Second Life (19 page)
Now, though, he’s all I’m thinking about. I go through the station, up the stairs,
on to the concourse by the platforms. I think of yesterday, and of the time I was
here on my way to see Anna, to visit her in Paris. Back then, the only thing I’d
been able to think about was Kate.
Lukas is waiting for me. Although we’d arranged to meet in the hotel lobby, he’s
just outside the bar, standing underneath the huge statue that sits at the end of
the platforms – a man and a woman, embracing, he with his hands around her waist,
she with hers held to his face and neck – holding a bunch of flowers. As I approach,
I notice he hasn’t seen me arrive. He’s shuffling from foot to foot, nervous, but
when he sees me he breaks into a grin. We kiss. To anyone watching it must look like
we’re trying to replicate the bronze statue that towers above us.
‘It’s called
The Meeting Place
,’ he says, when we’ve separated. ‘I thought I’d wait
here, instead. Seemed appropriate.’
I smile. He’s holding the flowers out to me. They’re roses, deep lilac and very beautiful.
‘These are for you.’
I take them from him. He leans in and kisses me again, but my hand goes to his shoulder
as if to push him away. I feel so exposed; it’s as if the whole world is in the station,
watching us. I’m nervous, I seem to want everything at once: for him to get to the
point quickly and leave, for him to invite me to stay for lunch, for him to tell
me yesterday was a mistake, for him to confess to having no regrets at all.
But at first he’s silent as we walk through the darkened bar towards the brightness
of the lobby. ‘It
is
you,’ he says, once we’ve emerged into the light. I ask him
what he means.
‘That perfume. You were wearing it yesterday . . .’
‘You don’t like it?’
He shakes his head. He laughs. ‘Not really.’
There’s a momentary shock of disappointment. He must see it. He apologizes. ‘It’s
fine. Just a bit too strong. For me, at least . . .’
I smile, and briefly look away. His comment hurts, just for an instant, but I tell
myself it doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about.
‘I guess it is a bit overpowering. For the middle of the day.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He opens the door and stands aside
for me to go through.
‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘I’ll tell you in a little while. Let’s get a drink?’
We sit, then order coffees. I put the flowers on top of the bag at my feet. It’s
as if I’m trying to hide them, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
I ask him again why we’re here. He sighs, then runs his fingers through his hair.
I don’t think it’s nerves. He looks lost. And scared.
‘Don’t be mad, but I lied to you.’
‘Okay.’ It’s the wife, I think. She’s alive, and believes he’s still out here because
he missed his flight. ‘Go on . . .’
‘I know we started this only as an internet fling, but the thing is, I really want
to see you again.’
I smile. I don’t know what to think. I’m flattered, relieved, but I don’t understand
why there’s been a build-up.
Something I need to tell you. Don’t be mad.
There must
be a
but
. . .
‘Do you want to see me again?’ He sounds hopeful, unsure.
I hesitate. I don’t know what I want. I still can’t quite shake the thought that
he might help me find the answers I need.
Yet that’s not the whole story. There’s part of me that wants to see him again for
reasons that have nothing to do with Kate at all.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I do. But it’s not that easy. You’re going home today, and I
live here, and—’
‘I’m not going home today. Or not back to Italy, at least.’
‘Okay . . .’ Now we’re getting to the point. My mind races ahead.
Where then?
I want
to say.
Where?
But instead I just nod. Part of me already knows what he’s going to
say.
‘I live here.’
The reaction is instant. My skin crawls; I’m hyper-sensitized. I can feel the sun
on my shoulder, the roughness of the fabric of the seat, the weight of the wristwatch
on my arm. It’s as if everything that has been out of focus has snapped sharp.
‘Here?’
He nods.
‘In London?’
‘No. But, not far away. I live just outside Cambridge.’
So that’s why we’re meeting here. At the station.
‘Okay . . .’ I’m still processing what he’s told me. It’s too intimate, too close.
Perversely, the news makes me want to get away from him, so that I can sit with it
for a moment and work out how I feel.
