this, and now I wonder if it’s something I ever had with Hugh. I can’t quite remember;
it’s as if my
memories of a younger him have somehow been overwritten by all that’s
happened since.

I remind myself that being ten years younger than me makes Lukas twenty younger than
my husband.

He reaches out to stroke my arm. ‘Thank you . . .’ I feel it should be me thanking
him, but I don’t. We say nothing for a while. I look at his body, now that it’s still.
I look at his stomach, which is firm, and at the hairs on his chest, none of which
are grey. I examine his mouth, his lips, which are moist. I look into his eyes and
see he’s looking at me in the same way.

He kisses me. ‘You hungry? Shall we get something to eat?’

‘In the restaurant?’

‘We could get something sent up.’

It must be nearly three, I think, possibly even later. Connor will be back soon.
And even if he weren’t, even if I had all the time in the world, having lunch with
this man seems somehow like a step too far. It would be a sharing of more than just
our bodies, would imply a greater intimacy than what we’ve already done, which was
just lust, and flesh.

I smile.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing.’

I realize a part of me wants to get away. I need to be on my own, to find solitude
and process what I’ve just done, and the reasons I did it. I didn’t mean to, when
I came here, yet here I am. ‘I’d love some lunch, but I probably ought to get going.
Soon.’

He strokes my shoulder. ‘Have you got to go?’

‘Yes.’ I search for an excuse. ‘I’m meeting someone. A friend.’

He nods his head. I realize I’d like him to ask me to stay, I’d like him to beg me
to cancel my friend, I’d like to see disappointment when I tell him I can’t.

But I know he won’t ask. Spending the rest of the day together was never part of
the deal he thought he’d struck with me; it’s against the terms of our engagement.
And so the silence between us extends, becomes almost uncomfortable. The schizophrenia
of lust; it’s hard to believe the intimacy we shared just a few moments ago can evaporate
almost in an instant. I become aware of the details in the room, the clock on the
TV that’s mounted on the wall opposite, the fireplace, the stack of old hardback
books on the mantelpiece that surely no one reads. I hadn’t noticed them before.

‘When’s your flight?’

He sighs. ‘Not till tonight. Eight o’clock, I think.’ He kisses me. I wonder dimly
why he hasn’t checked out, then realize I’m the reason. ‘I have all afternoon.’ He
kisses me again. Harder, this time. ‘Stay . . .’

I think of him getting on his flight, going back home. I think of never seeing him
again. I remember when I’d thought the same thing about Marcus, when I believed that
he’d meet someone else in Berlin, someone more interesting, and I would end up coming
home, back to Kate and my father, my old life. But he hadn’t. Our love had deepened,
intensified. In winter we would open the window of our apartment and crawl out on
to the cold ledge. We’d wrap ourselves in a blanket and look at the Fernsehturm glowing
in the bright blue sky, talking about our future, all the places we’d go and the
things we’d see. Or else we’d take a bottle of cheap wine, or vodka, to Tiergarten,
or hang out at Zoo Station. I had my camera; I took pictures of the rent boys, the
dropouts and runaways. We met people, our lives expanded, opened out. I missed Kate
dreadfully, but I didn’t regret leaving her behind.

But that was the old me. I can’t behave like that any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. I have the distinct impression that I’m slipping away, that
Jayne – the me, the version of me, that is able to do what I’ve just done – is disappearing.
Soon it will be replaced by Julia – mother, wife and, once upon a time, daughter.
I’m not sure I want her to go.

‘I really have to—’

‘Please don’t.’ He’s fierce now, and for a moment he looks so desperate, so alive
with desire, that I feel a sudden rush which takes me by surprise. It’s happiness,
I think. I’d forgotten what it was like, this pure, uncomplicated happiness, more
powerful than any drug. It’s not what I just did, what I realize I’m about to do
again. It’s not that I’ve deceived my husband and got away with it. It’s me. I have
something, now, something that’s mine. A private thing, a secret. I can keep it hidden,
in a box, and take it out occasionally, like a treasure. I have something that belongs
to no one else.

‘Stay,’ he says. ‘For a while at least.’ And I do.

Chapter Fifteen

I go home. When I open the door I find a handful of postcards pushed through the
letterbox. I bend down to pick them up and with a gasp of shock see that they’re
the postcards that prostitutes leave in phone boxes. On each there’s a picture of
a woman, a different woman, wearing lingerie, or nothing at all, and posing next
to a phone number. ‘Hot Young Slut’, says one, ‘Spanking fun’, reads another. Straight
away my mind goes to the last thing Paddy had said to me –
Fuck you
– and straight
away I tell myself they’re from him. He’s pushed them through the door in a fit of
childish, spiteful anger.

I try to calm myself down. I’m being paranoid. They can’t be from him, surely. It’s
as ridiculous as me thinking it was him standing outside my window. The simpler the
explanation, the more likely it is to be true, and Paddy would’ve had to travel
across town, on a day when he’s supposed to be at work, during a time when he knew
I wouldn’t be in the house. It’s much more likely it was kids. Just kids, messing
about.

Yet still I can taste fear in my mouth as I tear them into little pieces and put
them in the bin. I ignore it. I won’t let it get to me. It’s nothing, nothing to
worry about, a stupid prank. I must stop being paranoid.

I go upstairs and step out of my boots. I take off the
make-up I’d put on earlier,
then the clothes. It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours ago I was putting all
this stuff on; it’s as if a film’s playing backwards, a life spooling in reverse.
By the end it’s a different me standing here, in front of the mirror. Julia. Not
better, not worse. Just different.

I put my jeans on, a shirt, then go back downstairs. My phone rings. It sounds alien,
too loud. I’m annoyed; I’d wanted more time with my own thoughts before the real
world crashed back in, but when I pick it up I see it’s Anna and am pleased. She’s
someone I can talk to, someone I can be honest with.

‘How did it go? Did you find anything?’

‘He knows nothing. I’m certain of it.’

She hesitates, then says, ‘I’m sorry.’

Her voice is soft. She knows how much I need answers.

‘It’s okay.’

‘I really thought—’ she begins, but I’m gripped with an urge to tell the truth and
she’s the one person who might understand.

‘We had sex.’

‘What?’

I say it again. I consider telling her I thought it might help, but I don’t. It’s
not true, no matter how much I might want to believe it. We had sex because I wanted
to.

‘Are you all right?’

I wonder if I’m supposed to feel bad. I don’t.

‘Yes. Fine. I enjoyed it.’

‘Is this because of Kate?’

Is it? I don’t know. Did I want to have sex with Lukas so that I could walk in her
shoes?

Either way, I understand her better now.

‘Maybe.’

‘Will you see him again?’

Her question shocks me. I search for a hint of condemnation in it, but there’s none.
I know she understands.

‘No. No, I won’t. In any case, he leaves tonight.’

‘You’re all right about that?’

‘I don’t have any choice,’ I say. ‘But yes, yes I am.’

I’m trying to sound light, unconcerned. I’m not sure she believes me. ‘If you’re
sure,’ she says, and then I change the subject. We talk some more, about her, and
her boyfriend, Ryan, and how well it’s going. She says I ought to come and visit
her again, when I get the chance, and tells me that she’ll be over with work in the
next few weeks but hasn’t been given the dates yet. ‘We could catch up then,’ she
says. ‘Go for dinner, maybe. Have a bit of fun.’

Fun. I wonder what kind of fun she means. I remember she’s younger than me, but not
by that much.

‘That’d be great,’ I say. I know I must sound distracted. I’m still thinking of Lukas,
imagining meeting him again, wondering what it might be like to be able to introduce
him to my friends one day, wondering if the reason I never will is what makes the
thought so appealing.

I remind myself that this is my real life. Anna is my real friend. Not Lukas. ‘I’d
like that a lot,’ I say.

Connor gets in. I make him a sandwich and tell him to make sure he remembers to put
his PE kit in the laundry, then a while later I hear Hugh’s key in the lock. He comes
into the kitchen as I’m cooking dinner. I kiss him, as usual, and watch as he gets
a drink, then takes off his tie and hangs his jacket carefully over the back of the
chair. The guilt I feel is predictable, but surprisingly short-lived. What I did
this afternoon has nothing to do with the love I feel for my husband. Lukas in one
box, Hugh in another.

‘How was your day?’ I say.

He doesn’t answer, which I know means
not good
. He asks how my session of therapy
went.

‘Okay.’ I’m aware I sound unconvincing. ‘Good, I think.’

He comes over, puts a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t give up on it. It takes time. I know
you’re doing the right thing.’

I smile, then go back to the dinner. Hugh says he’s going up to his office, and I’m
glad, but as he turns to leave I can’t bear it any more. He’s not himself. His voice
is flat, he’s moving as if the air is thick. Something is wrong.