‘You seem very . . . quiet.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s just a surprise. You told me you lived in Milan.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. You’re not angry with me?’ Suddenly he sounds so young, so naive.
Somehow he reminds me of myself, when I was eighteen, nineteen, back when I was falling
in love with Marcus.
He goes on. ‘For lying, I mean. It was just one of those things you say when you
think you’re just chatting online and it’s not going to lead anywhere. You know how
it is—’
‘I’m married.’ It comes out abruptly, as if I weren’t expecting it myself, and as
soon as I’ve spoken I look away,
over his shoulder. I don’t know what his reaction
will be, but whether it’s anger, or disappointment, or something else entirely, I
don’t want to see it.
For a long moment he says nothing, but then he speaks.
‘Married?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry I never told you. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought this was
just an internet thing. Just like you.’
He sighs. ‘I thought so.’
‘You did?’
He nods towards my hand. ‘Your ring. It leaves a mark.’
I look down at my hand. It’s true. Around my finger there’s an indentation, the inverse
of the ring I normally wear, its negative.
He smiles but is clearly upset.
‘What’s he called?’
‘Harvey.’ The lie trips off my tongue easily, as if I’d known all along I’d have
to tell it.
‘What does he do?’
‘He works in a hospital.’
‘A doctor?’
I hesitate. I don’t want to tell the truth. ‘Sort of.’
‘Do you love him?’
The question surprises me, but my answer comes instantly.
‘Yes. I can’t imagine life without him.’
‘Sometimes that’s just a lack of imagination, though . . .’
I smile. I could choose to be offended, but I don’t. As it turns out, we’ve each
had our lies. ‘Maybe . . .’ Our coffees arrive: a cappuccino for me, an espresso
for him. I wait while he adds sugar, then say, ‘But not for me and Harvey. I don’t
think it’s a lack of imagination.’
I stir my coffee. Maybe he’s right, and it is. Perhaps I can’t imagine a life without
Hugh because it’s been so long since I’ve had one. Maybe he’s become like a limb,
something I
take for granted, until it’s missing. Or maybe he’s like a scar. Part
of me, no longer something I even notice, yet nevertheless indelible.
‘So is this it, then?’ His face is flushed; he looks childishly defiant. I look away,
over to the desk. A couple are checking in; they’re older, excited. They’re American,
asking lots of questions. Their first trip to Europe, I guess.
I realize that, while I might not know what Lukas and I have, I don’t want it to
be over. I’ve felt better, these last few days and weeks, and now I know it wasn’t
all to do with trying to find the person who murdered Kate.
‘I don’t want it to be. But my husband, he’s the—’ I stop myself. The father of my
son, I was going to say, yet not only is that something I don’t want to tell him,
it’s another lie. He looks at me expectantly. I need to say something.
‘He’s the person that saved me.’
‘Saved you? From what?’
I pick up my coffee then put it down. I really want a drink.
Ride it out. Ride it out.
‘Another time, perhaps.’
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he says. There’s an urgency to his voice, as if he wants
to finish his sentence before I can say no. ‘I still have a room.’
I shake my head, even though I want to. I want to so much, but I know I mustn’t.
Not now. Now I know what might be possible. Ride it out, I tell myself again. Ride
it out.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t.’
He puts his hand on the table between us. I can’t help myself. I put mine on top
of it. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looks up, into my eyes. He seems nervous, hesitant. ‘Jayne. I get that we hardly
know each other, but meeting you feels like the best thing that’s happened since
my wife died. I can’t just let you go.’
‘I’m afraid . . .’
‘Are you saying yesterday was a mistake?’
‘No. No, not at all. It’s just . . .’
It’s just more complicated than that, I want to say. It’s not just about me, and
Hugh. There’s Connor, too, and what’s happening in our lives. Kate’s death. Hugh’s
case. It’s not an easy time. Nothing is straightforward.
I find I want to tell him the truth about Kate. Maybe he can be there for me. Impartial.
Supportive. He’s lost his wife, after all. He might understand in a way that Hugh,
that Anna and Adrienne and the others can’t.
‘Just what?’
Something stops me.
‘I don’t want to jeopardize my marriage.’
‘I’m not asking you to leave your husband. I’m asking you to come upstairs. Just
one more time.’
I close my eyes. How do I know it’ll be one more time? I remember telling myself
that once before, as the needle bit into my flesh for the second time, and then again
when it did for the third.
‘No.’ And yet, even as I say it, I’m thinking of afterwards, as we lie together,
the two of us wrapped in the sheets. I can picture the room, the high ceiling, the
gentle draught of the air conditioning. I can see Lukas, sleeping. There’s the tiniest
sound as his chest rises and then falls. For some reason, despite the path that’s
brought me to him, I realize I feel safe.
Soon I will go home – back to my real life, back to Hugh and to Connor, back to Adrienne
and Anna, back to a life without my sister – but perhaps if I do this first it’ll
be different. The pain of her death will not have faded, but it will be blunted.
I won’t care quite so much that the person who took her life is still free. Instead
I’ll be thinking about this moment, when everything feels so alive and
uncomplicated,
when all my pain and sorrow have shrunk down, condensed and transformed to this one
thing, this one need, this one desire. Me and him, him and me. If I sleep with him
again there’ll at least be one more brief moment when there’s no past and no future
and nothing else exists in the world except for us, and it will be a tiny moment
of peace.
He takes my hand. He speaks softly.
‘Come on. Come upstairs.’
My new camera arrives. It’s a Canon, a single-lens reflex, not quite top of the range
but smaller and lighter than the one I’ve been using for the last few years. I researched
it online and ordered it a few days ago. I don’t need it, it’s an extravagance, but
I want to get out more, take more photographs on the street, like I used to. It
was Hugh’s suggestion that he buy it for my birthday and he looked delighted with
himself when he handed me the package on Saturday.
I opened it later that day, upstairs, and alone, and then took it out, on Upper Street,
around Chapel Market and the Angel. I tried a few test shots, and as I brought it
to my eye the action felt intuitive, instinctive. When I looked through the viewfinder
it felt almost as if this is how I prefer to see the world. Framed.
I take it out again now, slung round my neck, with a zoom lens I ordered at the same
time. It’s very different taking pictures on the move. I have to spot a potential
shot among the chaos, and then wait for the perfect moment, all while trying to stay
inconspicuous and unobserved. My shots on Saturday were poor; I was indiscriminate.
I felt rusty, like a singer who’s spent years in enforced silence.
I tried not to be disappointed, though. I told myself that once I’d regained my confidence
I’d find my subject; for now I just need to take photos and develop my eye. The joy
of
these shots is in their taking, less so in how they end up.
But then, that’s how it always was. I think back to the pictures I took in Berlin.
It was easy, there. The friendships we forged were deep, people were drawn to us,
our place quickly became a refuge for the rootless and abandoned. It was filled with
artists and performers, with drag queens, junkies and prostitutes; they came for
a few hours, or a few days, or months. I found I wanted to document them all. They
fascinated me: they were people for whom identity was fluid, shifting, something
they chose themselves, without being constrained by the expectations of others. At
first some treated me with suspicion, but they soon realized that, far from trying
to pin them down, I was attempting to understand and document their fluidity. They
began to trust me. They became my family.
And always, in the centre, was Marcus. I photographed him obsessively. I took pictures
of him as he slept, as he ate, as he sat in a bath full of cool water that ended
up looking like sludge, as he worked at a canvas or sketched on the war-scarred streets
of what used to be the East. We cooked dinners for everyone, huge pans filled with
pasta, served with tomatoes and bread, and I took photos. We went to the Love Parade
and took ecstasy and danced to techno with the other freaks, and still I took photos.
All the time. It was as if I didn’t consider a life lived unless it was also documented.
Today I’ve come to the Millennium Bridge. It’s mid-afternoon and very hot – on the
walk here the city steam seemed to rise from the streets – but at least here on the
bridge there’s a breeze.
I crouch down to make myself as small as possible and set up my equipment. I drink
some of the bottled water I picked up on the way here, then my hand goes back to
my camera. I’m scanning faces, looking for the shot, waiting.